Page 136 of The Honeymoon Affair

We definitely won’t leave it so long in future.

Iseult

Thankfully, Steve’s parents arrive home on Sunday evening. Lorraine comes to my house to collect him. I’m not sure I could’ve put up with him for much longer. He’s a truly terrible patient, demanding and complaining in equal measure while also madly inquisitive about me and Charles. He was expecting Charles to call around at least once while he was here. I think he was hoping to confront him and tell him that he wasn’t treating me properly, not that Steve has a great track record in that department either. But he knew there was something amiss between us and he desperately wanted to find out what it was. In the end, I told him that Charles was jealous of him staying with me, and he looked positively pleased with himself and said it wasn’t surprising, him being a young, attractive man and Charles being over the hill. I remarked that Charles was in better shape than him right now, but Steve, who had perked up considerably over the last twelve hours, said that he’d soon be on his feet while Charles probably needed to put his up every few hours.

I couldn’t help laughing. I wonder why it is that men always compare themselves favourably to other men, yet women usually compare themselves unfavourably to other women. Steve thinks he’s a way better catch than Charles, whereas every time I look at Ariel, I wonder why on earth he let her go. I mean, I know why in theory. But in practice she’s so much more glamorous and sophisticated than me that it’s not surprising he likes having her around.

I check my phone. Another half-dozen texts from Charles, the last one asking if he can call to Marino.

I need time alone, I respond. Please stop messaging me.

OK. Call me soon. I love you. Cxxx

Three kisses!

I leave the phone to one side, bundle Steve’s medication together and put it a paper bag. He’s wearing the same clothes as he was the night he came to me, which I’ve washed and ironed, although I haven’t been able to do anything about the rip in his shirt. Not that it bothers him. Ripped is his look. He’s been living in Dad’s tracksuits and T-shirts since coming to the house, and he’s glad to get rid of them. Dad isn’t known for his street style.

‘Thanks for everything, Izzy,’ he says. ‘You were great.’

‘Indeed you were,’ says Lorraine, more warmly than she’s ever spoken to me before. ‘We all appreciate how much you’ve done for him.’

‘I hope we’ll keep in touch.’ He gives me a meaningful look. ‘Any time you need me, any time at all.’

‘I won’t need you, Steve,’ I say. ‘But I’ll always remember you.’

I wave them off and close the door. Then I flop into the armchair he’s vacated and close my eyes. It’s good to have the house to myself again. It’s good to be on my own again. I’ve got used to living alone since Mum and Dad went to New Zealand. It’ll be hard to adapt to their return. Just as it’ll be hard to adapt to living with Charles, always provided that that actually happens. That we’ll get married like we’re supposed to.

I pick up my phone and scroll through his multiple text messages and voicemails.

What is it with men? I wonder. When they want something, they keep on and on at you until you give in. Like Steve persuading me to let him stay at the house. And like Charles over the last twenty-four hours. Or maybe it’s me. Maybe I’m the sort of person who encourages them to keep trying. Maybe I don’t know how to say no. #PeoplePleaser

Ariel

It turns out that Tamara is a lovely Ukrainian woman who came to Ireland as a refugee and decided to stay. She works in the health service and volunteers with a care organisation at weekends. In her early forties, she has two children, and her book, Yellow Fields, is a sweet family story beautifully told. Her actual personal story is a lot harder, but she says she didn’t want to write it, at least not yet, though I can’t help thinking it has potential. It turns out that her family had a bookshop in Kherson, but of course the building no longer exists.

‘I’ll do my very best for your book if you sign with me,’ I tell her over coffee. (Not the Shelbourne this time. Tamara lives in Rathmines and we meet in a café there.) She nods, and I say that I’m a member of the Association of Authors’ Agents, which has its own code of conduct, but if she wants to get legal advice on the contract that’s absolutely fine.

‘No need,’ she says, taking out a pen and signing the paper in front of her. ‘I like you, Ariel Barrett.’

‘I promise you won’t regret it,’ I say.

We order two cream cakes to celebrate.

When I get home, I dance around the apartment. I know this woman is going to be a success. I will do everything I can to make it happen, but even without me, there’s something about her that sparkles.

I go onto my Instagram account and put up a picture of a printed manuscript with a cover page that says Untitled by Anonymous. I add the hashtag #WatchThisSpace.

Chapter 37

Iseult

It sounds plausible enough tonight but wait until tomorrow, wait for the common sense of the morning.

H. G. Wells

The flowers arrive at the office, the biggest bouquet in the history of the port and a display that’s immediately snapped by people to put on their social media with a selection of #WishTheyWereForMe hashtags. I sort of wish they weren’t for me, because the bouquet is so absolutely enormous it takes up my entire desk. Every time someone wants to talk to me, they have to push the foliage to one side. There’s no doubt that Charles is making a statement, and there’s no doubt that the statement is he’s very sorry, but honestly, he’s turned the office into a garden centre!

Anyway, I don’t need flowers to be ready to forgive him. I’ve thought it all through and I accept that he’s so used to Ariel making things easy for him and smoothing out his life that the notion of her cooking the family meal seemed more or less normal to him. And to her too. More worrying is his comment about always loving her. I’m currently rationalising that by recalling that she’d burnt her hand and was very upset, and telling her he loved her was . . . well, something to make her feel better. I don’t really think he loves her. Not any more.

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