Page 139 of The Honeymoon Affair

‘I wish we could talk about this a bit more,’ I say. ‘But I have another Zoom in fifteen minutes.’

‘That’s why they want you.’ He grins at me. ‘You’re hot-wired into hard work, Ariel. They know you’re worth it, and so do I. Don’t forget – there’s always room for upward negotiation.’

Naturally, I know that. It’s how I get the best for my clients. It’s a long time since I tried to do it for myself. I’m already looking forward to the challenge.

Chapter 38

Iseult

The world breaks everyone and afterwards they are strong at the broken places.

Ernest Hemingway

We go by train to Waterford for Pamela’s literary evening. The family pub and her café are close to both the station and the city, with views over the River Suir. I can’t remember the last time I was in Waterford, and I reckon we’re seeing it at its best, because it’s a glorious day with a crisp blue sky and a surprisingly warm breeze. The boats on the river make it ideal for an Instagram photo, and I insist on taking a selfie with Charles. It’s a good photo and (despite not being entirely accurate) I post it with the hashtags #RomanticBreak and #SummersOnTheWay. I tag him in it.

We’re staying in a local hotel, as Ellis, who’s helping Pamela with the event, has already claimed the spare room at her mother’s bungalow on the outskirts of the town. Charles said he’d prefer to be at a hotel anyhow, and not distracted by whatever preparations Pamela might have to make. We’re going to the pub afterwards to meet Nick and Rachel. #MeetTheInLaws

I’m actually quite looking forward to that. I want to get to know his family, and Nick and Rachel sound like ordinary hard-working people with no notions about themselves – unlike Pamela, who’s full of them.

When we get to the hotel, Charles retreats into the Author-with-a-capital-A version of himself and spends his time poring over the passages in the book he plans to read. (Why, I don’t know. Surely he knows them by heart already!)

I take my Kindle from my bag and curl up in a chair beside the bay window. I’m reading a crime novel by someone I haven’t read before. It popped up in a deal and the great news is that the author has a backlist of half a dozen other books that I’ll download if I like this one. It’s started off well – the first wife is a suspect in the murder of the second. I’m trying not to draw parallels with my own life, even if Ariel hasn’t featured in it lately. And not in Charles’s either, as far as I can tell. He assures me there have been no more Freedom Fridays – in fact he calls over to me most Fridays now, and last week he came to the pub and met the gang.

They were a little in awe of him at first, but he got on well with everybody. It seems to me that there are definitely two Charles Millers. One is the literary Charles who’s happy to be feted by those around him. The other is normal Charles, who doesn’t take himself half as seriously and who’s genuinely interested in other people’s lives and finds out everything about them without seeming to try.

‘I can see why you fell for him,’ Katelyn said to me when we were freshening up in the loo. ‘He’s such a gentleman.’

I’m glad I forgave him for the Great Dinner Debacle, as he and I now call it. Anyhow, maybe it wasn’t such a debacle after all. Maybe it straightened out a few things between us.

#SilverLining

We’ve been in the hotel since almost 4 p.m., but Charles doesn’t want to get to the café until nearer the start time of 6.30. I thought that would mean time to spend in the rather sumptuous king-sized bed, but he’s now reading aloud the excerpt from A Caribbean Calypso that he’s chosen to share with the audience. It’s not the best piece to choose in my opinion – there’s rather too much about the beautiful island setting and the azure seas and not quite enough about the bludgeoned body on the terrace, but I get that his readers like his descriptive writing and that they’ll probably enjoy this bit. It certainly makes you feel as though you’re sitting under a tropical sun with palm fronds waving overhead and brightly coloured birds calling to each other from the trees. He’s read it so many times now, though, I’m sick of hearing it, and I take myself off to the bathroom, where I have a shower and wash my hair before putting on more make-up than I’d normally wear for a visit to a café.

Books and Bakes is smaller and prettier than I expected. It has a duck-egg-blue facade and a large plate-glass window with the name etched into it, while an old-fashioned hanging sign in blue wood tells potential customers that the café serves sandwiches, pastries and Waterford blaas, which are local bread rolls. Inside, there’s a counter with stools in front of the window, while half a dozen tables fill the rest of the space. One wall is taken up by an asymmetric bookshelf with a notice to Leave a book, take a book, and another is adorned with Pamela’s (mostly male and mostly dead) literary greats photographs. A young woman, her white T-shirt and taupe jeans protected by an apron in the same duck-egg-blue as the outside, is busy wiping down the pretty oilcloth tablecloths and placing a small vase of flowers on each one.

‘Any sign of . . . Oh, Charles, you’re here.’ A door at the back of the café opens and Pamela Boyd-Miller walks in.

‘Sorry I’m late,’ he says. ‘This looks great.’

‘It better be,’ she says. ‘I had to hurry a big group out fifteen minutes ago. Doesn’t leave a lot of time. People will be arriving shortly.’

Even as she speaks, the door opens and a couple of women who I guess are in their mid fifties walk in.

‘Charles Miller!’ The taller of the two beams at him. ‘It’s so exciting to see you home at last. How are you?’

Charles hesitates for a moment, and then his eyes light up in recognition as he greets the woman and says she’s changed her hairstyle.

‘It’d be a sad day if I hadn’t, given that you haven’t seen me in at least twenty years.’ She smiles. ‘This is my cousin Lynsey. She’s come specially for the event. Do you remember her at all? She lived with us for a few months when we were kids. She came off her brand-new scooter outside your front gate one Christmas morning. Your mother bandaged up her knee and gave us both lemonade and chocolate Santas.’

‘He won’t remember,’ says Lynsey.

‘Of course I do.’ Charles smiles at her. ‘You bled all over your pretty dress and you were so upset about it. I tried to kiss you to make you better and you cried even more.’

Lynsey laughs, and it suddenly occurs to me that she’s the girl who broke his heart on Christmas Day. I wonder if she even knew.

Charles shakes her hand, and then more people start to arrive and I sidle out of the way.

‘You OK?’ I jump as someone taps me on the shoulder.

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