Page 154 of The Honeymoon Affair

Iseult

Your will shall decide your destiny.

Charlotte Brontë

I know it’s the summer season because people in the baggage hall are dressed for the holiday destinations they’re returning from rather than the grey drizzle that’s been falling on Dublin on and off since yesterday. This morning’s flights have come in from Malaga and Lisbon, Alicante and Tenerife, and there’s a general end-of-holiday stress among those crowding around the belts, anxious for their luggage to appear. When it does, they’ll wheel their cases through the blue EU channel, clamping down on vague feelings of guilt, even though they’re perfectly entitled to bring home the booze or cigarettes they’ve picked up while they were away. As for anything else, there’ll be one or two random stops, but we don’t have any specific intelligence for the recently arrived flights, so I’m not expecting any problems.

As I walk past belt number 5, I do a double-take and stop in my tracks. I recognise the man hauling a large red suitcase from the belt, even though he’s wearing a blue polo shirt, cream shorts and navy Skechers. As I watch, he puts his arm around the young woman beside him and kisses her on the cheek. She’s much shorter than him, and dressed in pink leggings, a white top and pink flip-flops. A pair of enormous sunglasses perched on top of her blonde curls confirms they’ve come off one of the sun destination flights.

He hasn’t seen me, and I’m tempted to let him go by without saying anything, but I can’t. As they head towards the customs channels, I step in front of them. I sense their immediate nervous reaction to my uniform before Steve realises who I am.

‘Izzy.’ His voice is full of relief. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I’ve been working here for the past two months,’ I tell him. ‘You’re looking well. Nice holiday?’

‘Yes, me and Taz went to Santa Ponsa for a week.’ He turns to the girl with him. ‘Taz, this is the old flame I mentioned before, Izzy. Izzy – Taz.’

‘Nice to meet you,’ I say. ‘Have you known each other long?’

‘Taz works at the clinic where I’ve been getting my scans.’ Steve answers for her. ‘She’s made sure I’ve been well looked after.’

‘And how are you doing now?’ I ask.

‘It’s been tough.’ His face darkens. ‘I thought I’d be back on my feet quicker. But the holiday has helped and I’m feeling good.’

‘I’m delighted to hear that.’

‘You looked after him when he had his accident.’ Taz finally speaks. ‘That was nice of you.’

‘Oh, Steve knows I’m a softie at heart.’ I smile at her.

‘We’d best be going,’ says Steve. ‘We pre-booked a cab.’

‘Don’t let me delay you,’ I say. ‘And don’t worry, Steve, I’ll tell my colleagues not to stop you.’

He gives me a slightly hunted look, and I grin. I know he probably has a small amount of weed in his luggage, and it’s against the law to bring any of it into the country, even for personal use. He nods, but as he and Taz walk off, he diverts to the bathroom, where I’m pretty sure he’ll flush it down the toilet.

I continue my stroll through the baggage area. Taz is obviously the reason Steve’s calls stopped. I’m glad he’s found someone else, and amused that she’s been able to get him out of black, something I singularly failed to do, even when we were on holiday. It’s hard to believe that this time last year we were planning our wedding in the Caribbean. In the time since I went there with Celeste instead, he’s been on holiday with someone else and I’ve been engaged to someone else. From being all-important in each other’s lives, we’re strangers who exchange pleasantries in a crowded baggage hall.

At the end of the hall I see Killian O’Keefe with Betsy. Killian is one of the dog handlers at the airport and Betsy, like Chips at the port, is a gorgeous English springer spaniel. Even when she’s working, she exudes friendliness, and Killian has his hands full making sure the passengers don’t try to pet her. She’s an absolute demon at sniffing out drugs, no matter how creatively they’re hidden, and we all adore her. The pair of them are off to do a routine check, and I leave them to it, making my way to my office and dealing with a backlog of administration. It’s never my favourite task, and I delay myself slightly by standing at the window and gazing out at the airport. I do miss the view over Dublin Bay, but I’ve grown to like watching the planes moving around the airfield, while there’s a certain beauty in seeing them arrive and depart with power and grace.

When I’ve finished the admin, I sling my bag over my shoulder and head for the staff car park. I put up my umbrella and think of all those returning holidaymakers, some disappointed at the grey skies after the continental heat, and others delighted to be back to the soft rain and ever-present greenery.

I get into my car and drive to Marino. It’s quiet in the house. Mum and Dad have gone to Galway for a week – Dad spotted an amazing-value deal online and booked it without even telling her. But as he said afterwards, it was too good to miss. The hotel has a golf course and a spa, so their joint holiday needs will be catered for. I love that they know exactly what’s right for each other and that they still love each other after all these years.

I’ve just finished changing from my uniform to a plain top and jeans when my phone beeps.

See you there OK?

I send a thumbs-up emoji in reply. Celeste and I are going to the Taste of Dublin food festival this afternoon. It’s held in the Iveagh Gardens every year and is a Mecca for people like her. Even though I’m not a foodie, I enjoy it too. I’m hoping that the drizzle eases off, however, because although there are plenty of tents, it’s an event that’s best enjoyed in warm sunlight. It seems that the gods are on our side, because almost as soon as I arrive at the gardens, the rain stops, and Celeste, who’s waiting for me, lowers her brightly coloured umbrella.

‘Let’s go,’ she says, leading the way.

She’s booked in for one of the masterclass sessions, and I’m happy to watch a celebrity chef prepare and cook a main course with locally sourced ingredients. Afterwards, I buy a couple of cooking sauces at an artisan stall. Despite being impressed by the chef, I honestly can’t be bothered with all that make-it-from-scratch palaver when I can get it in a jar. Celeste ignores the ready-made stuff in favour of buying some herbs and spices, then both of us spend a happy couple of hours checking out the stalls and the samples before she says that we should go into town for some drinks.

‘Seriously?’ I look at her in astonishment. ‘We’ve had enough food and wine here to last us a week.’

‘We had one glass of wine,’ she corrects me. ‘And . . . well . . . Darragh texted. He’s in the Bailey.’

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