Page 40 of The Honeymoon Affair

Chapter 11

Iseult

Why can’t I try on different lives, like dresses, to see which fits best and is more becoming?

Sylvia Plath

The Shelbourne Hotel is a blaze of light and Christmas decorations, and the doorman greets me with a welcoming smile as I walk up the steps and into the warm, busy foyer. I take a deep breath and turn towards the bar, which is heaving with people. There’s a lot of expensive suit-wearing going on from the men, while the women are in dresses that clearly cost a lot more than my Ted Baker. They’re chattering and laughing and clinking cocktail glasses, and I think that this is very much out of my comfort zone. When I go out for a drink, it’s usually to my local pub in Marino, which is cosy and nice but not the sort of place you dress up for. And when I come into town, not that I do often, I don’t usually venture as far as St Stephen’s Green but go to the older, grungier bars like O’Neills or the Stag’s Head, where there may indeed be cocktails but you’re more likely to see people drinking pints of Guinness (as an aside, I hate Guinness, but I’m quite good at knocking back a pint of lager if challenged).

I scan the crowd and then I see him, sitting at the bar, looking distinguished and very literary in a dark jacket over a black roll-neck top. As I approach him, I’m suddenly afraid that I’m wearing the wrong thing. The Ted Baker is super-pretty, but it’s not exactly sophisticated, and Charles Miller looks very sophisticated indeed. He’s different to the man I first saw at the White Sands in his shorts and polo. He looks like he belongs here. I’m not sure I do, and I suddenly wonder what on earth made me say yes when he sent the text asking if I’d like to see him again. Holiday romances are best kept on holiday. But Charles said that he wanted to celebrate finishing the book and handing it over to his agent, and that as I was the one who’d inspired him to write it, he thought it would be nice to celebrate with me. It seemed a perfectly nice and normal thing to do, but now I’m wondering if I should simply turn around and leave.

As I hesitate, he looks up from the book that’s open on the bar in front of him and sees me. He smiles, and I push my way through the crowd.

‘Iseult. You made it.’

‘Of course I made it. I’m sorry I’m late. I was . . . unavoidably detained.’

He raises an eyebrow.

‘Sorry,’ I say again, not prepared to tell him about Steve.

‘No matter. You’re here now.’ He raises his hand to the barman, who, without Charles saying anything, places a glass of bubbly in front of me.

‘Thanks.’ I sit on the stool he kept free for me and take a sip. It’s crisp and cool and utterly delicious. ‘Congratulations on the book,’ I say as I raise the glass to him. ‘I’ve been thinking of you lying on the beach sipping cocktails while I trudged to work in the snow.’

‘I wasn’t sipping cocktails. I was writing all day every day. The words simply poured out of me. I’ve never written a book so quickly.’

‘What does . . . your agent think of it?’ I want to use her name, but that feels too personal. He always spoke about her as though their relationship was entirely professional and there was never a personal aspect to it. I can’t help thinking it’s a bit odd that they seem to be able to work together when he’s clearly scarred by whatever happened between them.

‘I don’t know yet.’

‘What?’ I stare at him. ‘I thought she was buzzing to read it.’

‘I gave it to her and she got a migraine.’

‘From reading it?’ I give him a puzzled look, and he laughs.

‘No. When she got home with it. She gets them a couple of times a year and is absolutely flattened for a few days. She has to lie in a dark room and can’t even move her head. She certainly can’t read. Even after the headache is gone, it takes her a day or two to get back to normal.’

‘The poor woman,’ I say with real sympathy. ‘That must be awful.’

‘It is.’ He nods. ‘The first time I saw her with one, I honestly thought she was having a stroke or something. She couldn’t keep her eyes open and she could hardly speak. It was frightening. Yet when she recovers, she’s absolutely fine.’

‘I’m very glad I only get normal headaches,’ I say. ‘And if I’m being honest, most of those are self-inflicted due to alcohol.’ I glance at the tapered glass in my hand. ‘Though not this alcohol. It’s lovely.’

‘Champagne doesn’t leave you with a hangover,’ he says.

‘I’ve heard that before, but I’ve never drunk enough to find out.’ I smile at him.

There’s a sudden surge in the crowd around us, and then it subsides. It appears that many of them are here for a private function and it’s time for them to leave the bar. I’m thinking that their departure should give us some space, but almost immediately more people arrive, equally well dressed.

‘It’s invariably busy here at the weekend,’ says Charles. ‘Especially at this time of year. I should have thought of that when I suggested it as a meeting place, but it’s where I always come when I’m in town.’

‘No worries.’ I take another sip of champagne.

‘I’ve reserved a table for dinner,’ he says. ‘We should go ourselves.’

‘Where?’ I ask.

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