Page 12 of The Honeymoon Affair

‘Of course.’ I backed off. ‘But the mews—’

‘I can’t talk about this now,’ he said. ‘I’m supposed to be writing.’ And he stomped out of the room, slamming the door behind him. I stayed where I was, my heart thumping and hardly able to control my breathing. There was so much going on in that conversation, in Charles’s unexpected and unwanted suggestion, that I couldn’t even process it.

An hour later, as I was sitting in the upstairs room of the mews, the one I’d thought would be a great place to keep my authors’ published books and their manuscripts, Charles tapped on the door and came in.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

‘What about?’

‘Springing a change of plan on you.’

‘The plan has been changed then?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘It hasn’t. It’s just that when we were in Mayo, Mum talked about growing older and how she’d manage, and she mentioned the mews and . . .’ He shrugged helplessly.

‘You told her she could live here?’

‘I’m not that daft.’ He gave me a sudden smile. ‘I told her it was falling down and we couldn’t afford to do it up yet.’

‘You don’t want to renovate so she can’t stay here? Or you don’t want to renovate it as an office so she can?’

‘I’m being silly,’ he said. ‘She put me under a bit of pressure and . . . You’re right about this, Ariel. When the times comes, we should all sit down and talk about it.’

‘But in the meantime, we have to pretend we can’t do up the mews?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘It was meant to be your office and that’s what it’ll be.’

‘And when she visits and sees it?’

‘We’ll tell her it was cheaper to do it up as an office than a granny flat.’

‘I do love you, you know,’ I said. ‘Even if you’re a bit mad sometimes.’

‘I love you too,’ said Charles.

I pulled his polo shirt over his head and he unbuttoned my blouse, and we made love on the space where my office desk is now.

I sometimes relive that moment when I’m sitting here looking at my Agent of the Year awards (I’ve won twice) and my lovely shelves packed with my authors’ books.

Despite everything, the memory still makes me smile.

An intense squall of rain hitting the patio window startles me. I look out at skies that are even greyer and more laden with clouds than before. The east-facing mews is lovely in the summer, when it gets the morning sun and stays warm all day, but can be miserable in winter, when the days are short and the skies leaden. I forward a few emails to my part-time assistant, Shelley, who mostly works from her home in Greystones, a seaside town not far from Dublin. She’s super-efficient, and the fact that we only meet in person once or twice a month doesn’t impact on the excellent personal and professional relationship we have.

The sleet has turned to snow. I shiver violently and envy Shelley’s more benign working conditions. I’ve an appointment with a potential client in an hour and originally told her to come to the office, but the lack of heating and the weather outside means that it’s less than inviting. I don’t want Francesca Clooney thinking my business isn’t doing well enough to heat the place. I want my office to radiate confidence and success, and sitting here freezing our buns off certainly won’t do that.

I pick up my phone and send her a text telling her I have an electrical problem at the office and suggesting we meet in the Shelbourne instead. Seeing your prospective agent in the elegant surroundings of one of Dublin’s best-loved hotels is what every aspiring author dreams of, so hopefully she’ll feel excited about that. Of course, it’s not always elegant surroundings and exciting meetings, but at least it’s a good start.

I pull on my red parka and leave the freezing office, locking the door behind me while glancing towards the red-brick house at the far end of the garden. Despite its undoubted grandeur, it looks forlorn in the winter gloom. The only light is from the upstairs landing, glowing gently through a frosted window. One of the bathrooms, I know. With lovely underfloor heating.

I shiver again, then turn away and unlock my car, an electric Mini, perfect for around town. I love it, and I think it reflects the more creative side of my work, even though when I walk into a meeting I always want to appear as polished and professional as possible. Which is why I keep a bag full of make-up and serums in the glove compartment, and why I plan to change from my lovely warm boots and toasty parka into fashionable heels and my Prada jacket as soon as I get to the hotel.

I arrive early, assuming Francesca will be early too and wanting to have time to fix my face as well as change my shoes. I spend ten minutes in the Ladies’ trying to make myself look as great as I did fifteen years ago (and obviously failing, though things could be worse; at least I haven’t sweated all the make-up off), and am sitting at a table in the bar with a glass of sparkling water and my iPad open in front of me when my prospective client arrives. My heart sinks when I see she’s accompanied by an older man, who, judging by their likeness, is probably her father. Francesca is in her mid twenties, and it’s my experience that people of her age seem to rely a lot more on their parents than I did in my twenties. My father wouldn’t have dreamed of coming to a business meeting with me. I wouldn’t have dreamed of asking him.

I stand up and give a small wave to attract their attention.

She walks over to me and smiles, a wide, attractive smile that I think will look good on jacket covers, then introduces the man as her dad, Raymond.

‘Nice to meet you, Mr Clooney.’ I extend my hand and he takes it, gripping it too firmly and shaking it too hard. ‘Can I get you anything?’

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