Page 5 of The Honeymoon Affair

We briefly ponder the possibility of having a nightcap before bed, but I’m suddenly exhausted and can hardly keep my eyes open. Celeste confesses to tiredness too. So we go back to the room.

For the first time in weeks, I fall asleep straight away.

Chapter 2

Ariel

I love deadlines. I love the whooshing sound they make as they go by.

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I’m watching the logo on my laptop go slowly round and round when the wall of heat hits me. Given that a horrible sleeting rain that really should be snow is hammering against the window, and that the temporary heater in my office has been cranked up to max for the past few hours with little discernible effect, I know the warmth is coming from within. I reach for the box on my desk and take out a tissue, mopping my now sodden brow, then my neck and finally (with an anxious glance out of the patio doors to be sure nobody is outside, although they shouldn’t be, the mews is absolutely private) underneath my arms.

I throw the damp tissue in the waste-paper bin and lean back in my chair, furious with my body for doing its own thing yet again. Why do women have to put up with so much? First it’s periods, which started for me on my thirteenth birthday and continued relentlessly, regular as clockwork, until my forty-fifth last summer. And now it’s the menopause, a descent into the hell of unexpected sweating, brain fog and irritation levels that are off the chart. At least I hope it’s the menopause that makes me feel one step away from exploding with rage at any given moment. Otherwise I’ll really start worrying. Is there ever a time in a woman’s life when she can just get on with it without having to think of how her body might ambush her? Honestly, it’s a bloody minefield (pun not entirely unintended).

I have an appointment with my local doctor next week and I won’t listen to any faff about natural remedies or lifestyle changes from him. I’ll demand the best possible HRT immediately. I don’t have time to be menopausal.

I catch sight of my reflection in the glass of the patio door and get up from my desk to inspect it more closely. My face is flushed, but despite my rosy cheeks and perspiring brow, I actually look reasonably good. Not just ‘for my age’, even if forty-five is the new thirty-five or whatever. I look good because I take care of myself. I’ve always done a good cleanse, tone and moisturise regime. I exfoliate regularly. I have facials every month. I do a thirty-minute yoga session before work every morning, I eat healthy foods whenever I can, though obviously there has to be a bit of leeway from time to time, and I try hard to only drink alcohol at the weekends, or if absolutely necessary for work. I know people will say there’s no absolutely necessary time, but there is, I assure you.

Anyway, I don’t look my age, and when I’m not doing my impression of someone battling Niagara Falls, I appear perfectly normal and well balanced. I pull my hair up from the nape of my neck, twist it and stick a pencil through it to hold it in a precarious bun. I was once a natural coppery brunette, but the greys started to appear long before the hot flushes, and now the colour is out of a bottle and needs regular touching up.

The hot flush ends as abruptly as it began, and I shiver. With impeccable timing, the boiler packed up this morning, which is why I’m using the hopelessly inefficient heater. The plumber I rang in a panic could barely contain his laughter when I asked if he could come out before the afternoon – he told me it’d be three days at the earliest. I tried alternative plumbers from the Local Heroes app, but there’s nobody available to don a superhero outfit and come out any sooner. It seems that Dublin is a cesspit of broken boilers. If this weather keeps up, I’ll be found, a block of ice, sitting frozen in front of my laptop while the intertwined ABA – Ariel Barrett Agency – logo still turns.

I rub my hands together and pull the heater closer to my desk. Then I look at my watch and subtract four hours. Charles will be having lunch now, stickler for routine that he is. I imagine him sitting on his balcony overlooking the sea, drinking a glass of wine – or maybe even a cocktail – his laptop open in front of him as he eats his chicken sandwich. (He’s a stickler for his food routine too. Although the hotel is famed for the quality of its cuisine, I’m betting he’s asking for chicken sandwiches for lunch and steak for dinner.)

I take out my phone.

Hope it’s going OK

It’s a few minutes before it pings in reply.

Wonderfully well

I’m glad to hear that. Do you want to send anything to me?

No

Because the deadline is close

I know when the ****ing deadline is

I’m trying to help, that’s all

Telling me about the deadline isn’t helping

Sorry. I only meant

I stop as I see that he’s continuing to type. I wait for the rest of his message.

It’s pressure I don’t need. You know I don’t work well under pressure

I’m not pressuring you

You damn well are

I hesitate for a while, then send a message that says I’ll leave him to it. But it’s taken me all my willpower not to actually phone him and tell him that he needs to get his arse into gear, and that his ‘writing retreat’ is hardly a retreat if he hasn’t actually put any words on the page.

I grit my teeth, put the phone to one side and tap the computer keyboard. I have other clients and other things to do rather than run around after Charles Miller. But I’ve always run around after Charles. Ever since the first day we met over fifteen years ago.

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