Page 42 of The Honeymoon Affair

It’s all wonderful. The meal, the setting, the company – especially the company. I did wonder how weird it might be to see him in Dublin. I wondered if I’d ask myself what on earth I’d been thinking by sleeping with him in the first place. I wondered if he’d think the same. But I don’t. And I don’t think he does either. And now we’re in a taxi together, going back to his house for a nightcap. Of course, it’s not at all convenient for me to go to Terenure for a nightcap. It’s the complete opposite direction to where I live. And I’m doubtful that ‘nightcap’ means only a drink. But I don’t care. Along with the (fabulous) wine, I’ve had another glass of champagne, and after the trauma of Steve turning up at my house, scaring me half to death and seeing me in my underwear, being with Charles is calm and lovely and grown up. He held the door of the cab open for me when I got in, and I saw him unobtrusively tip the doorman of the hotel who’d whistled it up for us. He’s a world away from Steve and I’m happy to be here with him.

When we arrive at his home, my eyes widen. It’s a detached red-brick house with a bay window either side of the front door, which is painted pillar-box red. Ivy is growing up the walls, but it’s kept under control, only covering part of the brick. There are five upstairs windows and a stained-glass fanlight over the door, illuminated by an internal light. A large Christmas tree decorated in silver and blue takes up one of the bay windows. The steps up to the door, where an enormous holly and ivy wreath is hanging, are granite, and two large stone statues of lions (at least I think they’re lions, they’re very decorative) stand either side. Their mouths are open, showing their teeth.

‘Temple dogs,’ says Charles when I comment on them. ‘They protect the house from harmful influences.’

‘Hope they don’t bite me so.’ I watch him open the door, then follow him into the house.

It’s gorgeous, in a kind of old-fashioned way. The high-ceilinged hallway is painted in navy and grey, and the floor is parquet wood with a carpet runner running the length of it. The light that I saw from outside comes from a tiered chandelier, although there are also a couple of gently glowing lamps on two well-polished tables on either side of the hall.

‘Jeepers,’ I say. ‘Writing books is a profitable thing.’

‘More precarious than profitable,’ says Charles. ‘I was probably a bit foolish sinking all my money into this house, but at least I have a lovely home to retreat to.’

‘You totally do.’ I continue following him, this time into a kind of living room that has a clubby feel with its red and green decor and squishy sofa with oversized cushions. There’s another Christmas tree here, with a more traditional feel to it, and I’m impressed that he’s had the time to put up two trees and a wreath and fill the house with diffusers that give off a slightly spicy scent. If I’m honest, given that he lives on his own, I was expecting more of a man-cave than this elegantly decorated home.

‘I say foolish, but actually I was lucky.’ Charles walks to a cupboard and takes out a bottle of wine and two glasses. ‘Even if I am, as they say, asset-rich and cash-poor, this is a good area and house prices have increased steadily.’

‘Your entire generation was lucky.’ I sit on the sofa. ‘It’s really hard for someone my age to buy a house. And I doubt you’ve run out of cash. You spent six weeks on a beach, after all.’

‘It’s all relative.’ He uncorks the wine, a deep ruby red, and pours it into the glasses.

I’d like his sort of relative, I think as I take a sip. I thought when I saw him at the White Sands that he was well off, given the gorgeous villa he was staying in, but this is another level altogether. I wish I’d paid more attention in English class and written a bestseller instead of joining the Civil Service and ending up stopping trucks at Dublin Port. I glance at my watch and then out of the window, where snowflakes are still drifting lazily from the sky. Even though it’s late, ships will continue to arrive and unload their cargo while my friends and colleagues stand in the freezing night and look for signs of contraband. I’ll be joining them in the morning. I’m looking forward to it.

‘You OK?’ Charles sits beside me, and I nod and tell him I was thinking about work and how cold it is down at the port.

‘It’s chilly in here,’ he remarks, which is partly true, because it’s a big room and the heating doesn’t entirely eliminate the draught coming from beneath the door. ‘When I did the renovations, I tried to make it as snug as possible, but as it was a listed building there were some things I couldn’t quite manage.’

‘It has a cosy feel, though. Do you live here on your own?’

‘Since the break-up of my marriage,’ he replies.

‘What happened?’ I ask, at the same time registering that he and his agent did actually get married in the end and wondering how well they really get on professionally. I think of my colleagues Sian Collins and Peter Tominey. They were offered a chance to move to different sections after they got divorced, but neither wanted to, although they’re never on the same shift. Nevertheless, if it works for them, I guess it can work for Charles and his ex too.

‘Oh, there were a variety of reasons it went pear-shaped, but the truth was, I was jealous, and she, rather understandably, couldn’t put up with me.’

‘Jealous of what?’

‘Her other male authors mainly.’

‘Oh.’ I mull this over. ‘Did she give you a reason to be jealous?’

‘If someone wants to be jealous, they can always find a reason.’ He gives his head an impatient shake. ‘It’s not important. What matters is we messed it up.’

All the same, he sounds forlorn. And I’m thinking that they bought this house when they were full of hope and expectation and it must be awful to be still here when all that has gone. And that it’s definitely amazing they still have a working relationship. I wonder if he still loves her.

‘You don’t have children?’

Wikipedia didn’t mention any.

‘No. One good thing at least.’

‘Did you want them?’

‘We decided to put a family on hold. One of our better decisions,’ he adds.

I presume the lack of children is why he kept the house and she’s not here instead, although even with children she’d be rattling around in it. I wonder if Charles feels he’s rattling around. It’s a big place for one person.

I ask him if he finds it lonely here.

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