Page 65 of The Honeymoon Affair

‘Ariel! Ariel!’ Brandon Heath, the organiser of one of the country’s biggest literary festivals, waves me over. ‘Ariel, sweetheart, is it true? That the king of literary fiction has written an actual thriller?’

Brandon also contributes to the literary pages of the newspapers, highlighting the ‘books of the season’ a few times a year. He always picks the most obscure titles it’s possible to choose. And not that I don’t think lesser-known books shouldn’t get lots of lovely publicity (I have a few authors who’d kill for a mention from him), but I do think it would be nice if he made an occasional mention of an author readers have already heard of. He’s never given Charles the nod in any of his pieces, although I sent him an advance copy of Winter’s Heartbreak before it came out. After that, of course, Charles was too famous to merit his attention.

‘A literary thriller. It’s brilliant.’ I take a fresh glass of champagne from a passing waiter, along with a delightfully named island spice profiterole from another.

‘I’m not hugely keen on writers diluting their talent,’ says Brandon.

‘Hardly diluting.’ My words are muffled due to my having stuffed the entire profiterole into my mouth. ‘More expanding,’ I add as I swallow it. ‘And hopefully bringing his work to a wider audience.’

‘I’d have thought his audience was wide enough already.’ Brandon’s eyes narrow. He’s jealous of Charles, naturally.

‘It’s a fun but thought-provoking read,’ I say as I glance around the room to see who I can palm Brandon off onto. I spot Sydney on her own and wave her over. At the same time, I see Charles talking to someone I don’t know, a young woman with spiky hair wearing a green silk dress and an uncomfortably high pair of heels. She must be a new bookseller. I’ll introduce myself later.

I leave Brandon and Sydney together and make my way around the room, stopping to talk to all the people who need to be talked to. I take a moment to wonder about the last time I went to an event that wasn’t in some way work-related. In all the years of our relationship, Charles and I only ever socialised with literary people, and since our split, the only times we’re together in public are for book-related things too. Even before Charles, all my socialising was literary because I was trying to make a name for myself. I’ve never really thought about it before, and even if I had, it wouldn’t have bothered me, but right at this moment, I wish there was a part of my life that was just for me.

I need to go out more with people who don’t give a toss about the written word. And then I remind myself that I’m back from a few days in Mallorca, where we didn’t talk about books once. It’s the whole New Year thing that’s making me feel maudlin. My only non-fiction author, a celebrity psychologist, who’s a friend of a friend, wrote a book about seasonal depression, pointing out it often peaks on New Year’s Eve. It’s all to do with reflection on the year past, and high expectations for the one to come. If we feel we haven’t achieved as much as we should, if we set the bar too high and think we’ve failed, all the enforced jollity can be a bit much.

But if any of the guests here tonight are feeling seasonally depressed, they’re hiding it well. The buzz of conversation and bursts of laughter are fuelled by the limitless champagne and brightly coloured cocktails. Apparently one of the things that triggers seasonal depression is concern about finances. Charles spends an absolute fortune on his New Year’s Eve party. I do hope it’s tax-deductible. I look after many things for him, but not his accounts. Given his previous career, he does that himself. He says he finds it therapeutic.

I continue to work my way around the room, stopping to talk to various guests before looking for Charles again. I can’t see him, and nor can I hear his distinctive voice over the hubbub of conversation. The champagne has loosened people’s tongues and their inhibitions. Myles McGuigen, a mid-list writer of historical fiction, has his arm around Bettina Boyle, whose bookish podcast has been one of the year’s successes. Seán Óg O Faolain (Irish history) and Briain MacCártaigh (Irish genealogy) are having an animated argument about the 1916 Rising, and Shane Wilson, curator of a summer literary school, is actively kissing PR guru Kate Collins. It’s all a bit bacchanalian, but it’s also fun, and it makes me feel a bit less stressed too.

I glance at my watch. Twenty minutes to go. I’d better find Charles before the fireworks start.

Chapter 19

Iseult

Quiet people have the loudest minds.

Stephen King

Celeste’s dad is dropping us to Terenure for Charles’s NYE party. He said he couldn’t leave us at the mercy of Dublin’s taxi service on the busiest night of the year, and told us to call him no matter what time it is if we struggle to get a cab later. I came to Celeste’s earlier so that we could glam up together and help each other with hair and make-up – not that she needed help with her hair because she’d it done earlier and it’s swept high on her head with a dinky little plait across the front of it, like a hairband. I’ve gone for my spiky look again. When we’re finally ready, we take a selfie of ourselves and post it to our socials with lots of #PartyReady and #NewYear hashtags. Celeste looks great in the silver-sequinned mini dress with fringed skirt and spaghetti straps she bought in the sales, teamed with dangly earrings and sparkly shoes from Zara. I’m grateful I can still fit into my emerald-green silk. It doesn’t matter that I’ve worn it multiple times this month. It was expensive, and at least I’m getting the wear out of it.

It’s unusual for me to go out on New Year’s Eve, as it’s never been my favourite night of the year. I normally volunteer to do the late shift at work, preferring checking cargo to drunk-kissing and hugging at midnight. However, Charles’s event is sure to be different. The invitations said black tie!

‘Ready?’ Celeste turns to me.

‘As I’ll ever be,’ I say. ‘I wonder will there be any single men there tonight?’

‘Apart from Charles?’ She arches a perfect 3D eyebrow.

‘He’s not . . . well, he is, but . . .’

‘Have you decided if you’re in a relationship with him?’ she asks.

‘I’m in something with him,’ I admit. ‘But a proper relationship . . . oh, Celeste, I don’t know.’

‘As long as you’re having fun.’ She gives me a quick hug. ‘Don’t let him hurt you, that’s all.’

‘Absolutely not,’ I assure her. ‘My heart is like a rock these days.’

‘Any more texts from Steve?’

‘Thankfully not a word since the Christmas Day message.’

‘Good.’ Celeste does a shimmy that made her dress glitter beneath the light. ‘Let’s have fun tonight.’

We clatter down the stairs and rouse Uncle Paul from his comfy seat in front of the telly.

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