Page 91 of The Honeymoon Affair

‘Maybe she should write a book herself,’ I suggest.

He looks at me in horror. ‘It was bad enough when you started writing one. I can’t possibly have another wife who thinks she’s an author.’

I try not to take his words to heart. My own effort didn’t come to much. It’s a lot harder to put something down on a blank sheet of paper than it is to criticise what someone else has done. I still secretly harbour the hope that one day I’ll write my own novel, but it’s a dream that’s in the distant future. I don’t say this to him, though. He took it as an insult that I thought I could write at all.

‘So will she be here later?’ I ask.

‘Maybe.’

I top up our glasses.

I know I should leave, but the wine is lovely and calming, and besides, I want to find out more about his fiancée. All the same, I have to go about that casually. I don’t want him to think I’m quizzing him too much. I settle back in the sofa, but I still don’t curl my legs underneath me.

Iseult

It’s been a long, frustrating day and what I’d really like to do is go home and put my feet up. But Charles texted earlier asking if I was going to drop over to Terenure and I said I might. I should really ask him to come to me instead, but Riverside Lodge is my future home and I want to spend time there with him. I also want to bring up the subject of redecorating. It’s very elegant, but I have some modernising ideas of my own. So when I’ve finally finished at the docks (all routine checks, none of them turning up anything illegal, although one of the drivers was really mouthy and nasty to me, which normally I shrug off but which got to me today), I message Charles to say I’ll be with him a bit later, then scoot home to have a quick shower and change into a pair of jeans and my favourite jumper, a soft cashmere in deep purple that brings out the brown of my eyes.

I’ve timed it so that I can walk to the Malahide Road and catch the cross-city bus that stops about five minutes away from Charles’s house. When I arrive, I see that the hall chandelier is glowing gently through the fanlight over the door. I press the old-fashioned enamel bell in a brass setting and hear the loud buzz echo along the hallway. It takes a minute before Charles opens the door. As always when I see him, I catch my breath at how damn good-looking he is. Even in what he laughingly refers to his ‘lounging around’ casual trousers and zipped top, he looks urbane and sophisticated.

‘Hello, darling.’ He pulls me close and kisses me. ‘I’ve missed you. And I’m sorry for dragging you across town,’ he adds as I follow him to the living room, ‘but I was working like crazy all day.’

I’m about to say I was working like crazy too, but then I see he’s not alone. And I recognise the woman who’s sitting on the sofa as his agent-slash-not-quite-as-ex-as-I-thought.

She’s tall and lithe and confident as she stands up and greets me, reminding me of who she is, as if I could forget. Her copper hair gleams in the light thrown by the standard lamp and her make-up is impeccable. She’s wearing a black top and a short tartan skirt that shows off legs encased in patterned black tights. Her shoes are Louboutin – the red soles go with the red in the skirt. She’s still wearing the multicoloured ring, although there’s no jewellery on her right hand today. I tuck my hair behind my ears simply so that my own ring flashes in the light.

‘Nice to meet you again,’ I say, even as I glance at Charles and raise my eyebrows to signal my uncertainty at her being here.

‘The pleasure is all mine.’ Her voice is confident and a little husky.

‘We’re having book talk,’ says Charles. ‘Those bloody edits! I told her you’d be good at looking over them, given that you were such an inspiration in the Caribbean. Wine?’ He holds up a half-empty bottle of red, and even though it’s not my favourite, I nod.

Ariel sinks back onto the sofa and Charles sits beside her. I suppose that’s where they were seated before I arrived, but I’m irked at being the one in the high-backed armchair while they relax together.

‘So how was your day?’ asks Charles.

I say it was one of our more routine days, with too much form-filling and one particularly rude driver, and he sympathises.

‘It must be a very interesting job,’ says Ariel in a tone that implies the complete opposite.

‘It usually is,’ I tell her.

‘A bit of a nuisance for you to come here from the port.’

‘I came from home,’ I say. ‘It’s the same bus, just a longer walk.’

‘You got the bus?’ She sounds shocked.

‘What else?’

‘A cab. An Uber.’

‘The bus is just as quick,’ I say, even though I reckon a cab would take half the time. But I’m not splashing out for taxis when I don’t need to.

She says nothing and takes a sip from her glass. Her eyes, a dark hazel, are looking at me speculatively. I feel like she’s assessing me, seeing if I’m a suitable partner for Charles. I also feel like she’s finding me wanting.

My throat is suddenly dry, and I take a rather larger mouthful of wine than I intended, which leaves me coughing uncontrollably. Charles gets up and puts his arm around me, but Ariel stays where she is, quietly watching me with those appraising eyes.

‘You OK?’ he asks, when my coughing fit subsides.

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