Page 44 of A Very Irish Christmas
‘Kind of. I had my heart broken when a long term relationship ended. It’s nothing tragic, nothing that doesn’t happen to people every day. It’s just taking me a long time to heal.’
‘There are no rules about that, Cassie. The heart is a tender organ, easily bruised. What happened?’
I don’t really want to talk about, but I can hardly refuse when he has opened up to me.
I shrug, and say: ‘Well, I was jilted at the altar, if you must know.’
It sounds so simple when I put it like that – and I guess it is. When I spoke to Ryan about this it felt heavy, emotionally laden. It brought with it so much pain and so much suffering. Now, I have reduced it to one sentence – maybe this is part of the process. Maybe eventually, it won’t even deserve that.
He places his hands on either side of my cheeks, and turns me to face him. I am embarrassed, but he holds me steady. He looks me right in the eyes, and says: ‘All I can assume is that the man must have been the world’s biggest fool. Anyone would be lucky to have you.’
He drops a gentle kiss on my forehead, and I feel a tremble run through my body.
‘Thank you, Charles,’ I reply, not wanting the moment to end, but also scared of where it might lead. ‘Maybe one day I’ll actually believe that myself.’
SEVENTEEN
The meeting is arranged for the next night, and I am nervous. I barely know these people, not really, and yet I have convinced Charles that he should trust them, throw himself on their mercy. The stakes are high, and my stomach is tied in knots.
‘What if it all goes wrong?’ I say to Eejit, who is curled up in front of my fire. Thanks to a quick tutorial from Eileen, I am now a dab hand at it, and the cottage is warm and cosy. My canine friend appeared again last night, though thankfully at a much earlier hour. ‘What if they tell Charles where he can stuff his pleas for help? What if we all end up with egg on our face?’
He looks up at me with one sleepy eye, keeping the other one closed as he drowses.
‘Yeah, you’re right,’ I say, stroking his furry head. ‘I just need to chill.’
He thumps his tail once on the carpet, and goes back to sleep. I glance at my phone for the thousandth time today, and see that it is actually now time to go. I grab my coat and bag, and waver on the doorstep for a few moments.
‘Do I leave you here?’ I ask. ‘Or will you feel too confined?’
He answers my question by climbing to his feet, stretching into a perfect downward dog, and trotting out of the door withme. He disappears off into the evening, and I lock up. I probably don’t need to lock up, but I guess there’s still too much big city in me for that to feel right.
The lights that are strung across the streets light my way, and the Christmas tree twinkles cheerfully at me as I pass. All will be well, I tell myself, as I push open the door to the pub.
I suck in a breath when I see how full it is. Literally every person I’ve ever seen in the village is here, along with quite a few new faces. I return hellos and waves, and find Charles sitting by the bar on one of the tall stools – in exactly the same spot we were the first night we met. I’m amazed at how I managed to get myself into this mess so quickly.
He’s wearing a dark suit, no tie, the collar of his white shirt opened a few buttons at the top. I can see that he is also nervous, and am glad that Roberts is with him. I know he’s asked Georgie to stay at home, allegedly to keep an eye on Allegra, but I suspect it’s to protect her in case things don’t go as well as he hopes. Georgie is clearly very fond of the villagers, and it would hurt her to see them refuse her family the support they’re asking for.
There is no music tonight, but the place is loud with chatter – everyone must be curious to find out why they’re here, and possibly they’re expecting the worst. I definitely see a few dour faces at some of the tables.
Charles greets me, and I smile reassuringly. I sit next to him, and look at the crowded room. Eileen and Ryan are nearby, and Ryan gives me a terse nod of recognition. I’m hoping that this whole project doesn’t get derailed by their testosterone wars, and remind myself that neither of them is a thug. Charles is a gentleman, and Ryan is, well, an artist, I now know. For all of his play-acting at being a humble handyman, there is more to him than that, and I hope that side of him wins out.
Cormac rings the bell that hangs over the bar, and everyone goes silent. Charles thanks him, takes a sip of his water, and turns back around to face the room.
‘Hello, everybody,’ he says, ‘thank you so much for coming. I know how busy you all are, and I very much appreciate you turning up on such short notice. I’m sure you’re all wondering what’s going on, so let me start by saying this – I, like my father and those who went before him, hold you all in very high esteem. We value the life and energy that you bring to Campton St George, as well as all your hard work. It wouldn’t be the place it is without you.’
A round of cheers goes up, which breaks the tension somewhat. Charles manages a small smile, and ploughs on.
‘As I’m sure many of you are aware, my father wasn’t the most natural of businessmen, and financial management wasn’t his forte. Add to that his illness during later years, as well as some very poor investments, and… well, to cut a long story short, the family accounts are not what they were.’
‘Are you wanting a loan, Charlie boy?’ some clown in the corner pipes up. ‘I’ve got a fiver for you, pass the hat around!’
‘Very kind, Martin, but I’m afraid a fiver isn’t enough. I’m going to be very honest with you all, because you deserve it – if things continue the way they are, within the next four years the Bancroft estate may have to be sold. Even before that, I might have to consider increasing your rents, which believe me I have no desire to do. I know times are tough for everyone, and the last thing I want to do is make them any tougher.’
‘Why don’t you sell your Jag, then, fella?’ the same man yells, earning some applause but also some glares of disapproval.
‘You be shutting your gob now, Martin Byrne,’ Eileen shouts at him sternly. ‘If hot air was money, we all know you’d be a millionaire – let the man speak, will you?’
There’s a smattering of laughter at this, and Martin looks suitably chastened. I’m guessing Eileen is not somebody you want to mess with.
