Page 22 of One More Day
I bet it will annoy Charlie though. He seems like the organised type, or is that just me jumping to conclusions from first impressions? Oh, I bet I’m right. I bet he has the table set in the kitchen for his evening meal, which he’d already planned out in his head and had timed to perfection.
He looks a bit Italian in some ways, even though his accent is distinctively Belfast and, as I let my mind go into overdrive, I imagine that he has knowledge of lots of secret recipes handed down through generations, never to be shared with strangers like me.
As I stand beneath the hot water, feeling the heat soothe my bones, I wonder how the hell did this happen? I feel like I’m in some sort of disaster movie and I’m waiting for the director to shout ‘cut’ and it will be all over. Or maybe it’s just a bad dream? The water turns ice-cold, reminding me that it’s none of the above.
Yes, Rose Quinn. You are indeed in your late Granny Molly’s holiday cottage for the first time in years, with a stranger, when all you wanted was to lock yourself away for Christmas and face the world once again when it’s all over.
I step out of the shower, hearing the floorboards creak above me. This cottage must be at least a hundred years old, and I can just hear what my dad would say if he were here.
If it were mine, I’d have fixed the shower after all this time. I’d have oiled the doors too. I’d have decorated it very differently if it were ours. Marion has no taste at all. She talks the talk, but does she walk the walk? No, she does not.
My tummy rumbles as I quickly dry myself off. The towels are soft and fluffy, which brings me back to staying here asa little girl on cosy autumn nights when school was out for mid-term.
Granny Molly would make soups and stews on the stove in the kitchen. She’d sing as she cooked, then she’d call me to taste her offerings, each dish even more delicious than the last.
I haven’t eaten properly all day and although I said I wasn’t in the mood for food, I’d murder a nice dinner right now.
I take a moment to look at myself in the steamed-up mirror.
What a terrible mess I’ve got myself into. This place is riddled with memories of happier times. So much for moving forward. I could kick myself sometimes at how I just do things without thinking them through.
I’m spontaneous to a fault, I know that, but while it works for the best in the workplace where I can let my creative spark lead the way, in my personal life, I’m just wading through treacle from one day to the next, lost in a fog of grief and pretence.
But this Christmas … if I can just get through this Christmas, it will be another milestone without Michael passed and I can try to focus on all the good I have in my life. I have fantastic friends in Carlos, Maeve and Yvonne. We do hot yoga, we have a book club, we have nights in front of the telly with wine and cheeseboards, we go for walks on the weekends. We’ve even been known to hike in the mountains. I have a great job, I have a nice home.
I just need to learn how to deal with Christmas again.
I wipe the condensation off the tiny square mirror above the sink and run my fingers down the tracks of mascara on my cheeks. I’m convinced all my tears must have formed little fine lines on my face after all this time. I long for the day when I find peace in my heart, once and for all.
With Michael on my mind, I spot Charlie’s cologne on the bathroom window and can’t resist a quick smell.
The scent is woody, just as Charlie smelled earlier, but my heart sinks when I find it’s a world away from Michael’s familiarity and warmth. He preferred stronger, fruity cologne. It’s manly, it’s attractive but—
Oh God.
I close my eyes and inhale this stranger’s scent, then realise I’m being a little bit creepy and set it right back on the windowsill. What am Idoing?
Michael’s gone and he isn’t coming back. And it wasn’t my fault. It wasn’t my fault.
I will repeat these words for as long as it takes for me to believe them, even though that might be forever.
No matter what Evelyn, Michael’s mother, said in the past to reassure me, no matter how many pep talks I have with my sister and my closest friends, I will always, always wonder what if …
I hear a floorboard creak from upstairs, which makes me wonder what Charlie is doing up there, imprisoned in the bedroom with his book and his wine when he was meant to have the whole run of the cottage by now.
Everything belonging to him is set out neatly along the windowsill in order of size. Moisturiser, face wash, showergel – all the same organic brand – and a damp bamboo toothbrush which looks like it has already been used on this visit.
I’m just about to snoop a little bit more when a bark from George on the other side of the door stops me.
‘Coming now, George,’ I say just above a whisper, but my voice only makes him bark even more. ‘Coming, George. Two minutes. Good boy.’
But still the barking continues.
Oh please, George.
I dry myself extra quickly and hear a door close which I assume is from the kitchen. So much for staying in his room for a while to let me settle. How am I supposed to leg it to the living room where I’ve set up camp on the sofa? All my clothes are in there.
And still George barks. Then Charlie’s dog joins in, and I can’t wait any longer. I should really make a run for it to try and stop the noise.
