Chapter thirty

Erin

I woke acutely aware that my neck hurt and that I was cold. I was not immediately aware of where I was but a quick fumble at least allowed me to ascertain that I was fully clothed. I sat up and stretched, rolling my head from side to side to loosen the tension in my neck. My hair was still a little touch-damp. Opening my eyes, slowly, visions of the night before came back to me in pieces.

We had indeed gone for pizza, Ian and I, walking along the waterfront, not talking about anything really serious at all – just reminiscing. Trying to remember details of a time long ago.He had held the door open for me and we had entered the restaurant and sat in a small booth away from the window. This was not a conscious decision but I suppose to the casual observer it could have looked as if we were skulking around – hiding in the shadows. We had nothing to hide, but outsiders would not necessarily have known that. Ian had ordered a bottle of red – not the cheapest on the menu and we had laughed at that. There had been more than one occasion when we had scraped together the last of our money for a bottle of the cheapest, vilest plonk the supermarket had to offer and joked that sure it all tasted the same when you were three sheets to the wind anyway. This offering was rich, full-bodied and expensive – not to mention delicious. It may have been the nerves of the situation but I downed the first glass a little too quickly, before our garlic bread (which we both pushed around the plate nervously) arrived. I noticed his glass was emptied as quickly as mine and it wasn’t long before a second bottle was on the table and we were laughing heartily about the wedding that never was.

“I got my suit in the Oxfam shop,” he said. “I thought I was being so totally righteous and that I was going to save the world. All I could think on the day I put it on, though, was that some old codger had probably died wearing it. Christ, it was hideous!”

“Well,” I said, laughing, “if you had stuck around you would have seen the Marks & Spencer finest summer dress I wore. I considered walking in barefoot but it was raining the morning of the wedding so I slipped on a pair of flip-flops.”

He laughed loudly – probably too loudly – the kind of laugh that only comes after the best part of a bottle of wine has been sunk and every bloody thing feels hilarious.

When we had settled down, eaten and paid our bill and established once again ad nauseamthat we were very foolish when we young, we set out strolling again along the riverfront – a little more uneasy this time. I’m not sure at what point he took my hand but after a while I noticed I was holding his. We were still talking but perhaps not laughing quite so much anymore.

“Tell me about him,” he said as we strolled.

“Paddy?”

“Yes, Paddy. Is he good to you?”

I paused, bit my lip and nodded. “He is. He always has been.”

“So he’s the one?”

“Would I marry him if he wasn’t?”

“You almost married me . . .” he said and the words hung there.

I dropped my hand from his.

“What’s different?” he asked.

My head was fuzzy from the wine – all the emotions, the fear, the worry, the stupid little niggly annoying obsessions with wedding favours and cars and the invitations bubbled up. In the cold light of day it would have been, almost, clear for me to see the difference but, a bottle of wine down and in the company of someone who reminded me of carefree, cancer-freetimes, it all felt a little hazy.

“He has cancer,” I said, the tears springing to my eyes. “And you don’t say no to someone with cancer, even if you aren’t entirely sure they aren’t going to hurt and leave you.”

He looked at me, cupped my face in his hands and kissed me gently on the forehead. “Not everyone is me,” he said. “Not everyone gets it wrong.”

It started to rain then and he grabbed my hand crossing the road to his hotel while the rain battered down on us. Again if this had been a Hollywood movie this is where we would have kissed and I’d have followed him into his room and we would have had mad passionate sex. “I can’t go in with you,” I said, pushing my hair back off my face.

“We need to clear the air some more,” he replied.

“The air’s clear. Between us anyway. We made a mistake then and if we aren’t very careful we will make one now. The mistake we made back then is one I learned to live with – I don’t want to live with this one.”

I thought of his words – that not everyone gets it wrong and I thought of Paddy who had only ever really loved me. Yes, he would give the most rampant Bridezilla a run for her money but he did love me. He’d never left me. And if he faced a battle where he might – sure wouldn’t he fight it to the very end? Or isn’t that what I had thought? It dawned on me that was why I was so angry at him. For just smiling and agreeing with Dr Glib and her “he probably had enough chemoto see him right”. ‘Probably’ wasn’t good enough – not when we were talking about the rest of our lives.

“I have to go,” I said to Ian, letting go of his hand.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” I said loudly over the hum of the traffic.

“He’s a lucky man,” he shouted to my back as I ran, breaking the heel on my new sexy patent shoes, towards a taxi stand and back home to where the man I loved would be waiting for me.

The house was in darkness when I got home. Glancing at my watch, it had gone eleven thirty. Ian and I had spent five hours chatting, reminiscing and flirting. The time had gone quickly but it had gone – and I was in no rush any more to get it back. I wanted to stumble upstairs, climb into bed beside Paddy and tell him that I loved him. I wanted him. I wanted him to fight for us and for himself. I wanted him to fight for theUs that used to be fun – that used to be even more fun than the fun I’d had with Ian when none of it was really real.

I closed the door, probably a little too loudly and, stumbling into the living room, switched on the light and flopped down on the sofa to take off the uncomfortable broken shoes. There was a bottle of Jack Daniel’s on the coffee table. We hadn’t had Jack Daniel’s in the house before that night I was sure, and yet there wasn’t much left in the bottle. Just one glass sat beside it, resting on a pile of RSVPs, leaving a condensation ring on them. Paddy wouldn’t like that I thought, moving the glass onto the table, sitting it beside a wedding magazine. It was unusual for Paddy to drink, especially since he had been sick – and especially to drink so much but still, I thought, things had been stressful lately he had every right to want a bit of a blow-out. Sure hadn’t I just blown out myself, spectacularly. I smiled and vowed to bring him up a pint glass of water when I went up and to tell him it was okay and, even though I would probably be horribly hung-over myself the following day, I would make him a bacon sandwich or fetch him a hangover cure of choice. Whatever he wanted – McDonald’s, Wotsits, Lucozade, ice cream – whatever the heck he wanted because I loved him so very much.

Feeling a wave of relief that my meeting with Ian was over and that I hadn’t been a stupid eejit and done something I would most definitely regret, I decided to send Jules a text – just to tell her I loved her and that I hadn’t messed up, or something equally drunk and cryptic that she would phone me about the following day to ask quiz me on. Lifting my phone from the bottom of my bag where I had hidden it I noticed a series of missed calls and a few text messages.

The first was from Paddy: Who are you with?

The second was also from Paddy: Erin, please call me.

The third was from Grace – something boring and work-related. My eyes were struggling to focus on the words in front of me as they filled with tears. This was not good.

The next message was from Jules: Sis, WTF is going on? Paddy has been on to me asking if I know where you are or who you are with. Said his friend saw you with another man.

Oh shit. The bottle of Jack Daniel’s on the table didn’t seem so much a blow-out any more. His disregard for the RSVPs (his Bridezilla persona would never have let them get wet) made sense. Oh Jesus . . . we had been spotted. Ian and I. Frig knows what we were doing at the time. Was it as we drank coffee? Was it as we drank wine and laughed madly together? Was it as we walked hand in hand along the waterfront or when he kissed me on the forehead – when that kiss almost turned into something moreoutside the hotel?

I felt sick to the very pit of my stomach. I grabbed my phone and looked at the messages, looking at the time at which they were sent. We would have been in the restaurant. I breathed a very small sigh of relief – as if I had done something wrong but not been caught out. “I didn’t do anything wrong,” I said aloud, to myself, to Jules, to Paddy who was more than likely passed out in an alcoholic coma in our bed – convinced I had been cheating on him.

How could I explain this and how on earth would he believe me that nothing had happened at all when I told him the man I was with was Ian? I was dishevelled and still dressed in a new dress and killer heels and looking very much as if it wasn’t just a night out with an old friend in a completely platonic way. You don’t dress like this for nothing. I felt ashamed and sick as I thought of how this would look to him.He would ask me, I knew he would, that if nothing was happening then why had I lied and told him I was going out with the girls? Why was I dressed to the nines? Oh shit. I couldn’t face this. Not now, not when I was drunk. Not when everything was hazy and I wasn’t sure how to explain anything. Pouring a stiff glass of Jack Daniel’s and swigging it back, I sat back on the sofa and tried to figure out exactly what I was going to say.

I woke up, still on the sofa and still not sure about what the hell I was going to say. The waves of worry swept through me in perfect time with the waves of nausea from the hangover.

The evening started to come back to me, slowly and painfully. Sitting forward with my head in my hands, to try and stop the room, and my world, from spinning, I heard Paddy on the stairs. I didn’t really want to look at him – nor did I want him to look at me. I imagined I looked properly shocking – like something that had been dragged through a bush and perhaps thrown up on.

“You came home then?” he asked.

His voice was soft but that wasn’t to say I didn’t recognise the tone from it. It was as accusing as if he had shouted at me.

“I was home at eleven thirty,” I offered. “I sat here. I had a drink. I must have fallen asleep.”

“Tired, were you?” he asked accusingly.

“A little drunk,” I said, nodding towards the Jack Daniel’s bottle on the table.Was it appropriate for me to make a joke about him getting off his trolley too? Probably not. I stayed quiet, trying to word what I was about to say next in a way that wouldn’t imply guilt when there was none to imply in the first place.

“It’s not at all what you think,” I offered, turning to look at him. He looked wretched, standing there skinny in baggy tracksuit bottoms and a faded T-shirt. He looked as if he hadn’t closed his eyes all night.

“You’re a writer, Erin. Could you not have come up with a less clichéd line than that?”

“There are only so many ways to say it’s not what you think,” I said, watching as he sat down. I wanted to hold his hand – to have him hold mine back and for the both of us to be very much assured that things were not going, spectacularly, tits up.

“You could tell me exactly how it was?” he said. “Because my version isn’t pretty. My version involves my fiancée, the woman I am set to marry in two months’ time, telling me she was going out with a drink with the girls from work. It then involves a friend of mine calling me and telling me that my fiancée is cosied up to some man eating pizza and drinking wine and occasionally holding hands. Is that not what happened, Erin?”

His eyes were pleading and I wanted to tell him straight away that of course that hadn’t happened at all and that his friend had been wrong. But to an outsider . . . of course it was different. Actually, even to me it was different.

“Well, it is . . .”

He stood up and made to leave the room.

“But let me explain, Paddy. It’s not as simple as that.”

“You lied. That’s simple. You were with someone else. That is simple.”

“I didn’t want to upset you.”

“Well, that’s flipping big of you,” he said, continuing to the kitchen.

I stood up to follow him, my head still swimming. I was meant to be getting ready for work. I was already running late but I couldn’t leave it like this.

“Paddy, it was Ian,” I offered, hoping that he would realise it was nothing more than a little bit of laying some ghosts to rest.

He stopped, turned to look at me but didn’t speak. He grabbed his jacket from the worktop and his keys and while I stood there, waiting for the signal that it was okay to keep talking and to tell him exactly what had happened, he brushed past me.

“Go to work, Erin,” he called over his shoulder. “Just go to work.”

He left, slamming the door and I stood, rooted to the spot, unsure of what move to make next. I knew this was bad. I knew I should go to work. I knew I needed a long hot shower and a huge mug of black coffee. But more than all of that I knew that somehow I had to make it all better. I just didn’t have the first notion how.

Chapter thirty-one

Kitty

“The first thing you have to do is change the locks,” Ivy said, lifting the Yellow Pages from under the hall table and beginning to search for a locksmith.

“Okay,” I replied.

“Then you text him and ask him to return the key he does have – even though it will be useless. This will give him the very clear message that it is entirely unacceptable to visit someone else’s home without their permission.”

“Okay,” I said, lifting my phone with my hands still shaking.

“You’ll have to text Mark as well, just to let him know.”

“About James?” I baulked. The thought of telling Mark about James and what had happened with James – everything that had happened with James – made me feel a little woozy and not in a good way.

“Well, you can if you want, but I was thinking more about the keys. Technically it’s still his house as well. He should probably know if you have changed the locks.”

“Okay,” I mumbled, thinking that I would need to talk to James face to face – to tell him he had the wrong idea – that perhaps I had given him the wrong idea, that this had to stop and now. “Jesus, Ivy,” I said, feeling sick and making a mental note to check my underwear drawer and do an inventory of my existing quota of knickers so that I would know how many I had in the future and be able to monitor if any went missing. Feeling slightly sick I ran upstairs to where I had been sleeping so very peacefully an hour before and I didn’t feel secure and comforted any more.

Ivy followed and sat on my bed beside me.

“It’s a bit scary, isn’t it? I mean, if you want you can come and sleep at my house for a few nights, or I’m sure Rose and Dad wouldn’t mind you staying with them.”

“This is my home, Ivy, and this is my mess. I’ll text James now, arrange to meet. Tell him we need to talk. I know I led him on but I’ll put him straight.”

“You haven’t spoken to him before now? About this? About what happened?” She tried and failed to hide the look of horror on her face.

I shook my head, feeling embarrassed. “I didn’t know what to say. I . . . my head was just up my arse and I thought if I let it go he would get the message. I thought it would just go away.”

“And how’s that working for you?” she said with a sly grin.

“I know, I know,” I muttered. I thought of the jacket thrown so casually on my sofa. He must have left it deliberately – he couldn’t have just forgotten it. And I thought of the dirty coffee mug. It was like he was marking his territory.

“Do you want me to come with you?” she asked, more softly this time.

“I think I need to do this on my own, but maybe, you know, if you could perhaps watch from nearby . . .”

“In case he turns out to be a complete nutcase?”

I thought of James and of all the years I had known him. He had never displayed any nutcase behaviour before. He had always been very nice to me. He had always been there for Mark. In fact it was only in the weeks since Mark’s departure that I had thought any of his behaviour odd at all. And, honestly, it had only been in the last few days since the whole sleeping-together mistake that his behaviour had started tomake me uneasy, but I couldn’t deny that I had made him think he was in with a chance.

“Yes, please,” I said, because at the end of the day I was a coward.

“I’ll do it.”

“Thanks,” I said, squeezing her hand.

“Now,” she said, “why don’t you go to work and get on with that whole living-your-life thing that we talked about last night and I’ll stay here and wait for the locksmith?”

“Are you sure you would be okay on your own?”

“Would you mess with this?” she said, pulling a face and mock-punching me. She had a point.

“I’m sure Rose would be fine at the shop without me . . .”

“Kitty, you have a bridal photo shoot to plan for a glossy magazine. You have dresses to choose and locations to scout. Such opportunities do not present themselves all that often.I believe you may also have some lovely brides wanting to buy frocks. Go on with yourself and text me and tell me when we are all meeting for the Big Showdown.”

I nodded and set about getting ready for work.

“It’s like a mad house in here today,” Rose said, flustered, as I walked through the door and straight into a huge bouquet of flowers which had just been delivered from James.

I sat them behind the counter (I say ‘sat’, I mean ‘threw’) and looked back at Rose. Her cheeks were flushed and she looked a little flustered. Her glasses were sitting on the end of her nose as she stared at the computer screen on the cash desk and handed me several slips of paper.

“I know you like your messages in emails but this silly computer is acting the bollocks. Now, I’m giving you these messages, but from the top of my head we have had two appointments booked in for midweek. Your three-thirty has cancelled – says she has a stomach bug and doesn’t want to boke all over her dress.She wants to rearrange for the same time next week but we’re booked up so you might have to call her and see what suits you both as it’s a fitting. I’ve had two calls from suppliers – shipments have been sent out. Deliveries should be here on Tuesday. It’s orders and a few new samples that you ordered. James called. Your mother called – asked if you could give her a ring. Northern People have been on the phone checking the best time for the photographer to call down for a preliminary scout and asking what size your samples are so they can book the models. Oh, and this one is important, JaneKelly called. She needs a last-minute alteration. Her wedding is at two.”

“But the dress was fine on Thursday?” I said.

“Yes, but it appears one of her bridesmaids may have had a minor falling-off-the-wagon incident with her diet and may need a little help before she busts at the seams.”

“Oh, right – well, Rose, my lovely, you’d best grab your trusty repair kit and scoot on over there.”

“We have an appointment due in twenty minutes. Will you manage on your own?”

“Course I will,” I said, thinking it really was about time we hired another member of staff. I’ll just have to close the door and get on with it.”

“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” she said, hurrying upstairs for her sewing box.

When she came back down she kissed me on the cheek.

“Those are lovely flowers,” she said, glancing at the discarded bouquet behind the desk. “You should put them in water.”

I smiled at her but as soon as she left lifted themand rammed them as far into the bin as I possibly could. Then, returning to the cash desk, I set about replying to my emails (unsurprisingly the computer worked perfectly for me – Rose never was good with technology) and setting up the photo shoot. I arranged for Liam to call down at three thirty to check out the location for the photos and he told me he would bring Erin with him, which was perfect because one of the dresses due to arrive on the following Tuesday would be hers. I’m sure she had more than enough on her plate to be worrying about without worrying if her dress would arrive on time. This would make things just that tiny bit easier. Oh, and I could show her the dress I thought would be perfect for her to wear for the photo shoot.

I was about to text Mark and James both when my ten thirty appointment arrived, nervously shuffling in the door and glancing around as if she wasn’t really meant to be there.

“I booked an appointment,” she said nervously. “Justine Duffy?”A woman I assumed to be her mother and two similarly nervous-looking bridesmaids stood behind her.

“Ah Justine!” I said. “Welcome to The Dressing Room! Why not have a seat and we can chat about what you have in mind?”

She perched nervously on the edge of the chaise longue. It never failed to surprise me how some women could be so very nervous about choosing their wedding dresses. They came in almost pale with nerves as opposed to buzzing with excitement. I sat down opposite her and smiled my best professional smile.

“Now I know this can be a little nerve-racking, but let’s try and make it fun. We cater for a wide range of tastes and budgets here. We have an in-house seamstress who can do any last-minute adjustments and we carry a wide range of accessories. I know that can sound a little overwhelming – but I can assure you now we don’t do the hard sell. I’m not happy unless you are one hundred per cent happy with the gown you choose and I will always recommend you go away and consider your decision before you place an order with us. So please try and relax.”

Justinelooked at me, and breathed out, exhaling a knot of tension she had obviously been holding within her. “I never thought I would ever get to this day,” she said. “I just want to look my best.”

I looked at her, her fine, glossy blonde hair, her small frame, her delicate cheekbones. I had no doubt whatsoever we could make her beautiful.

“You will be stunning. You really will. At The Dressing Room we aim to take your breath away and that of your husband-to-be as you walk down the aisle.”

She smiled broadly, and her mother and bridesmaids smiled too as I reached for my notepad and pencil.

“Are you married yourself?” her mother asked as three sets of eyes glanced down at where my wedding ring used to live.

I glanced myself. The indentation was still there. I baulked – not sure how to answer. Yes – legally I was. No – technically the vows of our marriage had been broken. Emotionally – yes, I hadn’t quite made that leap yet. I opted for a smile and a “Sort of” and hoped they weren’t the nosy kinds. Clare’s mother blushed and I laughed a little too loudly to show I was fine and then we set about choosing a dress.

In the end Justine’s dainty doll-like figure worked best in a figure-hugging dress with stunning lace detailing. They all cried. I may even have shed a tear myself – and when they were gone I looked once more at my finger and vowed to go out and purchase the biggest, flashiest cocktail ring money could buy, to wear at the earliest opportunity.

I picked up a text from Ivy to say the locks had been changed and she would give me the keys when we met for the big old James meeting, which reminded me that I hadn’t texted James yet. To be fair, I didn’t really know what to say to him. Was I simply to say we needed to talk without giving him any idea what we would talk about? I didn’t want to give him any notion whatsoever that ‘needed to talk’ was code for ‘needed a quick shag’ or ‘I need to tell you I love you’ but I didn’t want to be so cold as to tell him how I really felt over a text. My fingers hovered over the buttons on my phone before I typed out a quick Can we talk? Starbucks at 6? message. It had barely been sent before a message pinged back to me with YESwritten in capital letters complete with a smiley face afterwards.It was fair to assume he had probably taken the message to mean more than it did. I phoned Ivy to fill her in on this latest development and ask if I should text him back just to clarify that this was not a booty call of any description but her advice was to leave things be. “No point in digging any deeper,” she said.

Next I texted Mark. Locks have been changed. Have new set of keys for you. I hoped this would adequately convey that I was not being a hard-hearted bitch – not yet anyway. Of course, being that texts are very much open to being misconstrued he came back with: To the shop? Is all okay?

Quickly I replied: To the house. All okay. Just being cautious. Which, because when he wasn’t being a cheating horrible bastard he was actually quite protective, prompted him to text back telling me he was worried and that I could talk to him if I needed to. Which I thought was a bit ruddy rich considering his recent behaviour. Slamming the phone down on the cash deskin a fit of rage I swore loudly just as Rose walked back in, followed by our twelve o’clock appointment who was looking mildly terrified.

Rose raised her eyebrows at me and made a strange series of facial contortions I took to mean “Are you okay?” and even though it was the very worst thing I could do in the situation I could not stop myself from barking back: “Oh, just the usual. Men! Being feckers. Big lousy cheating feckers.”

My bride-to-be, who thankfully was only coming in for a fitting and not to choose a gown, looked on horrified.

“I think I’ll come back another time,” she said slowly. “Call me to rearrange,” she added as she started to back out the door.

I should have called her back, of course, but I just stood there limp while Rose flapped a bit and then stepped into the save the day.

“Please, pet,” she said. “Never mind Kitty here. She’s upset. Come in and I’ll sort you out. I’ve seen your dress and it is beautiful! Kit, why don’t you take a tea break and I’ll take it from here.”

I nodded and blushed. Turning to our customer and apologising like a petulant teenager, I then went up to my office and said a long stream of bad words out loud where no one could hear me and I wouldn’t make a holy show of myself.

Chapter thirty-two

Erin

I showered quickly and dressed badly before leaving for work. I didn’t apply any make-up, thinking I could just lift some of my stash from my drawer in the office to fix myself up a bit. My skin was blotchy and my hands were shaking ever so slightly – which wasn’t so much about the drink as it was about a sinking sense that things had just gone horribly wrong with Paddy. Being the type prone to catastrophising, I had already plotted how horrible this would be for everyone. Rightly or wrongly (and it was very much wrongly as far as I was concerned) I would be labelled the girl who had cheated on the man who had cancer. Paddy would tell his entire family and they would decree I was a bitch of the highest order. I would have to tell Sinéad and Grace who would throw the shittiest of shit-fits ever at the thought of the lost revenue for their forthcoming features and would probably sack me on the spot. And on top of all that, the worst thing imaginable, I would lose Paddy.

Biting back tears I stalked through the office head down until I reached my desk, and kept a low profile as I switched on my computer and checked my emails. There was one from Liam confirming we were going to The Dressing Room at three thirty to plan the photoshoot. I had to fight the urge to open my desk drawer, put my head in and slam the drawer shut repeatedly. As that would more than likely draw a whole heap of attention to me, I just put my head on my desk and prayed that a meteor would crash directly into Derry at that very moment and obliterate life as we knew it.

I still had my head on my desk when Grace walked past, tilted her head sideways to look me in the face and demanded I follow her into her office.

“You look like shit,” she said as I sat down. “Are you sick?”

I put my hand instinctively to my forehead, perhaps hoping there would be some form of fever, making all this horribleness an hallucination of sorts.

“No,” I said, feeling the clammy coolness of my own temple.

“Time of the month?”

“No.”

“Hung over?”

“A little,” I admitted, looking up at her.

“Was it at least a good night?”

I snorted and laughed and suddenly couldn’t stop laughing even though it was probably the least funny thing in the world ever.

“I’ll get you a glass of water,” she offered, her face more than a little alarmed.

“I’m fine,” I said, straightening myself in my chair. “I’m absolutely fine. I’ll get a bacon sandwich and a bottle of Lucozade and put some make-up on and no one will be any the wiser.”

“Are you sure?You have been under a lot of pressure.”

“Oh Grace, if you only knew the half of it! But shag it. Sure the show must go on. I’ve a wedding dress to try on and a photo shoot to plan. No bother at all.” And then I started laughing again.

“I always come here when I’m stressed out,” Grace said, stopping the car at Buncrana beach and looking out over Lough Swilly. “It keeps me grounded. When things were really bad – when I had post-natal depression after Jack was born – we would escape down here and watch the sunset. I know this sounds awfully twee – but sometimes it was just nice to know I was part of something bigger – that the whole world didn’t centre around what was going on in my house.”

After my second laughter fit Grace had ordered me to her car, saying I was in no state to be in the office and she didn’t want me to be the talking point for the office gossips. She had been there herself, she said, when she had agreed to undergo a life makeover several years ago and she knew it wasn’t a nice place to be.

In the car on the way to the beach I had told her about meeting Ian. Very kindly she managed not to swerve the car off the road and into a ditch. And I had told her about how Paddy knew we had dinner and how he wasn’t happy about it – but in fairness to him he thought it was more than dinner. I told her – admitted out loud – that things weren’t perfect between us.

“Things are never perfect between anyone,” she said. “Anyone who says they don’t occasionally want to throttle the living daylights out of their partner is lying. I love Aidan, I really do, and I consider us to be a fairly strong couple, but there are times when I would gladly do time for cracking a vase over his head.”

I laughed and she smiled and I knew that she meant every word.

“People expect a lot from you, Erin. Your situation – it’s not one anyone would envy. I imagine the minute that cancer diagnosis walked in the door the reality of who you and he were to each other changed there and then.”

“I didn’t think it had.”

“How could it not? I’d hate to live like that,” she said bluntly. “It must feel like walking on eggshells all the time. I hate walking on eggshells. Can I be brutally honest? When you said you were getting married part of me thought that was absolutely lovely and another big part of me thought, and don’t get offended, that you were completely off your head.”

Her honesty made me smile, even though it should have felt like a sucker punch to the stomach.

“A cancer battle is hard enough without throwing a wedding into the equation.”

“Seemed like a good idea at the time,” I said wryly.

“I’m not saying it was a bad idea . . . just . . . you know . . .” she trailed off.

“I know.”

“Will Paddy listen when you talk to him?” she asked as we walked along the beach, my feet burrowing into the warm sand.

“I don’t know. Probably. Hopefully.”

“You have to do what is right for the pair of you,” she said. “Don’t worry about anyone else. Don’t worry about the wedding planners or the florist or his family or your family. Don’t even worry about the magazine – although I would give Sinéad some distance. Talk it out – do what suits you both. Do you want to marry him?”

“I’ve probably always wanted to marry him, or at least to be with him. I just didn’t want the wedding. I’ve tried to convince myself over the last few weeks that it’s all grand and it will be a great day. I actually do love the dress I’ve chosen, but the faff and the pressure and the expectation . . .”

“All anyone really expects is that the pair of you get through this, in whatever way you can and how you choose. I’m really sorry if I pushed the whole thing a little bit too hard. I should have known something was up . . .”

I stopped and turned to look at her. “Grace, you have been a huge support to me these last few months. Don’t feel bad. It was just one of those things which spiralled out of control.”

We walked along the beach a little more, chatting as we went. We even stopped for lunch on the way back.

Eventually I glanced at my watch and realised the time.

“We should get back,” I said. “I need to tidy myself up before the meeting at The Dressing Room.”

Grace raised an eyebrow. “You still want to go?”

“It’s arranged. It’s work and, until I know differently, it’s all still going ahead. So yes, I’ll go.”

“If you’re sure?”

“Never ask me if I’m sure. I’m not sure about anything anymore.”

Standing in the changing room in The Dressing Room I looked at the bride in front of me. My hair hung loosely around my face, still windswept from the walk on the beach with Grace. My make-up was scant, only barely covering the excesses of the night before. I could most definitely do with a light smattering of spray tan before the proposed photo shoot. My eyes looked tired, bloodshot even. But the dress was beautiful – very chic. Kitty had outdone herself once again – handing me a dress almost as elegant and flattering as the one I had chosen for myself but different enough so that it gave no clues to as to my actual gown. The lace-covered dress, with delicate lace-capped sleeves and a satin sash under the bust, was beautiful. It clung in all the right places and it would look amazing in the pictures. Liam had been more than happy with the setting on the city walls and the shop for the pictures. We talked about bringing a few props onto the walls, and trying to convince the tourists to stay back for a bit. Liam had wandered out with his light gauges making all sorts of frames with his fingers while Kitty and I had looked on. She seemed distracted and I most certainly was distracted.The whole experience felt a little surreal – Liam with his imaginary cameras, Kitty looking on a little bewildered. Rose was smiling and, if I wasn’t mistaken, flirting just a little bit with Liam as Kitty and I looked on.

“Is she always like that?” I asked.

“What, nuts?” Kitty laughed. “Yes. She kind of is.”

I watched her pose in front of Liam in more and more theatrical and provocative poses and I laughed. “I’d best tell Liam to get his coat,” I laughed. “I’d say he’s pulled.”

Kitty laughed uproariously. “I don’t think my dad would be too happy about that. She’s married to him.”

“She’s not your mum, is she?” I asked in shock, which caused Kitty to laugh more.

“Now there’s a story and a half.It’s the kind of story I could sell to one of those real-life magazines and make myself a few quid. Rose is my step-mum. I could tell you about my actual mum but it would make your eyes water.”

She laughed as she spoke but her eyes were a little dull. Not for the first time I felt like giving her a hug. That would be entirely inappropriate so I settled for a quick roll of the eyes and a “Families, eh?” which made me feel like a total plonker.

“Yes, well. It’s not what today is about, so why don’t we go inside and try that dress on you. It’s not as gorgeous as your actual dress, of course, but beautiful all the same. You must be getting excited now?”

I smiled. “What’s that you were saying? I could tell you the full story but it would make your eyes water?”

“One of those days all round then?” she said, putting her arm around me and guiding me down the stone steps and back through the purple doors of The Dressing Room.

And so I stood there in the dress that was not mine, looking at a face that did not look like a happy bride to me.

“Can you pass my bag in, please?” I called to Kitty who was outside the curtain.

She did as I asked without asking what I was at, and I delved in my bag and pulled out my phone and called Paddy. I prayed he would answer – but not even a little bit of me was sure that he would. “Please,” I whispered to the phone and to my reflection in the mirror, “Please answer.”

My heart leapt when I heard his voice. He couldn’t have been that angry. He had answered the phone. That had to mean something.

“Paddy,” I started, “I’m standing here, in a wedding dress, not knowing what the hell is happening with us anymore. Please, can we talk? Cards on the table, no bullshit talk? Because I swear to you nothing happened with Ian last night. And I know I was a stupid bitch and didn’t tell you I was meeting him but that was the only mistake I made. I swear.”

He didn’t answer immediately and I swear to God my own heart stopped, waiting for his response.

“Just come home, Erin. Come home and we will talk.”

“I’ll be there soon,” I said, hanging up and putting my phone back in my bag.

I pulled open the curtain to where Kitty was standing, inspecting a pair of shoes and trying to pretend she hadn’t heard a word of what I had just said.

“The dress is perfect,” I said. “It will be stunning on the day. But I have to go – so if you could help me out of itthat would be perfect.”

“Of course,” she said, and as she unzipped me I wondered what on earth she made of me. Every visit to her showroom had involved some level of high drama or other – she probably thought I was a complete nutcase. Then again, at the moment I did feel like a complete nutcase.

“I’m not usually this flighty or emotional,” I offered as she took the dress from me to hang it up.

“Don’t worry. I’m not usually this distracted and bitter.”

“Shit happens?” I smiled.

“It certainly does,” she smiled back. “But for what it’s worth, and what little I know, I think things will be okay for you.”

“Thank you,” I smiled. “And for you? Will it be okay for you?”

“The jury is still very much out on that one, but one way or the other I’m sure it will be.”

I didn’t care if it was professional or not, but I reached out and hugged her and thanked her for being lovely. Then I set out, my heart in my mouth, knowing that the next few hours would change my life one way or the other.

Chapter thirty-three

Kitty

I found myself arriving in Starbucks in the knowledge that Ivy was ensconced in a corner somewhere.

The ridiculousness of the entire situation at least lifted some of the tension. I still wasn’t sure how I was going to approach it. James had been a great support to me in recent weeks and a friend to me over a number of years. I didn’t want to flat out trample all over his heart – but I didn’t want him thinking it was okay to have free and easy access to my knicker drawer or to bombard me with texts or phone calls. I should have realised how he felt – to be honest, Ihad done and it was flattering when my heart was in smithereens. I felt sick as I walked through the door, carrying his jacket in a big shopping-bag.

He smiled at me as I walked inand stood, his arms outstretched as if we were long-lost lovers reunited over a Grande Latte and a gingerbread man. I smiled, too, probably more than a little stiffly, and hugged him briefly and awkwardly with as little bodily contact as I could muster.

“James,” I said as I sat down.I reached over and put the shopping-bag down at his feet.

He glanced into it. “Oh. You shouldn’t have bothered,” he said. “I would have picked it up next time.”

I didn’t know how to respond to that so I said nothing.

He was staring at me – properly taking in every single inch of my face as if it were the most precious thing in the world to him. Had he always looked at me that way? I didn’t know if he had. Or if I had been too blind to notice? It seemed very ridiculous. After all, this was James – the man who had grown up alongside the man I considered, until recently at least, to be the love of my life. We had done everything together – surely I would have noticed this before?

“I’ve missed you,” he said and I felt myself squirm more than a little. I was going to destroy him and all he had done was be there for me and love me. It wasn’t his fault I was still in love with Mark and that I didn’t love him back.

“James,” I interrupted him, thinking it was kinder to stop him before he got into full swing. “Please . . . look, we need to talk. This, it has to stop.”

He looked around him and back at me, confusion plastered all over his face and I felt like a Grade A bitch.

“This?” he asked, his eyebrows raised.

“Yes. James . . . it’s too much. The flowers, the texts, the . . . visiting . . . the taking our wedding picture.”

He blushed, ran his hand through his hair and shifted in his seat. “I didn’t take the picture – of course not – I just put it in a drawer. I thought it was upsetting for you to be looking at it all the time. And I came to the house because I wanted to see you – I was hoping you’d be there. So I waited a little but when you didn’t turn up, I left.”

His eyes were so pleading, there was such love in them and I knew I had to just tell him – to say it fast, like ripping off a plaster.

“I’m so sorry if I led you on, James. I’m so sorry if I gave you the impression this could be more than it was.”

“If you led me on?” he asked, his eyes darkening.

“Yes,” I said, squirming in my seat. “You must have known. All this stuff with Mark. It’s not over – it’s so up in the air and I may have given you the wrong signals and I can only apologise for that, with all my heart.”

“All your heart,” he sniffed, sitting back in his seat and stirring his coffee while he tried to gather his thoughts.

I waited.

He leaned forward and stared directly into my eyes. “There is no ‘may have given me the wrong signals’ about it, Kitty,” he said, his voiced wounded. “You did give me the wrong signals. You slept with me, Kitty!” His voice was hoarse and angry. “You let me come round to your house every night and be with you, to comfort you, cook for you, hug you when you cried and then you took me to bed. I don’t see how that may have been the wrong signals.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, tears pricking my eyes. “This is just a mess. And Mark – I don’t know how I feel about what’s happened.”

“You don’t know how to feel about himrunning off and leaving you and sleeping with someone else?” he sneered and I felt as if I had been slapped in the face.

“We’remarried, James, and even though it’s overit’s complicated. What do we do now, where we go from here? All of it is just confusing and messy and I don’t have space for someone else right now.” I felt a tear run down my cheek, which by now was blazing from shame. How could I have got it so wrong?

“You had space for me in your bed,” he said a little too loudly, causing a few heads to turn. “You can’t really be thinking about going back to him?”

“When did I say that? I didn’t say that. All I said was that it was complicated and I don’t know who I am any more so perhaps it’s not the best time to throw myself headlong into something else.”

“So you want to throw yourself in but you are holding back?” There was a faint smile on his face which didn’t quite distract from the look of increasing desperation in his eyes.

“No.” I shook my head, not wanting to hurt him but not wanting to lead him on either. “I don’t know what I want. But this, you, it’s too much, James. You sending flowers and texts and coming to my house. It’s too much.”

“I’ll back off,” he said and I sagged with relief. “We’ll slow things down. I’ll cool it with the flowers and the texts, but Christ this is the first time I’ve had a woman ask me not to send flowers and texts.”

The tension that had drained from me just moments before jumped right back in, hunching my shoulders and making my neck seize up. I had to make this as clean a break as possible. I couldn’t give him any ideas that this would go anywhere. It wouldn’t. It couldn’t.

“This isn’t about slowing down,” I said, trying to stay calm, aware of the public setting. “James, it just isn’t right. It can’t go anywhere. I’m sorry.”

He sat back and sucked air in through his teeth, pulling his hair back from his face and looking at me. I waited for him to talk, for a response of sorts, but he just stared. Then slowly, carefully, in a measured manner, he started to shake his head and he started to laugh. It wasn’t a nice laugh. It made me feel uneasy and I felt the tension in my body ramp up another notch.

“You are some craic, Kitty Shanahan,” he said. “Leading me on. Inviting me to your house – I was good when you needed someone to talk to, someone to hold your hand, someone to sleep with. But, Christ, then you just walk out!” He was spitting the words out, his eyes like flints, hisfist clenched. I could see the spittle gather in the corner of his mouth and it made me feel sick to my stomach. His voice was loud and I was sure I heard someone tutting behind us and I felt my face blaze and tears spring to my eyes. I knew he was hurting but, Christ, this was a public place. This was vitriol. This was not fair.

“James,” I said, “Please . . . I’m sorry.”

He shook his head and pushed his coffee cup away from him. I wasn’t entirely sure he wasn’t just going to throw it over me. “I don’t know what I ever saw in you – no wonder he left. He should have run faster.”

My face was now blazing, and there was a slight buzzing in my ears. There was no doubt now that we were being watched – that people were drinking in this soap opera playing out in front of them. “You think you are just so amazing!” he spat. “You and your fancy shop – but you’ve nothing really, Kitty. You are nothing.”

I tried to find words to bite back. I really did. I tried to find some way to jump in and defend myself but I was so utterly floored by his anger – by his vicious words. I looked at him, trying to find some trace of the person I had known over the last weeks. I wondered where Ivy was – what she was making of it – why she wasn’t jumping in – and I wanted to turn to find her but I was afraid to look around, afraid it would draw more attention to me. I opened my mouth to speak – hoping the words would find a way out. Hoping I could quiet him in some way. I hoped but he just looked at me, goading me with his eyes and he came as close as he could to my face.

“Nothing,” he said and I closed my eyes to escape his stare.

“That’s enough!” a gruff voice spoke above me.

It was my father.I don’t know where he had come from, but I was glad he was there. So glad – and yet so completely humiliated. How much had he heard? That I had slept with James?

“No one speaks to my daughter like that. No one should speak to any human being like that. So you, you leave. And you don’t come near her again. You don’t call. You don’t text. You don’t wander past the shop. You sure as hell don’t try and come anywhere near her house. You leave now – and you go home and hopefully realise what a complete arsehole you have been and you learn to speak to people with more respect and treat them with more respect.”

James looked at my father, who had remained calm and even-toned the entire time he had been speaking. Then he looked at me and rolled his eyes before getting up and stalking away, leaving the wretched jacket in its shopping-bag behind him.

I could feel every part of me shaking.

“Thank you, Daddy,” I muttered,relieved beyond measure that he had been there to put an end to this horrible confrontation.

He sat down beside me and hugged me briefly.

“Ivy called me. She said you might need back-up. I didn’t want to interfere, but I wasn’t going to let him talk to you like that.”

I nodded gratefully and hastily wiped the tears from my eyes.

“Let’s go, Kit,” he whispered and I let him lead me outside, aware that Ivy was following us.

It was only when I got to my car and sat in that I stopped shaking. Ivy came to my window and said she would go and leave Daddy and me to have a chat. She gave me an awkward hug through the window and left.

My father got into the passenger seat and held my hand. “All this – it will pass. And one day you will probably laugh about it – hard as that may be to believe now. I know when your mother left I fell apart. But you know that anyway, Kit. You were there to help pick me back up again, you and Ivy. I’m sorry I put you through that,” he said softly. “I should have been stronger . . .”

“You were plenty strong,” I said, squeezing his hand. “We were all as strong as we could have been. In fairness, I don’t think I did much picking up. That was Ivy. You were much stronger than I am now. I’m here blundering about like a headless chicken – not knowing what to do, who to trust.”

“You can trust me,” he said, “and your sister, and Rose . . .”

“Now Mum wants me to go to her wedding but I just can’t.”

He squeezed my hand again. “The thing is, Kitty, your mum, she’s not a bad person. I thought she was for a long time. I couldn’t understand it – how one day she could wake up and just leave – just decide she wasn’t in love with me anymore.” He blushed slightly. “But more than that I couldn’t understand how she could leave you and Ivy. That destroyed me more than anything – having to tell you. Having to watch you try and come to terms with that. But, you know, pet, over the years that followed I realised she hadn’t been happy. She hadn’t been the person she once was and she needed to go – and we’re better for it. So much better for it. Sure don’t I have two daughters who would lay down their lives for me?Sometimes things change and it’s a very hard lesson to learn. Believe me. But in the end . . .”

“I want to believe that,” I said. “I’m trying really hard to be positive and to try and understand where it all went wrong. Did you really not know it was going wrong with Mum? Was it wrong for a while and you were protecting us? It seemed like you were happy.”

He shrugged his shoulders. “At the time I didn’t think there had been any signs, but in hindsight she hadn’t been herself. It was hard for her to leave though. She does love you.”

“I don’t think Mum really loves anyone but herself,” I said sadly. “I’d like to say that she does. That she hasgrown up. And I think she tries, but inherently she is just a selfish person. She will always put herself first.”

“Some people are like that,” he said. “But Kitty, that is about them. It’s not about you. It’s not a reflection of who you are. You are one amazing young woman.”

“As my father you are morally obliged to say such things,” I said, wiping a tear away from my eye.

“Girl, I would tell you if you were a pain,” he said softly, laughing. “The biggest lesson you will learn in this life is that you cannot, no matter how much you want to, control another person’s actions. You can’t be master of whatever is going on in their heads. All you can do – all you do do – is to be the best person you can be and be true to yourself. If that’s not enough for Mark, or whoever, then it will be more than enough for someone else.”

We hugged then, there in the car, uncomfortably and awkwardly, but it was still one of the nicest hugs I had ever received in my life.

“You hold your head up high, my girl,” he said as we drove off to myhome – ready for some tea and biscuits or something a little stronger.

What we weren’t expecting when we arrived was to find a rather desolate-looking Mark sitting on the front step, his head in his hands.

Chapter thirty-four

Erin

“I understand,” Paddy said as I walked in the door. “I get it.”

“Get what?”

He looked wretched. Not, you know, cancer-wretched but devastated, heartbroken wretched. The kind of wretched I had felt when Ian had upped and left me to pick up whatever shreds of dignity I had left and try and piece them back together. It made me feel sick to think that I had done this to him. Even though I hadn’t. Even though nothing had happened.

“Just give me a week – you know, to get organised. Get my stuff together. I’ll do all the cancellations and things. We both know weddings aren’t really your thing.”

He flashed a pitiful look at me as the words buzzed around my head and my brain, although well aware that things were very bad indeed between us, tried to make sense of what exactly he was saying.

“Paddy . . . I don’t . . . you have to listen.” I felt my heartbeat quicken. In the last few months I had been so terrified of losing him to cancer I hadn’t realised I was hurtling towards losing him, no matter what. That he could leave, by his own choice. Because of me. Because I had stupidly met with stupid Ian and stupidly ruined it all.

“We can’t go on like this,” he said.

“Nothing happened.Nothing happened at all. We just met and had dinner and I should have told you and I don’t even understand why I didn’t tell you. But nothing happened. You are the one for me.I just freaked out.” I flopped onto the sofa and put my head in my hands.

Sitting down beside me, he took my hands and I held on to them, tightly. I didn’t want to let go. I didn’t want to even think about letting go because I was so afraid that I wouldn’t get to hold them again. The fear in the hospital, the day he was rushed in, that was one thing – this felt more real, more immediate and scary as hell.

“It’s been scary, Paddy – and when Ian got in touch, I just had to see him.”

Paddy’s face paled.

“But it’s not what you think. I just wanted to try and make sense of it all – to have closure for what we had been through and to allow me to move on. I wanted to be able to walk down the aisle with all our ghosts put to rest.”

“Our ghosts aren’t at rest,” he said, his hand squeezing mine again and I held on tight. “It’s not just last night.I’ve lived the last few months wondering – probably knowing, if the truth be told – if the only reason you agreed to marry me was because I had cancer.”

I shook my head, lifting his hand and kissing it. He pulled his hand away and continued talking.

“I’ve lived knowing that you could wake up one morning and realised this was too much responsibility for one person and just decide to clear off. And I would have to be the bigger person – you know the cancer sufferer who says ‘Go on and live your life, have those things I can’t give you with someone else. Don’t let me hold you back.’ Because, Erin, I know I am holding you back.”

“You’re not holding me back!” I said, my eyes trying to find his and my heart starting to crack.

“I’ve changed you, from the vibrant, confident, carefree, gorgeous woman I fell in love with to someone who has to worry about me, who has to remind me to take pills, who has mopped up my sick and held me while I shook and shivered with the side effects of chemotherapy. I put you in the position where you came home and found me looking half-dead in bed and I’ve done that to you and I can’t undo it.”

My heart cracked a little more. “Please Paddy, it’s not like that.”

“I’ve thought about this a lot, Erin, you have to let me finish. I want to undo the harm I’ve done, but I can’t.”

“You can.”

He shook his head. “And when this is done, if this is done, it’s always going to be there. Isn’t it? I mean, when we go to have a family, it’s possible we’ll have to get doctors involved. The chemo, we know the damage it may have done . . . well, the doctors say it’s often temporary, but . . .I have taken away so much from you, Erin, and all I ever wanted was to give you the moon. Not a ruddy sperm ice lolly and an intimate date with the fertility doctor. So if I have pushed, if I have put on a stupid, happy, smiley, wedding-obsessed face it was because I was trying to convince myself and you that this was all normal. That we were doing this for all the right reasons. That you, Erin Brannigan, the love of my life, were doing this for the right reason.”

I was sobbing now – trying to find the words to make this better but feeling my cracking, shattering, shredded heart sink further and further.

“You think I haven’t seen you struggle? You think I haven’t seen you pull a face when Fiona talks all things reception-related. Or that I haven’t seen that look on your face, that panic-stricken moment of horror when a doctor walks into the room? And you think that I’ve not seen how you look at me – like I’m a wounded puppy. No man wants to be looked at like he’s a wounded puppy, Erin. No man. The doctors took away a testicle and I was okay with that but I look at you and see the life I had wanted slipping away from me bit by bit by bit and that scares me more than cancer. I’m losing you.”

“No,” I sobbed.

“You don’t even realise it yet, not really. But I’m losing you and for a while now I’ve been trying to hang on but the thing is, Erin, and this breaks my heart into a million pieces to admit, you can’t hold onto something that doesn’t want to be held onto. And there you are again, with that wounded-puppy-dog look. So here we are. I admit defeat. I admit that I’ve lost and that’s the price I’ve had to pay for getting through this cancer.”

I didn’t know how to look at him. I didn’t know how to find the words to tell him that I loved him, that he hadn’t lost me. Yes, I was scared. I was so unbelievably shit-scared it made me sick to the very core of my stomach and that wasn’t something we had ever talked about. We had never allowed ourselves to admit to each other just how scared we were because that would make it real. Neither of us wanted it to be real – not even a little bit.

It was a bastard because I should have been able to tell him all that – and he needed me to speak then. He needed me to speak without so much as a moment’s hesitation but I couldn’t. Because there was a part of him that was right. Of course our relationship had changed. How could we ever have been so naïve as to think that it wouldn’t or couldn’t or that it would make us stronger? What a pile of sanctimonious bullshit claptrap.

He looked at me and I looked at him. I knew I could tell him how I loved him, how I desperately, desperately loved the very bones of him but I knew that I couldn’t make his fears go away with just words. I couldn’t make it go away no matter how hard I tried.

“I don’t know what to say,” I sobbed. “I don’t know how to make you believe me . . .”

“You can’t say we didn’t try,” he said, sadly. “We did try.”

“I’m not ready to stop trying!”

“I’m not sure you have a choice.”

I looked at him, trying to see some trace of something – anything – which would lead me to believe he didn’t really mean what he was saying. That this was just some mad blip to add to the list of blips we’d had over the last few months.

“We have choices,” I said, sniffing loudly, trying to recover my composure. “We have choices, Paddy. You know that. You can’t give up on me. You know, you know I love you. I will marry you.”

“Erin,” he said, looking at me, his eyes taking on a steely glare, “I don’t want you to marry me for this – because of this. And can you tell me, really and truly, that you didn’t say yes primarily because I had this illness hanging over my head?”

“I do love you,” I said, pleading with him.

“I know . . . I know . . .” he said, breaking down, the tears flowing freely, making my heart finally shatter into a million pieces. “I know you love me but I’m not sure it’s enough. I’m not sure I’m the best person for you. You have been hurt before and the thing is, Erin, I can’t promise that I won’t hurt you again. I can’t be the person you want me to be . . .”

He stood up and I grabbed at his hand, trying to haul him back to me – pulling him towards me, the sob which had been building escaping and mingling with the sob that had just broken free from his throat. He shrugged me off, walking away, lifting his coat and walking out of our house and I knew this time that he wasn’t coming back. He was right, I thought, as my world crumpled around my ears. You can’t hold onto something which doesn’t want to be held on to – no matter how hard you try and no matter how fierce your grip.

I crumpled then, folded in half almost, or maybe in thirds, or maybe even in quarters on the floor. I crumpled as I realised I had never known loss or pain before – not compared to this. It was physical – excruciating – ripping through every cell in my body and I felt my body, from the end of my hair to the tips of my toes ache and scream out.

I loved him. God I loved him – and I had lost him. Jesus, I had lost him by agreeing to marry him – by standing by his side through this cancer. Through being human and having doubts. Through, it dawned on me horribly and painfully, doing things wrong.

And I simply did not know where to go from here. I had no clue – no notion at all.

Chapter thirty-five

Kitty

“You don’t have to talk to him if you don’t want to,” my daddy said as I sat frozen in the car, unsure of what to do.

I shook my head, then shrugged my shoulders, looking like I had some kind of weird nervous tick. “I don’t know . . .” My fragile heart was telling me to run to him, to hug him and make him feel better. He looked awful – just awful. My gut – the part that had already started building up really high, really strong and really quite impenetrable walls since his departure wanted to turn the car around and drive away, just leaving him there to have whatever new mid-life crisis he was having. I’d been on the receiving end of it already – I had no desire to have my heart trampled on any more.

“I don’t know,” I repeated. “I don’t know what to do.”

“What feels right?” Daddy asked, taking my hand.

“Nothing,” I said slowly. “At the moment nothing, no matter how I try.”

“Whatever the outcome may be, you and him, you need to talk at some stage. But it doesn’t have to be tonight, pet.You’ve had a tough enough day. But, believe me, avoiding it doesn’t make it go away.”

“I know,” I said, squeezing his hand. “I need to. I need to be a grown-up about it, don’t I? I can’t run from it.”

“No, but there’s no shame in putting it on pause for a day or two.”

“I’m stronger than that, Daddy.I can do it. I can really do it.”

And there and then it was clear to me – to move on – to really move on I had to face him. It was one thing taking off my wedding ring. It was another thing changing the locks. It was another thing completely and altogether to tell James I needed a break from him and the time to find myself. But the one thing I knew I would have to do, to really break free, was to hear my husband tell me why I wasn’t good enough for him, why we didn’t work and why he needed to not be with me. Even if it would hurt and even if I thought my heart couldn’t break any more.

I let go of my father’s hand and stepped out of the car. I walked towards the man who had been my heart and soul – my everything – and steeled myself for the final break in what had been the biggest, and greatest, love affair of my life.

Mark Shanahan had captured my heart the very first time we had met. We had shared our very own Jerry Maguire moment that day, except he hadn’t had me at hello, he had me at “Excuse me,” as he brushed past, arms laden with drinks in a busy bar. He had spilled some Guinness on my far too expensive shoes and I had called him a bollocks even though, really, I didn’t mind as it gave us chance to talk. I just knew, you see, in the way you know – the way you know someone is meant for you.

He was gorgeous. Dark-haired, lean, tall – well, taller than me anyway. He had dark, deep eyes, a smile that was as a wide as it was gleaming. He had a keen business head – was there by my side when The Dressing Room opened, offering what advice he could. He had a wicked sense of humour, a quick-wittedness that could make me laugh so hard that my ribs would ache and I would beg him to stop. He was, without doubt, the best kisser I had ever encountered. And we had never stopped kissing – properly kissing. We weren’t one of those couples who had at some stage started just pecking each other on the cheek or simply avoiding any physical contact. We had kissed – properly kissed – at least once a day and there was not a single day where I felt as if we were going through the motions, where it didn’t feel real or it felt wrong. It felt right – we felt right. He was the one. He had been the one, always.

He followed me into the house, sheepishly, knowing perhaps that he wasn’t meant to be there anymore. This may well have been his house – his name was still on the deeds – but this was not his home. He stood awkwardly in the hall – not wandering straight to the kitchen as he would have done. Not slumping on the sofa in the living room, kicking off his trainers and switching on Sky Sports. There was no grabbing me in the hall and leading me upstairs to our bedroom. He just stood behind me, his head stooped. I turned and looked at him and heard a strange noise come from his throat. It took a few seconds to realise he was crying – his shoulders shaking, his body tense. It winded me – I had never seen Mark cry like that before. Not even at his own father’s funeral when he had insisted on doing the great stiff-upper-lip routine and had ended up comforting me as I sobbed at the graveside. I stood, watching him shake, his body judder, listening to the strange sounds from his throat, fighting the physical urge to either hug him or hit him. How could he stand here in front of me now, crying? He had been the one who ruined it. He had been the one who had walked – no, actually, run at the speed of light – away. He was the one who had slept with someone else when we were still married. When he was still coming home to me and kissing me every day like he meant it. My head started to hurt and I just wanted to make it stop. I squeezed at my temples, felt my arms twitch, not sure what to do or what to say. I decided just to wait until he spoke – wait to see where he was coming from. By now he was hugging his arms – a pose I realised I was now copying. Hugging ourselves and not each other – me feeling pathetically useless and powerless.

“Sit down, Mark,” I said, thinking he might feel a bit better at least if he was seated comfortably in his misery. He led the way into the living room – instinctively walking to his favourite seat and sitting down. I sat across from him, listening to him sniff and snivel.

“I’m so, so sorry, Kitty. I’m so sorry I ruined it all.”

Did he expect me to say it was okay? There was a part of me that wanted to. But a bigger part of me knew that he was right. It had been ruined. So I nodded, sitting forward and wringing my hands, noticing he was wringing his too. I waited for him to say more. He didn’t. He just sat there, staring at his hands, glancing at me. Maybe he was waiting for me to make it all better – good old Kitty.

“I can’t believe I was so stupid,” he said eventually.

“I can’t believe you were so stupid either,” I replied.

“I didn’t mean for things to get so out of control,” he said. “I didn’t want to hurt you. I would never hurt you . . .”

I snorted. Was I really supposed to believe that he didn’t think his actions would hurt me?How could he? “You walked out, Mark. You went away to ‘find yourself’ – you didn’t talk, you didn’t call, you didn’t care a damn whatI was going through.”

“I didn’t know what to say. I knew, I knew as soon as I left that I had made the biggest mistake of my life. I knew I had messed everything up – handled everything so badly. And I knew I had lost you.”

“You didn’t lose me. You threw me away. You made those choices, Mark, and yet you’re here now – crying and looking miserable and none of this makes sense.”

“I only came to pick up the new key,” he said, with a very weak smile. “But when I got here, it hit me. Everything that I’d lost.”

“You say you lost it like you just casually misplaced it or something.”

“Okay,” he said, sitting back. “Everything I threw away. Everything I arsed up and destroyed. Does that make you feel better? Would me throwing myself at your feet or self-flagellating make you feel better?” His voice was sharp and horrid.

“No! Funnily enough there’s not a whole lot between me and you at the moment which would make me feel better. I appreciate you have apologised – that is a definite step up from twee letters about things being wrong for a long time. Things weren’t wrong for me, Mark. I had no warning – and I phoned your work to find you not there – you having walked out. And then came home to find you not here – and a letter. A bloody letter, throwing away whatever we had . . .”

“I didn’t walk out of work,” he said, cutting me off mid-rant. “I didn’t just pack it in, Kitty. They didn’t give me any choice in the end.”

I looked at him blankly. They didn’t give him a choice.

He sat forward – his head in his hands again. “They fired me. Said I wasn’t getting the results I once had. Said they needed to downsize.”

“They can’t just do that – just fire you?” I said, my brain spinning. Fired? Mark had been fired – Mark who loved his job and worked damn hard. Mark, who had left me a letter telling me he had left his job. This didn’t make sense – none of it.

“Things hadn’t been right for a while. I’d had a few warnings – falling targets, missed sales pitches. They would have done whatever they could to get rid of me in the end – anything to save them a redundancy package.”

“You didn’t tell me . . . any of this . . .”

He snorted. “I couldn’t, Kitty. My pride was in shreds – and there was your business booming despite the recession and I was sinking like a stone. I thought I would turn it around – that the next month would be better. I wanted it to be better – I wanted to give you what you wanted – security, the baby we wanted.”

My heart lurched at the mention of the baby we had wanted. The baby we wouldn’t have. Tears pricked at my eyes but I was determined not to let them fall.

“It just got too much,” he said, his eyes pleading, and I tried to imagine what it must have been like for him – to have his world fall apart and think he couldn’t talk to me about it. We must have been more broken than I thought.

“I would have helped,” I muttered. “We would have managed.”

“I didn’t want to ‘manage’. I wanted to make you happy.”

I couldn’t help but laugh – a weird, strangulated laugh. “Well, well done on that score. I’ve never been happier. Tell me this, Mark, were you thinking of happiness when you were sleeping around at work too?”

“What?” He jolted upright.

“When you were sleeping around. At work. Before or after your verbal warnings – I’m not sure.”

“Kitty, what are you talking about?”

“Sex, it would seem. You know – that thing we used to do together and which traditionally, once you are married, you only do with your partner?”

“I didn’t have sex with anyone else,” he said.

“Did it not get that far?” I asked. “Was it only, you know, third base or whatever?”

“Kitty, you have lost the run of yourself.”

“You are one to talk, Mark!”

“I didn’t sleep with anyone else. I didn’t get to third base with anyone else, or second base, or first base for that matter. There is no ‘someone else’. I haven’t the first notion what you are talking about.”

“James told me. He told me you told him.”

“James? What?” He looked genuinely confused – genuinely thrown. There was not a hint of guilt, of back-peddling, of covering up in his demeanour.

“James told me. He said you had spoken when you came back from wherever it was you had run off to.”

Mark shook his head. “He told you that? Why would he tell you that? I didn’t . . . I never did . . .”

“He told me. He told me that there was someone and that you always had your doubts about me.” Saying the words brought the tears I had been hiding flooding forward.

“He wouldn’t do that. He’s my best friend. Why would he lie?”

I felt my stomach lurch. I thought of the big mistake I had made myself – the mistake I’d made with James who, if Mark was to believed, had been lying to me. James who, just a short while before I had been feeling so very sorry for. James who had made me feel guilty – but who had reacted with such anger when I told him I didn’t love him. Had we been pawns in his game? The thought winded me. I needed air – the room was starting to spin around me – so I got up and walked to the garden, not sure if Mark would follow me and not sure if I wanted him to. Where on earth did we go from here? It had been shattered – everything we had. If only he had told me – if only I had known. If only I hadn’t been so quick to trust James – to let him in. Christ, this was unbearable. If he was telling me the truth, it was me who had cheated. And if that was the case how on earth did I tell him?

I felt him behind me and felt him gingerly put his arms around me, clasping my hands and pulling me close.

“I messed up,” he repeated. “But I never stopped loving you. I’m sorry I said I did. I thought if I put enough distance between us, it would be okay – that I could move away. But I realised I couldn’t do that. I couldn’t just let you go. I don’t know what James is playing at – I just don’t understand, but please believe me.”

My heart, which I thought had been bruised and battered enough, lurched again.

“You shouldn’t have,” I said, still staring away from him. “You should have told me. Oh Mark . . .you don’t realise. I thought you were gone. I thought you had never really loved me – that you had been sleeping with someone in work – that you had been lying to me for months, for years even. And James . . . he was there. He was pushing his way in, filling my head with stories of how you didn’t care. I slept with him, Mark. Just once and I regretted it the minute it happened and I don’t want anything to do with him – even before now, even before knowing he was lying and I’m so sorry, so very sorry.”

His grip loosened and he turned and walked away. I stood in the garden and heard him storm through the house.

He turned to look at me just before he left, his eyes blazing: “I never, ever had doubts about you. Never for one second. And I swear to you on my life that I never so much as looked at another woman, never mind kissed another woman. I just messed up, Kit. I just couldn’t bear to let you down – and I was stupid and in some weird, horrible place and I needed space and some stupid part of me thought it would make it easier if I said I just had to go. If I had known, what would happen, what he was doing . . . The bastard.”

I listened as the front door slammed and his car door slammed, his engine turned on and he sped away and then I sat down, numb and exhausted. I sat there in the garden for a long time –I’m not sure how long exactly but the sun was starting to fade when I went in, and then resumed my sitting position on the sofa, staring into space and not knowing what the hell had just happened.I lifted my phone and texted James. Why did you lie about Mark? I typed and hit send, even though I already knew the answer.

Because I needed you more than he did, he replied and it all felt so horribly real and horribly wrong.

I woke on the sofa just as the sun was starting to rise. I noticed Mark was sitting beside me and my heart leapt and then it sank. He was awake, looking at me, watching me. I was suddenly concerned that, God forbid,I might have been drooling or otherwise making a god-awful eejit of myself by snoring or the likes.

“Mark,” I stated, as if he didn’t know his own name.

“You look so peaceful when you sleep,” he said, “I used to love to watch you. I know you might think that is a little, you know, mental . . . but, God, when I watched you sleep I fell in love with you time and time and time again.”

My heart sank with the words ‘I used to’.

I sat up and looked at him. My eyes were still heavy with sleep. My heart still heavy with longing and with regret.

“I did this,” he said, “All of this. I should have known . . . I should have thought. James, he was always in love with you. I knew that. I just thought we were so strong that it never would be an issue. It never crossed my mind . . . That bastard.”

He looked away and I didn’t know where to put myself.James was at fault but maybe I was too. Maybe it was down to Mark. Poor, messed-up Mark. Poor messed-up me. Poor messed-up us.

“I loved you,” I said “I love you. I just thought you had given up on us.”

“I’m sorry,” he said again and I found myself reaching for his hands, revelling in feeling the warmth of his skin on mine. God, I had missed his touch. I missed how we fitted. And we were here, holding onto each other by the very tips of our fingers but wanting more.

“I’m so sorry too,” I said and pulled him into a hug – a hug that felt so right, but also felt sovery bittersweet.Where would we go, where could we go, from here?

Chapter thirty-six

Erin

What Becomes of the Broken Hearted?

I typed the title five times . . . and deleted it five times.

There clearly was not going to be any further ‘Countdown to the Big Day’ articles. Nope, they, like me, were on the scrap heap.But we couldn’t just leave it hanging there, Sinéadhad said. We needed to give our readers closure, she said. I had smiled weakly and nodded, noting the sympathetic expression from Grace who had come with me when I broke the bad news to Sinéad that her proposed advertising revenue was about to go down the pan.

“I know it would easy to walk away from it all now, Erin,” Sinéad said. “But you never know, you might find it cathartic and it might help others going through this to cope better.”

I wasn’t overly concerned about helping others cope better. I just wanted to get through this myself.

In the end he hadn’t taken a week to get his affairs in order. He had just gone, back to his mother’s house, picking up his belongings – or most of them – while I was at work. Two days after the big departure I had received an email from crazy Fiona the wedding planner to say she was very sorry to hear our wedding would not be going ahead and that she had enjoyed working with us – and of course she was there to meet any other grand big-function demands but that sadly our deposit was non-refundable.

That made it real. If he had been joking or messing or being a hysterical diva he would not have gone ahead and cancelled the wedding. I had forwarded the email to Jules, who had emailed back with a mixed, confused message about how he was a bollocks (a bad choice of words, I thought) and how she was so, so sorry and she had hoped it wouldn’t come to this and that her heart was breaking for me, and for Paddy.

Thus followed a series of emails from suppliers. The car hire company, the photographer, the florist. The cake-maker asked, bizarrely, if I still wanted the layer of cake which was traditional wedding cake as it had been made anyway. “It would be a shame to see it go to waste,” she said but I could think of nothing less appealing that sitting at home staring at the cake that should have been. And besides, I didn’t even like wedding cake.

Each email was a jolt. Sometimes I cursed at the screen and clicked delete as soon as I could. Sometimes I read the messages over and over, trying to get reality to sink in.

Two days had passed when Paddy had got in touch himself, also by email. I sat shaking at my desk, acutely aware that all around me things were going on as normal and I had, workwise at least, pretty much been burying my head in the sand and talking to no one.The great wedding-dress fashion shoot was looming and I couldn’t bring myself to tell anyone how awful that would be – until he sent me the email.

It was short and to the point.

I’ve done as much as I can. You need to sort out your wedding dress and all. I can’t believe it has ended like this but perhaps it is for the best, before either of us got hurt anymore.

I read the last sentence over and over and looked atthe engagement ring still on my finger and I couldn’t believe what I had thrown away . . . what we had thrown away.

Telling Grace had been easier than I thought. She allowed me to cry. She even offered to drive me back to the beach. She listened and soothed and never once said it was for the best, or that time would heal or any such cliché. She just allowed me to feel what I needed to feel in that moment without trying to make it better or rationalise it in some way. She did say we had been tested more in the last year than many couples are tested in a lifetime. I simply wondered if we had fallen at the first hurdle.

Telling Sinéad, well – that was an experience and I left with the instructions to write a final article. I didn’t absolutely one hundred per cent have to do it, she said, but I knew that what that really meant was I did absolutely and entirely have to do it. If I wanted to stay in her good books.

“Go home. Take the rest of the day off,” she said. “Think about it. You might grow to like the idea.”

Grace smiled sympathetically in my direction and also nodded at me to go on home. Given that I felt about as fragile as a china doll, I did not need telling again. I just went to my desk – closed down my computer to stop the arrival of any further gut-wrenching emails – and walked out to the car park. But before I could go home, there was one more thing I had to do.

The Dressing Room looked as stunning as it ever did. The sun was shining brightly, a gentle breeze causing the wisteria to sway. The brass door handles were gleaming, the sash windows sparkling. I thought of all the brides who walked in, filled with expectation, giddy with excitement or nerves or both. I wondered how many came back to fulfil the task I was about to. How many wedding dresses were left on the shelves, how many dreams came crashing down? Pushing open the door I saw Kitty standing at the cash desk, diligently filling in paperwork and singing along quietly to a song on the radio.

At the sight of Kitty, in the shop where I had faced my wedding-dress demons and found a dress I loved and which I knew Paddy would love me in, I felt any modicum of resolve not to cry again weaken.

She looked up to me and smiled, just in time for my façade to crumble entirely.

“I’m so sorry,” I mumbled. “It’s off. And I don’t need the dress. And I’m so sorry.”

Before my sentence was finished she was beside me, hugging me and ushering me upstairs,away from the public shop floor, and into the privacy of her office and workroom. Rose was there, but as soon as she saw me she nodded to Kitty and said she would go downstairs and keep an eye on things.

“It’s okay,” Kitty said.

“I’m so sorry,” I repeated – feeling that sorry was the only thing I needed to or could say. “I’m just so sorry.”

Kitty was wonderful. She assured me that I wasn’t the only bride who ever came to her with this sorry task. “It’s harder for you than it is for me,” she smiled. “Please feel no need to apologise to me.”

I thanked her and took her offer of a cup of tea, which I drank while trying to regain my composure. As I drank and she sat close to me, chatting idly, I noticed two tourists walk along the city walls. An elderly couple – American, I would guess by the baseball caps, rain coats and chinos – they stopped periodically to look from the ramparts over the city and each time they stopped, they stood side by side. He would place his arm around her shoulder and she would wrap her own arm around his waist and they would stand and chat for a while, before kissing each other gently, laughing and moving on.

“Do you think that’s the exception?” I asked her, nodding towards the Americans on the wall.

“What?” she asked.

“The happy ending? The happy ever after? The growing old with someone you love? You see a lot of romance here, Kitty – what do you think?”

She looked wistfully at the couple as they continued on their way, walking up towards St Columb’s Cathedral.

“Honestly? I think we don’t know anyone’s back story. We don’t know what they have been through to get to this point. We don’t know how any of our stories will turn out – but we have to trust our gut.”

“Do you trust your gut?”

She laughed. “My gut has led me up a few wrong paths lately. I think it was on the blink, but it’s telling me to give things a go – to try and make my own relationship work. I’m going to give my gut one last chance. What does your gut tell you?”

“That I don’t want this to be over,” I said, simply.

“Then give it one last throw of the dice,” she said.

What Becomes of the Broken Hearted?

Did you ever hear the story of the woman who was scared? The woman who was so scared of getting hurt that she ended up hurting herself more than she could have imagined.

It’s a pretty sad story. It doesn’t end well. It started with a kiss, and a relationship and a proposal which I knocked back. And another proposal that I knocked back. Because I was scared, you see. Of being hurt. Because I had been hurt before and even though I knew he was different – this new man in my life – I was afraid a wedding would break us.

In the end though – cancer broke us. Or I broke us. Or maybe a combination of both – or maybe a whole host of things.But as I write this, we are broken. The man I love and I have parted. Parted is such a nice word for what, essentially, is ahorrendous situation.

You see the man I love, he’s on this page, in this picture looking at me and smiling. I’m smiling, a wee bit gormlessly it has to be said, back at him. I see that picture, taken just weeks before everything went wrong and I can’t believe I’m even writing this. We are in love. You don’t look at someone like that if you are not head over heels in love with them.

So where did it go wrong? Was it the cancer diagnosis? Probably not. I think maybe it was because we assumed it wouldn’t change us. We decided early on we would be one of those sickeningly twee couples who were made so much stronger by the experience. I agreed, finally, to get married. I knew I couldn’t personally cure his cancer but I could do something to help. For a lot of people that would have been making chicken soup and reminding their loved one to take their meds – for me it was agreeing to the biggest, grandest day of our lives.

And we kept up this façade. Laughing in the face of cancer – mocking it in the way it had mocked us. We pretended we were fine. We adopted a keep calm and carryon mentality – showing no fear. We marched forward with our wedding plans, a big day, a big dress – champagne, party, tearful vows.

We stopped talking to each other about how we really felt. The relationship we had, where we could share every fear, every worry, every foible in each other’s life disappeared. We walked on eggshells. Afraid to talk, afraid to argue. At times we were afraid to touch each other – to laugh with each other. We were afraid to be honest with each other. The fear just won, every single day. And we thought we were okay because what was so wrong became what we were and we didn’t know how to get out of it.

In the end – if this is the end – we broke up. We parted (that awful word again). Did the fear win? Did the cancer win?

There are people out there, I know, who think putting your life out there for everyone to see is asking for trouble. But I’m here – and I have trouble anyway. My heart is broken – broken in a way that it never has been before. Because, despite all we have been through, all that we have been put through, I still love him. I love him so much that I’m prepared to take this chance knowing that I may fall flat on my face. Knowing that there might not be enough glue in the entire world to piece us back together again. But I can’t stop trying. Just because it gets hard. You can’t walk away. I’m done with being scared and I’m done with walking on eggshells. I am in love with a man I want to spend the rest of my days with. A man I want – need – to marry. A man who I know can make me laugh for the rest of our days, however long that may be.I want to walk the city walls with him – holding hands, smiling and chatting. I want to walk with him forever.

I’ve titled this article ‘What Becomes ofthe Broken Hearted?’ – I don’t have an answer yet. I don’t know what will become of us – but this is it. A throw of the dice – and a hope that things will work out.

I hit the save key, and then the print key. I walked to the printer, lifted out two copies of the article and walked into Grace’s office, placing one on her desk and then walking into Sinéad’s office and placing one on her desk. The cards were dealt now. I would just have to see how they fell.

Chapter thirty-seven

Kitty

Wedding season was all but done but we still had enough to keep us busy. Mostly, things had gone smoothly for us that summer – there had been relatively few crises (for the business, that is).

Today had the potential to be the biggest crisis of all though. My mother was marrying her beloved Charles. She was already near-hysterical with nerves when I arrived at her hotel room that morning with her dress and flowers.

“You came,” she squealed, delightedly. “I didn’t know if you would.”

“I had to bring the dress, Mum,” I said. “Of course I would be here.”

“And Ivy, is she coming?” My mother’s eyes were wide with anticipation at my response.

“Yes,” I nodded. “She’s coming to the ceremony anyway. She needs time, Mum. We all do.”

“It’s more than I could have hoped for,” she said, but now was the not the time to agree with her and tell her how precarious the situation was.

It had been Mark who had persuaded me to talk to her again. After that night – the night where he had come to the house – we had spent a lot of time talking. Entire days and nights of talking and trying to understand where we stood and what had happened. We knew it wasn’t going to be easy – we knew we would need to take it slowly. We decided to look into marriage counselling and we vowed to be honest with each other as much as we could. He was looking for work – had a few leads to go on. His confidence was dented but I knew he would get it back. As the walls we had put up started to crumble we began to talk about other things – I’d told him about my mother. Her return for her wedding, her hope for a big reunion.

“You don’t have to spend your whole life being angry at her,” he said. “She probably won’t change but can you accept her the way she is?”

So I said I would try. And Ivy said she would try and that made my father happy. And made my mother ecstatic.

So when we sat close to her and watched her exchange her vows, we knew we were finally building bridges. When she turned to us afterwards, walking hand in hand with Charles, who was grinning like a cat who got the cream, I knew I had made the right decision.And when Mark took my hand and led me outside, I knew I had made the right decision there too. I wasn’t expecting miracles from either of them –but I had more hope for the future and that was as good as anything. I was starting to believe in happy endings.

Chapter thirty-eight

Erin

It was always breezy at Grianán of Aileach. Despite the tall stone surrounds of the ancient Irish ring fort, the breeze always seemed to find a way to whistle in through the gates and dance around your legs. I’m sure someone somewhere has some big theory about it being the spirits of ancient Irish souls reminding you this is their land, or something, but to me it was just a place to be. A sanctuary, a calm place that reminded me that when the past was gone history could not be changed.

On that bright September afternoon, I stood in the centre of the fort, feeling the sun shine on my face. This felt right – this step, this moving on from where I had been felt so very right. Jules took my hand and squeezed it and I hugged her back.

“Careful,” she said, “You’ll squash your flowers.”

“It doesn’t matter a damn if they get squashed,” I said, looking at the simple bunch of lilacs in my hand.

“He’ll be blown away, and I’m not just talking about the breeze,” she said.

“I hope so, Jules.”

“Don’t worry, you look stunning,” Kitty said as she straightened the soft lace of my train and tucked a stray curl behind my ear. “This is the real you,” she said. “You look simply stunning.”

She kissed my cheek and went to stand with the other guests who had gathered. There were only ten of us in total. No crowd. No choirs. No huge floral arrangements. Just me in a simple lace gown from The Dressing Room with flowers in my hair and a small posy in my hand. I was wearing flat comfortable shoes under my dress to stop me sinking into the ground. There were no chairs. No fancy wedding cars had brought us to our destination. There was just this small crowd, a small canopy to protect us from the elements and a single harpist. The celebrant, a kind man with a warm smile and a wicked sense of humour, who had helped us embrace everything that was uniquely ‘us’ about this wedding, smiled at me as things got underway.

“He’s here,” Jules whispered and I turned to watch him walk through the gates. I know it was a break with tradition but I wanted him to walk to me – for me to be the one waiting for him, showing him that I would always be there for him.

The look on his face gave me all the reassurance I needed – and I felt myself stop shivering and shaking.He was here.

The article had caused a quite a stir in the media when it had gone to print. Every Tom, Dick and Harriet had wanted me to talk about laying my heart on the line so publicly. I had refused – saying I had said all that I needed to say and now, well, I would just have to wait to see how things went.

I hadn’t been expecting an immediate reaction so when publication day came and went I congratulated myself on having some fingernails left. I tried not to think about whether or not he had read the piece while fending off sympathetic glances from my colleagues who all jumped about as high as I did whenever my phone rang.

By the time I went home to lay staring at the phone before thankfully falling asleep, I was safe in the knowledge I had done all I could do.

When I woke in the morning I padded downstairs to find him in the kitchen, cooking breakfast with a fixed look of concentration on his face.

I stood there for a moment. I know this sounds beyond cheesy, but I wasn’t sure I wasn’t dreaming so I stood and watched as he cracked some eggs and started to mix them.

“You’re here,” I stated and he turned to look at me.

“I’m here,” he said, “And we’re going to win.”

I smiled and watched as he put the eggs down, walked towards me and kissed me. “We’re going to win,” he whispered in my ear as we hugged.

The wedding Take Two, as it became known – was always to be a simple affair. No flounces. No frills.Nothing that would attract undue attention. We kept it secret from all but those closest to us – this was about us and our future. Nothing else mattered.

As we joined hands, grinning like eejits in front of each other, the rain started to fall softly.

“They say it’s lucky if it rains on your wedding day,” I grinned at him, pulling him out from under the canopy and turning my head towards the heavens.

“I couldn’t be luckier,” he said.

If you enjoyed

What Becomes of the Broken Hearted? by Claire Allan

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If Only You Knew also published by Poolbeg?

Here’s a sneak preview of Chapter One

Chapter 1: If Only You Knew

Ava

Standing in the middle of the fresh-produce aisle in Tesco, Ava took a deep breath and hoped that God would grant her the strength to get all the way around to the tinned-goods aisle – and eventually through the check-out and on her way home – without losing her mind entirely.

Maisie had insisted she was much too big a girl for the trolley and was currently running rings round the carrots, flapping her wings behind her and declaring that she was a butterfly.A few people had smiled indulgently at the child as she twirled while a perfectly preened thirty-something had tutted loudly and muttered that children should be left at home if they couldn’t behave well in public.

Ava wanted to bite back with something witty and cutting but she was too busy trying to remember whether or not they needed onions, what it was Connor had asked her to pick up for him and whether or not she had locked up her classroom before leaving work for the day.

Instead, even though she knew it was childish, she pulled a face at Ms Perfect and took Maisie by the arm and tried to persuade her to help by selecting a few apples for their trolley. It was all going so well until Maisie belted off at lightning speed, reaching out one chubby little hand to the most precarious apple on the bottom of the pile and set off an avalanche ofPink Ladies which gave Ms Perfect the chance to do the very loudest tut in her repertoire before stepping over the apples and heading on her way. Ava felt like crying as she wrestled an indignant Maisie back into the trolley and set about picking the apples up and stocking them back in the display before anyone suggested she pay for the lot of them.

She would need a drink when she got home. A big, cold, alcoholic drink. In a big glass. Maybe one of those feckers which held an entire bottle.

Putting the last apple in place, she took a deep breath just as she heard Maisie squeal a momentous “Mammmeeeeee!” before toppling head first out of the trolley and landing with a scream on the floor.

A&E hadn’t been very busy, thankfully, and they had been whisked through triage and onto X-ray relatively quickly. Ava had been tempted to ask the doctors if there was any chance of some mildly mind-altering painkillers to help her escape from the headache which was building in her head and the coronary she had no doubt was building somewhere around her heart.

She had phoned Connor, while Maisie screamed blue murder in the background, and had tried to assure him it was okay and it was only a mild trolley-jumping accident and she was pretty sure no bones were broken in the process. She didn’t tell him that Maisie had saved herself from splitting her head open by breaking the fall with her hand. He had sigheddeeply, and said he would meet her at the hospital. The staff at Tesco had been more than lovely, bringing an icepack and telling her not to worry about abandoning her half-filled trolley but she had been mortified anyway. And worried, of course. Maisie’s wrist was starting to swell and bruise and she couldn’t be consoled. The dream of a glass of wine slipped further and further away. When the doctor returned to their cubicle and said the injury was no more than a bad sprain, which would require strapping and some pain relief, Ava felt herself finally sag with relief and tears sprang to her eyes.

Maisie looked up, now doped up on Calpol with her eyes drooping, and Ava felt like the worst mother in the world for feeling frustrated and angry at how the whole situation had developed. Maisie had just been overexcited after a day at nursery. She had been excited to see her mammy and had gone into hyper mode. She hadn’t been naughty – shewas just being a typical almost-three-year-old, but Ava hadn’t been in the form for it – not after a long week at work.Maybe if she had paid more attention this wouldn’t have happened. She would have to try harder. Guiltily, she tearfully kissed her daughter on the head and assured her she loved her all the way to the moon and back.

Eventually Connor popped his head around the curtain, looking equally as frazzled, tired and fecked-off as she felt.

“I drove as fast as I could,” he said, “but you know what it’s like trying to get out of Belfast at this time of the evening. Is she okay?”

“A bad sprain,” Ava said looking down at a now sleeping Maisie. “She’ll be fine. They’ve given her painkillers and are going to strap her wrist up.”

“Thank God,” he said, sitting down on the plastic chair beside his wife and sagging with relief.

Both of them eyed a trolley-bed opposite them and Ava wondered what it would be like to just climb under the harsh, starchy sheets and fall asleep. She could tell by the look in Connor’s eyes that he felt exactly the same.

“I’d fight you to the death for it,” she said, smiling at him and at the bed. And she was only half joking.

A few hours had passed and Maisie was sleeping in her mammy and daddy’s bed, her poor bandaged arm cradling her favourite stuffed bunny rabbit. She had thrown a minor fit at the very notion of sleeping in her own big-girl bed and, too tired to argue with her after all that the day had thrown at them, Ava and Connor had agreed and had tucked her in before returning to the living room to sit, nursing cups of tea and staring into space.

“It could have been worse,” Connor said. “At least it wasn’t serious.”

Ava nodded. “I know.” She sat back, closed her eyes and was just about to drift off into a blissful exhaustion-induced coma when it struck her that she still didn’t have her shopping done and she would need to face the supermarket again. “Fuck!” she swore. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”

Saturday mornings were reserved for that special kind of hell that was a Soft Play centre. Even with a bandaged and swollen arm, Maisie could not be dissuaded from her weekly trip to the ball pools and slides of Cheeky Monkeys. Ava couldn’t argue – not after the act of wilful neglect which had seen her daughter tumble headfirst out of a trolley the day before. So she had packed a bag, filled with cartons of juice, boxes of raisins, a couple of favourite dollies and a change of clothes and had strapped her strong-willed daughter into the back of the car. Connor had padded out to see them, still exhausted from his week of commuting to and from Belfast for work. “I’ll take her if you want,” he offered and Ava had wanted more than anything to let him but instead she settled for hugging him and thanking him for the offer – even though she knew he had made it knowing full well she would never take him up on it.

Saturday mornings were when she met her mummy friends who would arrive with their charges and regale her with stories about their wonderfulness. It wasn’t that Ava didn’t find Maisie wonderful – she was constantly amazed by her daughter’s flighty wee personality as it developed – but she wasn’t one of those who felt the need to boast about her either.

Saturdays were the days she also met Karen – known as ‘Hell-mum’ to Ava and Connor in their private conversations. Karen had taken to motherhood like a layabout takes to work. She did it because she had to but she took no joy in it. She also very much enjoyed sharing her horror stories, time and time again, with anyone who wanted to (or in many cases didn’t want to) listen. Ava felt sorry for her to an extent – she clearly had issues by the bucket-load. Ava looked at Karen’s five-year-old sometimes and felt her heart sink to her boots. She wondered if, in quieter moments, Karen was actually more maternal than she appeared in public.

Sighing, Ava pulled into the car park of the centre and tried to contain Maisie from running in front of the wheels of the 4x4s hunting for a prime parent-and-child parking space. She saw Karen’s Land Rover among them and she braced herself for the latest chapter in ‘How Hard My Life Is Compared to Yours’ from her once dear friend.

“C’mon, Maisie Moo!” she called, injecting a fake sense of cheer into her voice. “It’s time to play and meet all your friends!”

Karen sat sipping from a latte while Ava cradled Maisie – suddenly overcome with nervousness thanks to her sore arm.

“Oh God, you poor thing. Still it could have been worse. I remember when Sophie was the same age – took a tumble in the park and needed three stitches. Still, I only thought things were tough then. God, Ava, you’ve no idea. Now that’s she five – and at school and learning the badness from the other ones – it’s even tougher. You can’t watch her these days. Intoeverything.”

Ava nodded sympathetically, all the while thinking that Karen hadn’t given a single glance to where her daughter was since she’d sauntered into the café attached to the play centre half an hour before.

“I’m sure her being five has its good points,” she offered, hoping that her friend would assure her that of course she was just having a bad day and living with a five-year-old was a joy day in and day out.

“Hmmm,” Karen said with a sly smile, “I’m sure it has – I just can’t think of any of them at the moment. It’s all just work, work, work with some worry thrown in for good measure.”She laughed as she said it and Ava had to fight the urge to pick up the cream bun she was just about to tuck into and ram it right into Karen’s face to stop her from talking any more. She didn’t want to hear that it got worse. She wanted to hear that it got better – and easier and altogether more pleasant. She wanted her friend to tell her that she was only a couple of months away from an altogether easier existence when she would not feel so tired, and worried and overworked 99% of the time.

Deciding that ramming a cream bun in the face of one of her oldest friends was probably not the best way to relieve the knot of tension which seemed to exist on a permanent basis between her shoulder blades, she smiled sweetly and took a large bite from it instead, allowing the sugary softness of the confectionery to give her a momentary saccharine-induced high. If they had served ice-cold Pinot Grigio in the Soft Play, she would have knocked a couple of those back too.

Karen was just about to launch into her latest rant on the perils of motherhood (this time – Play-Doh and why it was the work of the Devil) when Ava’s phone burst into life. Gratefully, she pawed in her bag to find it. She didn’t care who was phoning. It could have been a heavily accented salesperson trying to persuade her to part with her life savings for a timeshare but she would have spoken to him.

Glancing down she saw that it was her mother. This was definitely strange. Sure, she was due to see her mother later that day anyway. Saturday afternoons were always spent at Granny’s house, where Maisie had the run of the place and her very own playroom to wreak havoc in.

“Mum?” Ava answered as Maisie glanced up at her.

“Ava, thank goodness I got you,” her mother said, her voice choking with emotion.

“Is everything okay, Mum? Mum, what’s wrong?”

Suddenly, even though she knew this made her a very bad person indeed, the thought crossed her mind that if something was wrong she would have the perfect excuse to get up and leave the play centre without any hesitation whatsoever. She glanced at Karen who was staring into the bottom of her coffee cup, disgusted to be cut off from her rant before she got into full flow, and she felt guilty. She was a bad friend and a bad daughter.

“It’s Betty,” her mum said, her voice cracking.

The memory came to Ava of a well-spoken woman in delicious purple satinshoes with a delicate floral detail who had held her hand as she sobbed through her beloved granny’s funeral. They had gone to sink the better part of two bottles of wine at a restaurant afterwards – talking into the wee small hours. Ava had been very taken with this bohemian creature with wild curly hair and a gentle smile, who looked years younger than her age.

“I love your shoes,” Ava had told her, admiring the large sequinned flower, and the flared heels. Betty was a woman who knew good shoes. Ava had eyed her own sensible flats, which she’d bought off a hanging stand in Primark, with a sense of disgust.

“They’re vintage,” Betty had said, “I picked them up for ten euro in a market in Paris.”

“They’re amazing,” Ava had slurred.

“Tell you what, I’ll leave them to you in my will. When I pop my clogs, you can slip them on your feet and keep them warm for me,” Betty had said and the pair of them laughed uproariously.

“Oh Ava, pet, can you come over?” Ava’s mother sobbed, cutting through her thoughts. “Betty’s dead. My baby sister is dead!”

When she arrived at her mother’s house, having deposited Maisie back with her still-sleepy father, Ava was shocked at just how bereft Cora was. It wasn’t that she thought her mother to be a heartless cow or devoid of feeling, just that she had never really spoken of Betty and when she had it had been in hushed tones. Betty was most definitely the blacksheep of the Scott family, having left Derry for a bohemian lifestyle in the South of France. Ava couldn’t say she had blamed her one bit for leaving Derry behind – Derry wasn’t exactly a fun place to be by all accounts. Ava would have left too – especially if she had found a very handsome man to marry who wanted to take her away from it all. South of France versus the Bogside and tear gas? Who could have blamed her? But it seemed there were elements in her family who had felt betrayed in some way by Betty’s departure. Sure they were all meant to be in this together, weren’t they? Whatever the reason, Betty was not someone who was spoken about very often. There weren’t even family holidays en masse to Provence even though at family gatherings it was agreed it must be lovely out there.

Looking at her mother now, bent double in grief in her armchair, her sobs racking her body, Ava wondered if maybe she just hadn’t wanted to let her sister go, knowing perhaps she would never come home?

“Oh Mum,” she said, kneeling down beside Cora and pulling her into a hug. “I’m so sorry!”

“I just thought I would see her again . . . there was so much we needed to say –” Cora broke off, sniffing loudly right in Ava’s ear which made her shudder – she never liked getting too close to a clatter of snotters.

Pulling back, she looked at her mother. “I’m sure she knew how you felt about her,” she soothed, not quite knowing why she was saying that. She didn’t, in honesty, know if Betty knew a damn about her mother and how she felt about her. Ava didn’t know how her mother felt about Betty. She just didn’t come up in conversation that often.

“How could she not tell us she was sick? She must have known for a long time – it was cancer. Were we so bad she would rather die out there without a being belonging to her close by? And then to be told by letter . . . she had written it in advance to be sent to me . . .” Cora gestured to a letter on the side table and broke into a fresh dose of sobbing. “I would have gone. I would have been there. I know we all have our lives and we’re all busy but we would have gone, or we would have brought her home . . .”

Ava hugged her mother again. “She’s been in France a long time. Longer than she was ever here. Maybe she just considered that home?”

Cora sniffed. “Home is always home,” she said. “She should have let us say goodbye.”

“I’m so sorry, Mum,” Ava repeated. “I’ll make you a cup of tea. You’ve had a shock. Have you spoken to the rest of the family yet?”

Cora shook her head. “I just called you. I just wanted you.”

Ava felt her heart swell at her mother’s honest emotion. An only child, her widowed mother leant on her heavily at times. Of course she would have called her in the circumstances.

Ava kissed her and stood up.

“She’s left you something,” Cora said as Ava turned on her heel to go to the kitchen.

“What?” Ava stopped and turned, sure she must have misheard. How could, why would, Betty leave her anything?

“It says so in the letter. You have to go to a solicitor’s in Belfast on Wednesday to hear more.” Cora spoke softly, her head downwards.

Ava felt absolutely and totally confused. Sure they had spoken for a long time at her granny’s funeral – laughing like old friends – but to leave her something?

“Really?” she asked. “Why would she do that?”

“You must have meant a lot to her,” Cora said, looking up, her eyes filling with tears again. “Sure don’t you mean a lot to us all?”

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