“Well, lookee here . . . Good evening.” A smartly dressed man leans in beside me at the bar of the Garrack Hotel on Saturday evening, where I had dinner with some possible relocation clients. It didn’t go fantastically and it wasn’t a great choice of venue, to be honest; I hadn’t realised there was a wedding reception taking place in the ballroom. It’s noisy, crowded and, I now realise, full of drunks. There is a pungent smell of alcohol from the man’s breath. From his pores.
“Hello,” I say back politely.
“What’s a beautiful woman like you doing all on her lonesome?” American accent. Southern. Creepy.
“Minding my own business,” I say in a flat tone. I stare ahead at the polished bottles gleaming at me from behind the bar and don’t meet his eyes.
“How sad.” He puts his hand on my shoulder and I drop it immediately, allowing his hand to fall away.
“Not really,” I say, still not looking at him.
The young barman is hanging over the end of the bar, deep in conversation with a very pretty girl in a tight red dress, a single wedding guest, I’m guessing. He won’t look over at me any time soon. He doesn’t know I exist. I am all alone.
“Been stood up, I take it?” His hand waves in front of my eyes to try to get my attention. His fingers smell of cheese and onion crisps.
“No, I haven’t been stood up,” I say, leaning back slightly so his hand doesn’t hit my nose, and using the kind of tone one might use when telling someone to fuck off and leave them alone. I don’t like him.
“Allow me to buy you a drink. Women really shouldn’t drink alone,” he offers.
Oh Lord, he probably thinks I’m a hooker. Just when I thought my night couldn’t possibly get any worse. Claire might even get a laugh out of this when I tell her.
“Thank you, but I’m just leaving,” I tell him politely now. He really is making me uncomfortable and suddenly I feel frighteningly vulnerable.
“Allow me to walk you home then.” He comes closer into my space, craning his head around to look at me, and taps his leather wallet off the bar top. I open my purse, lay a tenner on the bar, remove my bag from the back of the high stool and go to stand up.
“Don’t leave on my account, lonely lady,” he drawls.
I don’t really want to leave. I want to have a nice, quiet drink by myself. I want him to leave me alone. Why should I go? I hear Granny Alice’s voice in my head: “Stand up for yourself, Courtney!” I glance at him now. His eyes are glazed and his tie is crooked. He’s very drunk.
“I’d prefer if you left me alone, if you don’t mind.” I stare hard at him.
“Aren’t you already alone? How much more alone can you get?” he continues.
“Please go away or I’m going to call the barman.” I raise my voice.
“You more than likely won’t get a better offer tonight, sweetheart.” His words are cross now and he looks me up and down.
I don’t need this hassle. He’s beaten me. Again, I go for my bag, but then I hear a voice behind me.
“Did you not hear what she said? Fuck off and leave her alone!” I know who it is immediately.
“And who are you?” my American now non-admirer asks as I turn around.
“I’m a friend of hers,” Tony Becker says, dressed in a dark suit and navy tie. I nearly don’t recognise him.
“Her ‘friend’, is it?” The American straightens himself and stands tall.
“Go away, mate.” Tony stands up to him. The two men are so close the tips of their dress shoes are almost meeting.
“Or what?” the American childishly replies.
“Do you really want to know the answer to that?” Tony growls in a low voice, and with a snort the American slithers off.
I look at Tony and he looks back at me, nervously.
“I showed up,” he says. “And I’m smiling.” He grins like a loon, and somehow I forget about how furious I’ve been. All my anger melts away. I gesture to the free stool beside me and he sits down.
“Allow me to buy you a drink?” I laugh now, relief flooding through me that the American has gone.
“Pint of Guinness, please . . . lonely lady.” He elbows me playfully and pulls himself up.
“Seriously, like I needed that.” I wave my money at the engrossed barman and reluctantly he comes over to me. I order another large white wine for me and a pint of Guinness for Tony. “Thanks, Tony.” I nod after the insect of man.
“Ah, I’m sure you had his number. He was just starting to piss me off. I hope you didn’t mind me stepping in? I was looking for somewhere to hide out for a bit and I overheard.”
“Slipping away?”
He nods. “Slipping away. At first I didn’t know that it was you. I’m well aware that you can take care of yourself.” He turns the glass towards him so that the black Guinness writing is facing him.
“You look very smart, Tony.”
He loosens the navy tie. “Thank you. I’m choked here: not really my thing, monkey suits.” He shrugs.
“Listen . . . I’m sorry, Tony. I flew off the handle the other night. I guess you hit my sore spot when you talked about Susan.”
“No worries. I overstepped the mark and it’s none of my business. That’s what I get for trying out some armchair psychology.” He grins ruefully. “You’re a great woman, Courtney, and I bet you’re a great mam. I’m sure you’re doing what’s best for everyone.”
I blush and can’t help smiling at him. He looks so contrite I decide to give him a break. “So, is this the black-tie event you were talking about?” I ask.
“You could say that.” He puts the pint to his mouth and drinks half in one gulp. “I can’t tell you how much I needed that.” He wipes his dark stubble and the white froth from the sides of his mouth with the back of his hand. I notice how clean his nails now are. Scrubbed. “What are you doing here, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“I had dinner with some prospective clients, but I don’t think it’s going to go anywhere this time. You win some, you lose some.”
“Sorry,” he says.
I change the subject. “So why are you looking so smart, Tony? You must be on a date. But where is she then, and why do you look like you are all dressed up with nowhere to go . . . A row, maybe? Did you forget to pick her up perhaps? Or is Marina waiting in the Ploughboy while you sit here having a drink with me?” I’m tongue-in-cheek, to hide my hurt feelings.
He peers at me. “What makes you always think I have a girlfriend? Or girlfriends?” He looks amused now.
“Well, aside from Marina, you mean? I saw that copy of Cosmopolitan, hair donuts and the pretty red wedges in your car. Us women spot these things, ya know.” I pause. “And I saw the picture of that pretty young woman on your phone when you were round at our apartment.” I stare at the shiny bottles behind the bar as I twist the slim stem of the wine glass around between my finger and thumb on the pretty doily. Lounge music plays around us now. The pianist in the corner must have returned from his break.
“How many have you had?” he asks.
I close my left eye and hold up two fingers, and just then I see that young girl behind him in a sleek, red, figure-hugging dress. I was joking just now, but he cannot be doing this to me again. She lifts his pint of Guinness and drinks some.
“Hey . . . What? Oh come on now!” He takes the glass from her hand gently.
“What? Aren’t we celebrating? Isn’t this supposed to be a celebration? Didn’t you tell me to wear this dress? Didn’t you tell me . . .”
I have to get out of here, but I’m frozen to the seat.
“Not now, Phoebe.” He talks to her like she is interrupting him.
“But—”
“Not. Now.” His voice is loud. Oh Lord. Is this how he talks to the women he dates? Is this how he thinks he can treat women? I’ve gone from being a deserted mother to a hooker at the bar to the other woman. Get me out of here.
“Look, I’m just going to go . . .” I say quietly.
“No, you aren’t going anywhere . . . Phoebe is leaving, aren’t you, Phoebe? She is going straight back to her mother’s wedding, isn’t that right?” He takes her hand now and kisses it. I’ve seen enough. This girl is only a child, for God’s sake!
“I’m so out of here – this is . . . this is just too weird for me . . .” I jump up to my kitten-heeled feet and back away towards the door. He jumps off the stool and stands in my way.
“Sorry . . . Courtney Downey, Phoebe Becker. Courtney, meet my sixteen-year-old daughter and owner of some lovely red strappy wedges that cost me a small fortune. She told me she just couldn’t live without them, yet hasn’t taken them out of my jeep in about six months.” Tony winks at me.
“Your daughter?” I pinch the bridge of my nose. Reversing, I find the seat under me again.
“Yup.” He puts a strong arm around her thin frame.
“You never said you had a daughter,” I say.
“You never asked.” He picks up his pint. “Now, young lady, back to the hotel ballroom, please. I did my bit, so you have to stay.” He looks at her and I notice how his dark eyes have lit up.
“I hate him, Dad!” She grinds her teeth.
“He’s not that bad, pet, and he loves your mam . . . Mind those blooming teeth, Phoebe, I’ve paid a small fortune for them!” She purses her pretty lips together, reminding me so much of Susan that my heart lurches again.
“Speaking of teeth, everyone is laughing at those blinding-white veneers Mam got for the big day!” Phoebe wails at her father.
“I’m sure they aren’t laughing, love. Look, she’s your mam: be nice to her. Now, I’ll come back to the reception in an hour or so, I promise.” He looks adoringly at her. This young girl certainly has her daddy in the palm of her hand. Exactly how it should be, I know, and I’m petty to be jealous that my little girl loves her daddy so much. I think, in this moment, if it wasn’t for Mar-nee, I’d understand Susan wanting to be with David.
“Who are you anyway?” she demands, turning to face me with a complete Susan look on her face. Oh, I can handle this girl. She’s met her match in me this evening.
“Manners, Phoebe, please!” he chastises her.
“Sorry . . . Who are you anyway please?” She continues to stare hard at me.
“Hiya, Phoebe, it’s really lovely to meet you. Your dress is amazing! Lipsy?” I ask, and she narrows her eyes slightly at me before she nods in agreement. I go on. “I’m Courtney from Dublin, just a work colleague of your dad’s.”
“Oh right.” She pulls at the neckline on her dress. “How’d you know it’s from Lipsy?” she asks.
“Oh, because I have a sixteen-year-old daughter, Susan, who wanted that dress for a party last year,” I inform her.
“I only get dressed up for special occasions. That’s why I wanted those shoes, Dad,” she says, shooting a glare at him and waggling a red-wedged foot at him. “I’m a jeans and jumper kind of girl usually.”
“Want a soda water and lime with us?” I try Susan’s tipple of choice on her.
“Oh, my favourite! Can I, Dad?” Her eyes light up.
“No. Back to the wedding with you, please. You know I can’t have your mam thinking I dragged you away with me. It’s not fair on her. You know how excited she’s been about this day for months.”
“Years!” she drawls, and throws her eyes up to the ceiling. “Do you have a husband?” She asks, and looks at my left hand.
“I’m separated, Phoebe,” I tell her.
“Thank you, Detective Inspector Becker, you may go.” Tony gently turns her around to face the door and she takes her leave.
As she shimmers through the open glass doors, she calls back, “Do not be more than an hour, Dad, I mean it! Love you, Big Daddy!” She blows him a kiss. He laughs.
“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me you had a daughter the same age as mine! She’s absolutely beautiful, Tony,” I tell him, and I mean it. She really is stunning. A model scout’s dream girl.
“That she is.” He laughs after her.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I dig him gently in his ribs.
“I was just playing with you. You seemed to think I was some Casanova, a different woman every night, when in reality I haven’t . . . Well . . . It’s been a long time for me.” He looks down to the barman. My stomach lurches in excitement, and I’m not sure why.
“Phoebe is a beautiful name. She really reminds me of my Susan.”
Tony orders two more drinks.
“So who got married today? Your ex-wife, I take it?” I lick my lips.
“No . . . I told you before, I don’t believe in marriage; therefore I saved myself the torture of ever having an ex-wife.” He takes a long drink and replaces the pint square in the centre of the beer mat. He turns it around a few times. His tanned hands rotate it as the world turns.
“Look, I don’t mean to pry. You don’t have to tell me anything about your private life. I—”
He interrupts me with a deep breath and goes on. “We were never married. Bernie, that’s Phoebe’s mam, and I met on one of those eighteen-to-thirty holidays in Lanzarote, in an Irish bar no less. Scruffy Murphy’s. We had a holiday fling, I suppose you’d call it. No strings attached. We were both young and single . . . and very burnt!”
I nearly spit out my white wine on that one.
He goes on. “When I got back from the holiday I never really thought much about her, if I’m being brutally honest. She’d given me her address and I’d given her mine; we lived at opposite ends of St Ives. There were no mobile phones or Facebook or any of that stuff in those days. We passed in the street a couple of times but didn’t stop to chat. We both knew it was just a holiday romance. As you do, I went to back to work, where I’d just started as an apprentice with me dad on the building sites, and three months later she arrived on my doorstep and told me she was pregnant with my child.” He lifts his shoulders and shirt high to his ears and then drops them slowly.
“Shit,” I say, dragging my vowels again and rubbing my thumb along my fingernails.
“Correct . . . Well, shit or get off the pot, basically.”
“Wow, that must have been so tough . . . on both of you . . .” I acknowledge poor Bernie in all of this. What must it have been like to return from a fun summer holiday only to find out you were expecting a baby with a stranger? My heart went out to her.
“I was only twenty-two years old and she was only nineteen . . . I had nothing really to offer her but my total and utter complete support. Takes two to tango and all that. So we tried . . . She moved in with me and the folks. While I saved for a house for us, Bernie sat around with me mam all day drinking tea and knitting booties, and when Phoebe was born at sixteen minutes past ten on the night of my twenty-third birthday, it was love at first sight. Hook, line and sinker. I knew there and then I couldn’t live without her, not for even one day.” He looks back to the door.
“But you never married Bernie?” I am more and more drawn to this man. He’s like no one I have ever met before. This feeling is totally discombobulating.
“I never tell people I don’t know all my private business. I think, like Phoebe, you have me under your thumb too.” Without me probing any further, he goes on. I get the impression he hasn’t talked about this in years. “Anyway, where was I . . . Oh yeah, so we tried to make a go of it for a while, but we couldn’t stand one another! Bernie is very highly strung, has absolutely no listening skills. I’m just the complete opposite, and on this occasion opposites did not attract. I guess the ‘Fields of Athenry’ was so loud in Scruffy Murphy’s we couldn’t talk too much, so I never knew!” He laughs, and his handsome face is beautiful. “We were like chalk and cheese. Bernie was a great mam – still is, don’t get me wrong, a fabulous mam – but one night we had a big fight over a frozen chicken Kiev if ya don’t mind . . . and I didn’t come home. I stayed at my brother Steve’s, and the next morning when I got in, my mother, God rest her soul, told me they were gone. Bernie had packed up all their stuff and taken Phoebe back to live with her parents.” He exhales slowly and takes a drink. I don’t push for more.
“Basically I followed them, demanded shared custody, which she didn’t contest, worked my ass off and saved all the money I could, and started on building my own house nearby. I became a full-time dad, more or less. Because I lived so close by, I could give Bernie a break and take Phoebe overnight. Anyway, we never got back together, but Bernie, in fairness to her was always okay with me being full-time in Phoebe’s life – in fact, I’d go so far as to say we more than equally shared out the sleepless nights and teething days.” He lifts his thumb and digs it into his chest, raising his eyebrows high at me.
“That’s brilliant, Tony. Not many men would do that,” I say in awe.
“Oh, I dunno about that. I met a whole lot of men who were doing exactly what I was doing!” He chews his thumbnail, his tanned hand covering his mouth. “I think fathers get very bad press, Courtney. I think family law treats fathers very badly.”
“Maybe,” I acknowledge. “So she got married today then? Bernie?” I ask.
“Yes, she did. I have to go back there later too. Just for Phoebe, really.” He drinks more. Suddenly there is vulnerability about him I haven’t seen before. “I gotta go pop my head back in . . . but would you . . . Well, maybe can you wait and we can have another drink?” he asks sheepishly.
“Marina’s not in there waiting for you, is she?” I’m only half joking.
“No! Marina hasn’t ever been anything other than a really good friend to me. She’s honest and we enjoy each other’s company. She jokes that one day I will marry her, but that’s all it is, Courtney: a joke.” He stands and runs his hand down his shirt.
“I’ll wait for you, Tony.” I take up my bag. “I have a point to prove to myself more than anything. I should be able to sit alone at any bar in any place in the world and not be intimidated, as should both of our daughters. I hope that asshole comes back, I really do! Now I’m going to use the ladies’.” I put a beer mat over our glasses and I walk away, well aware he’s watching me.
When I come out of the cubicle, I’m met with a sea of white lace. The bride, Bernie, stands in front of the mirror fixing her veil. Hairpins are scattered all around the sink. A pair of sky-high white stilettos sits on top of the sink area also.
“Have you had a good day?” For some reason I want to know. For some reason, instantly I just like the look of Bernie very much.
“Just the greatest day of my life! Well, apart from the birth of my daughter, obviously.” She looks so happy and clutches the lace of the veil lying on her shoulder.
“Need a hand there?” I ask.
“Oh please, would you mind? My bridesmaid is fairly pissed. I warned her, not too much prosecco, but we’ve had to put her upstairs to lie down for an hour.” She squeezes her shoulders up under her ears but laughs warmly.
“No problem.” I help pin the delicate lace back into place.
“I know I’m probably a bit old for the veil, but I always wanted to wear one,” she tells me. “Are you married?” she asks me now.
“Separated,” I say. Like I told her daughter.
“Mr Right is out there for you, you know . . . Believe me.” She gives me a big glistening smile as she waves her diamond ring at me.
“I guess maybe.”
“How old are you?” she asks.
“Thirty-eight!” I tell her.
“Not too bad . . . Still an open window to get a ring on it.” She giggles, waving her diamond in the air again and pressing her lips to it now.
“You know what, I’m not too pushed on getting married again,” I tell her honestly.
“I’ve never been married before. I wanted to be, but he didn’t. He was a quiet one. I think I was too . . . alive for him!” She laughs very loudly. It is high-pitched and unique. There is no mistaking Bernie’s laugh.
“There you go.” I spin her around to look in the mirror.
“Thank you!” She narrows her brown eyes at me questioningly.
“Courtney,” I say.
“Courtney! Wow! What a beautiful name. You know, I was going to call my daughter Courtney! I was bit obsessed with Friends. Courtney Cox was my favourite as Monica, but Phoebe was more like me in personality, so I called my baby Phoebe. I know her real name was Lisa Kudrow, but my best friend in school was called Lisa and then we fell out big time when I got pregnant on a holiday we went on to Lanzarote – she was pissed off I couldn’t go out and party any more. With friends like that . . . Right?” She laughs really loudly again and I like it. I like Bernie. She is right. She is very, very alive.
“That’s mad,” I say in answer to all she has just told me. She climbs into her shoes and suddenly we are eye to eye.
“You are absolutely beautiful, Courtney,” Bernie says as she steadies herself.
“God, so are you, Bernie,” I say.
“Be happy, love.” She winks at me.
“I will, thanks. And you,” I tell her as I hold the door open for her. Tony stands in front of us, a glass of champagne in each hand.
“I’m guessing one of those isn’t for me, Tone?” She laughs again.
He stares at us both.
“We were just getting acquainted, me and Courtney ’ere,” she says with a tickle in her voice.
“Is that so, Bernie?” Tony says, handing me a glass.
“That is so, Tone” she says. “Can I get a hug? We haven’t had a hug yet today. I’m officially off your back!” There is warmth in her voice that tells me she is very fond of this man. I hold his glass and Bernie steps into his arms. I feel a huge lump in my throat. They were never meant to be, but look what they created. How can any part of Phoebe’s existence be wrong?
“Phoebe is a very lucky girl,” I tell them as Bernie steps out of the embrace.
“Oh, she is. And this man worships her.” She fixes her veil and pats Tony on the back.
“As does this woman,” he says, taking the glass back from me.
“Ya know, Tony, obviously we’ve had our few ups and downs . . .”
Tony pretends to choke on his champagne.
“Shut up! Let me go on, will ya? I can never get a word in with you. I don’t think I have ever properly said thank you for all you did for us . . . I mean, you’ve been amazing. I know I get on your nerves sometimes, but I don’t mean to. I . . . I just am who I am, and you are who you are, and sometimes I—”
“There you are!” A small, robust man in a light-blue tuxedo approaches with a skip in his step. “The band are about to play our song, my love.” He reaches for Bernie’s hand. “Hi, Tony. Thanks so much for coming today,” he says.
“Of course, Barry. Congratulations, a beautiful day.” Tony extends his hand.
“Oh, don’t I know it! Most beautiful day of my life!” Barry says, and kisses Bernie hard on the lips. When they part, he wipes his mouth and continues. “Is there lippy? You can never take the chance: once my father played an entire round of golf with bright-red lips! My aunt Tara had met him in the back car park, that’s his sister-in-law by the way, and she’d kissed him hard on the lips . . . Maybe you guys could come around to ours one night for a barbie and some beers? I cook a mean steak on the barbie, don’t I, Bern? And I do vegetarian too. Are you a veggie?” He looks at me.
“Erm, no,” I say and sip my bubbles. These two are a match made in chatty heaven.
“Come on!” He tries to drag Bernie away as the first line of Take That’s “A Million Love Songs” belts out.
“Can we have Mr and Mrs Gough to the stage please?” we hear the DJ ask.
Bernie doesn’t register.
“Oh! Oh! That’s me! I’m a Mrs!” she screams, and they take off to the ballroom, her hand clutching her veil as she goes.
“Bye, Courtney!” she shouts back over her shoulder of lace.
“Good luck, Bernie,” I say as the doors shut.
“Want to sit on the decking?” Tony asks, and I nod and follow him.
“What about our drinks at the bar?” I ask.
“The barman is keeping an eye on them,” he reassures me.
We make our way out into the Cornwall night. “Here, you’re shivering.” He takes off his wedding suit jacket and drapes it around my shoulders. It dwarfs me. “Careful where you walk; these pathways can be a bit dangerous,” he says as he takes my hand and leads me down towards the beach.
And then it happens. It happened a bit back in the Ploughboy when he unbuttoned his shirt. That thing people talk about. That bolt of lightning shoots through my entire body. My palms are sweating. I feel like the teenager I never was. All thoughts about Susan, David, Tom and Mar-nee ebb away. I’m completely in the moment and I’m loving it. This man excites and thrills me, I admit it. We walk hand and hand in the darkening night in wondrous silence. Only the crashing waves of the sea in the background. Right in this moment, I don’t want to be anywhere else but here or anyone else but me.
“I have something I need to tell you,” Tony says.
“What?” I ask as we perch on the sea wall. I can smell his familiar heavy aftershave. He lays his free hand on my leg. So aware am I of his hand on my leg, my right foot immediately goes dead with the shock.
“I . . . Well, look, Courtney, I’m not good at dating. I had disastrous relationships when Phoebe was younger, and I just stopped. You see, she will always have to come first for me, and any women I met before just didn’t like that. I’m telling you this because . . .” He breathes deeply and knocks back the dribble of champagne left in his slim glass, which is dwarfed by his large hand. “Because I really fancy you. I haven’t actually fancied anyone in years and it’s incredible and I’d like to . . . to ask you out on a date . . . but if you were to say yes, I have to be honest with you.”
I take my moment. I feel the heat from his hand on my leg. Could what he said be any more perfect?
“Ditto,” is all I say.
“Ditto?” He looks at me as though I’ve lost my mind.
“Ditto,” I say again.
I can tell by his expression he is lost.
“You know in Ghost when Sam tells Molly ‘Ditto’?”
“Ghost? Molly? ‘Ditto’? Are you drunk?” He makes a face at me.
I laugh. “It’s a movie, Ghost . . . When they agree with one another, they say ‘Ditto’. I agree. I’d love to see you for a date, or go out for dinner with you, however it’s said . . . But for me, Susan will always come first too. It might not seem like it now that I’m living here without her, but—”
“You are a fantastic mother. It’s space she needs and you can acknowledge that. And to be a good mother, you need to be happy yourself.”
“You’re right,” I say, but my voice comes out as a whisper.
“I’m always right.” His breath is heavy now and his free hand moves and lifts my chin up so we are staring into each other’s eyes.
“This is crazy.” I am barely audible. My lips are dry. My heart is racing. I feel unbelievably alive.
“Yeah, that’s the right word, Courtney Downey . . . crazy. I am crazy about you . . . The second you walked into the foyer of the town hall I felt all kinds of crazy. It’s a feeling I haven’t had in years . . . unsettling . . . The first time I heard your voice on the phone, I felt it. I have had crazy thoughts and dreams about you ever since, and now I find myself here sitting with you in the dark. If that’s not crazy, I don’t know what is.”
He is so close his mouth brushes off mine. It’s not a kiss exactly. It’s just contact. I can’t help myself any longer. I drag him closer and I kiss him like I’ve never kissed anyone before. It’s hard, and the want in me is the definition of crazy.
He pulls back and holds my face in his hand. “Crazy.”
“Crazy,” I agree, and we fall into one another.