Orla hummed quietly to herself as she clanked her way up to her apartment in the elevator. She was laden down with carrier bags filled with things she didn’t need, but then that was the joy of retail therapy, and she had certainly needed some. Ed had been avoiding her all week, she could tell. Whenever he saw her coming, he’d dived into one of the editing suites or pretend to be deep in conversation with a bemused-looking Trevor. It was driving her to distraction, and she could put her finger exactly on the minute she knew it had all started to go wrong.
It was after that conversation about the children. She had handled it badly, but then it isn’t every day that you have three children foisted upon you, Ed should appreciate that. She could deal with this. They could work it through. Ed was too good a director. Too good in the sack. Too good a catch all-round for her to mess up now. She’d never been in what you would call a “long-term” relationship—three months had been the extent of her dating stamina. But then the only men she dated had turned out to be self-centered, mamas’ boys with suspect homophobic opinions.
She was going back to the States, but there was no way she was going back without him. Maybe they could all go to family therapy, it was one strand of counseling she hadn’t yet tried. Whichever way, the years were passing far too quickly for her to continue being choosy, and this was just one little blip in an otherwise very sunny horizon—or three little blips, to be precise.
Ed hadn’t asked to see her tonight, but then she’d preempted it by saying that she would be unavailable, so that she wouldn’t feel too abandoned and perhaps that might give him something to think about. After all, he had given her plenty to think about. She’d seen the envelope he’d had at the Sit-Down Showers shoot which had made him blush like a guilty schoolboy. It looked like an invitation, and she’d tried to scan it quickly before he’d had a chance to push it back into his pocket. It was impossible. The writing was too neat, too small. Had it been from Alicia, as he’d said? Or was it something entirely different? Did she know Ed well enough to trust him? Probably not. Whatever it was, she knew instinctively in that small hollow at the pit of her stomach that it was something Ed was trying to hide from her.
Orla turned her key in the lock, barged her parcels through the door and kicked it shut behind her. She dropped them all on the floor in the hall. Drink first. Deal with unnecessary purchases later. The red light on her answerphone was blinking furiously at her and, stripping off her coat, Orla clicked the play button. She went through to the kitchen and opened the door to the fridge, pulling out a bottle of ice-cold Vodka Absolut. It was her mother’s voice.
“Hi, honey. Mommy here.” Orla reached for a shot glass from the cupboard. “I’m glad to hear you’re coming home, honey. I’m missing you.” She went on to say an awful lot about nothing, ending with: “I’ll catch you later, honey. I hope you’re out having fun. Kiss. Kiss.”
Orla downed the vodka, enjoying the sensation as the freezing liquid heated up the back of her throat. Her mother never missed her. It was the first time she’d phoned in months, which usually meant that she was between boyfriends and had time on her hands. She’d made her fortune as a theatrical agent and now spent her time bedding twenty-five-year-old actors, offering them the earth and dumping them again before she had to stump up so much as a grain of sand. And who could blame her? Nice work if you could get it.
The second voice stopped the second shot of vodka on its way to her lips.
“Orla…” It was Ed. And he sounded terrible. Truly terrible. Distraught. The tape hissed and crackled, so that she couldn’t catch the first bit clearly. Orla turned up the sound. Ed’s voice was still faint. “I can’t help it. Orla… I need… I need you…” The tape cut off, beeping enthusiastically, and whirred itself back to the beginning. Her mother, yammering on about Brett or Bradley or whoever it was this time, must have used up all the goddamn tape.
Her mother’s voice piped up again. “Hi, honey—”
“Damn,” Orla said, and punched the buttons until Ed’s message kick-started again.
“Orla… I need… I need you…”
Orla replayed it again. “Why do you need me?” she shouted at the answerphone, straining to listen through the crackling.
“Orla… I need… I need you… I need you to understand…”
Again the tape, uncaring of its impeccable timing, rewound itself. Damn. Damn. Damn! Whatever it was he needed her to understand, he sounded pretty damn desperate about it. Orla downed the belated shot of vodka and punched out Ed’s mobile phone number. It went straight to his messaging service, so she hung up and started pacing the hall. She had read The Rules, and you were never, ever supposed to return men’s calls, particularly when they sounded desperate, as it would make you seem just as desperate. But then, The Rules had never worked, otherwise she wouldn’t still be single and desperate. Orla clenched her fists. That wasn’t a good idea. If she contacted him by phone, he could just fob her off with any old excuse, make light of his message.
“Orla… I need… I need you… I need you to understand…” the message played of its own volition. She snatched up the receiver again and bashed the handset with it. “Why? Why? Why?” she shouted. “Why do you need me now?”
Orla nibbled her fingers, a habit she’d long since forced herself to abandon except in times of extreme stress. She wasn’t used to being at a man’s beck and call. This would put a whole new slant on the relationship. Maybe it was time to abandon any defenses and enter into this relationship wholeheartedly. Time to throw the rule book in the trash can where it belonged. One final nibble and she’d decided. She had to find him, wherever he was. Orla abandoned the vodka and shrugged into her coat once more. He needed her and it was urgent. Of that, there was no doubt. And if he needed her, she would damn well go to him.