Standing on the sidewalk in front of a building on West 30th, Annabelle was about to put her phone away. After gleeful phone calls to Maria Grazia and Lorna, she fought the urge to make a third.
What a difference a little over sixty days can make, she thought. She looked up at the facade behind her and smiled, then turned east and paused as she looked toward the post office. Less than two months ago, she’d sent off yet another manuscript to yet another disinterested party. Today, with her head held high, she was the newest client of one of the city’s best agencies and officially on the working roster for Image/Art International. Might she add, she was in the possession of a contract, which she would—after a considered perusal—sign, and in doing so, take on an enormously exciting blog/book project.
The subject of which was documenting Dan Minnehan and his farewell tour, which was taking place in Ireland.
She wouldn’t have to come across for a ticket after all—she had to leave on Saturday.
The second to last day of her Pooka’s free existence.
Damn it, thought Annabelle. I really am going to have to call Jamie.
62y
I am really going to have to call Annabelle, thought Jamie, as he hung up the phone. The content of his recently finished call had yet to sink in, and he tossed the portable handset onto a pile of newspapers.
Wasn’t it lunchtime? Why not eat some lunch? He opened the refrigerator and was greeted with an unusual sight. Neither hide nor hair of an edible object. Slightly moldy bread and the dregs of some jam would have to do for now. He had exactly 16 coffee beans, enough to make half a shot of black espresso. He turned the bean grinder on full throttle, and succeeded in drowning out his thoughts for a moment.
He should call Maeve, except she’d probably figure out he’d blown it with the girl. Give the mother a call, let her get down to the business of ringing half the country.
He’d gotten the funding. He’d gotten the funding! No, he was too preoccupied by the other business to really give a healthy whoop and holler.
Maybe all she’d wanted was a bit of a snog. But Jamie knew, in his heart of hearts, that it wasn’t going to be possible to stop there.
62y
Annabelle paused to withdraw a small note pad from her purse. There was so much to do in the ensuing days, and mental notes were not going to cut it. I love making lists, thought Annabelle.
Especially lists that have to do with travel and preparing to work on an international gig.
My God, she thought. I am going to be travelling around the whole of Ireland for a year. I am going to have to:
1. Get my laptop serviced, just in case
2. Sublet my place
3. Do laundry
4. Change money
5. …
Her mind wandered. She’d need a home base, probably in Dublin. Looking around at the humungous buildings surrounding her on all sides, she thought, I’d hate to move to Ireland and live in another city. Her mind wandered, and she had a vision of a tiny little house on the side of a hill, and the sea, and a horse. A horse? She’d never ridden a horse! She’d never so much as touched a horse in her entire life!
5 - Forward all her mail to Maria Grazia.
6. Open an account in Ireland??
7. Ring Ja—
He’d die if he knew about this! Dan Minnehan, she could almost hear him shout! Maybe under different circumstances, she would have seen if it were okay to look up his sisters. Under different circumstances, she would have called already. Under different circumstances, maybe they’d be celebrating tonight…
8. New carry case for her Airbook, and bigger bag with wheels for clothes.
62y
He’d have to get someone into the place. No way was he giving up this lease—and he thought he remembered hearing that a couple of cousins were moving over in August; that was only right, keeping it in the family. Jamie went into his studio, and went right back out again. How in the name of God was he going to get all that sorted? Luckily, he only had to go for a few weeks, sign some papers, bring Sinann… He went back into the studio and stayed, his empty little espresso cup dangling from a finger, and walked around and around his prize-winning work. When he came face-to-face with it—her—he knew he had to give the girl a bell.
After the party, a long gloomy weekend passed, and he eventually managed to rationalize his churlish behavior, and then rationalize himself right back into more self-chastisement. If he hadn’t been so spooked, he could’ve had a pretty feckin’ fabulous night, if that dress had been any indication. And if he’d been able to talk to Annabelle like a human being, not some kind of Neanderthal tosser.
Sure, she gave as good as she got, and he had a little laugh, a very little one, at his own expense. Disorganized, was he? He’d show her! He strode out toward his wardrobe, and pulled out a heavy-duty metal-framed rucksack, and started throwing clothes into it. I’ll be packed and ready to go in no time!
62y
Annabelle traveled a few more blocks, and paused again, on the edge of a planter near 6th Avenue.
21- Call Jamie?
Nerves about the now-successful meeting, and guilt over Callie, from whom she had not seen nor heard all weekend, had pushed the Friday night debacle out of her mind. She had, at some earlier stage, agreed with everything he said—in fact, said it herself. However, it royally sucked to have it aimed directly at her, especially when she was showing so much skin and practically crippling herself in those flippin’ shoes. Plus, it also sucked right now because she didn’t feel like calling him, even though she needed him, because he acted like she was some kind of marriage-mad loser bent on dragging him down the aisle whether he wanted it or not.
21- Call Jamie? Save Callie.
62y
Just ring her! Jamie lay on his bed, staring as best he could out of the grimy skylight. The rucksack lay abandoned on the floor. What was happening with that Pooka? He rolled over a stack of laundry he’d yet to put away, and then grabbed the lot and shoved it into his bag. There! Done! He ought to buzz Annabelle and let her know that he sought to his packing already, ha, ha, ha!
I’m losing what little sense I have left, he thought, getting up off the bed and searching for the phone. He just had the thing 10 minutes ago…
62y
Annabelle ran across the avenue against the light, and was treated to a symphony of outraged honking. She panted a bit, and stopped, again, this time at the top of the stairway leading down to the F train. She tapped her her phone on again and thumbed through her contacts…
62y
Where was her card? He patted the pockets of his jeans, and shoved around a few piles of papers on his kitchen countertop, and then saw it propped up on the stove… for some reason. I should probably ring her on the mobile…
62y
No way, Annabelle decided, and erased the ten digit number that began with 718—
62y
Way to go, thought Jamie as he pressed the last number in the string that began with 917—
62y
Forget it. Annabelle shut her phone off once and for all, and made her way down into the subway.
Feck’s sake. Out of coverage. Jamie threw down the phone, this time onto a nearby chair, and went back into his studio.
62y
Arrrrrrrrgggggggggh! wailed a highly-cheesed-off Pooka, watching from a vantage point high in the ether. Never leave a human to do the job of a spirit!