haven’t mentioned anything, the same old Nick, always turning a blind eye.
‘I think we should have a talk. Can you meet me?’
‘Sure,’ I say.
‘Where?’
‘Grogan’s. I can be there in
half an hour.’
The arrangement made, I hang up, throwing my
phone onto the passenger seat. In the fading light of the day, I breathe deeply, trying
to collect my thoughts. Beyond the strand the headland of Shellybanks seems crushed by
the weight of industry – cranes and chimneys and stacks of shipping containers all cast
in a pinkish glow from the dying sunset. I watch the last of the evening walkers along
the promenade and realize I’m looking for Luke among them, hopeful of catching a
glimpse of him even though Iknow he’s
not there. And when I think of his expression on the day we met, the word that comes to
mind is ‘fearful’. That thought blots out any memory of the kiss, leaving a
chill at the back of my neck as I start the engine and move my car away.
6. Nick
The taxi pulls up outside our hotel and we
are greeted by a liveried doorman, with a top hat, then ushered inside the revolving
doors. Inside it’s all marble floors and mirrored walls, chandeliers suspended
high above us. As we walk to Reception, I can see a drawing room to the right, soft
carpeting, aproned staff, armfuls of flowers in oversize vases, the room populated with
elegantly dressed women sipping tea. My wife is wearing flip-flops and torn jeans, the
rucksack on her back her only luggage, and it hits home how conspicuous we are, like
fish out of water.
In the lift, we stand side by side. The air
between us is prickly, and it’s only when I close the door of our bedroom behind
us and Lauren dumps her bag on the floor that she breaks the silence.
‘Say it,’ she says, in a voice
that is soft but challenging. ‘Go on. Say it, Nick.’
‘What?’
‘This hotel. You hate it. You think I
shouldn’t have booked it.’
I feign ignorance, but we both know
she’s hit the nail on the head. To me the hotel is too upmarket for what
we’re doing, but I don’t want to say so to her. The last thing I want, right
now, is to get into a fight. I move past her, put my bag on the low bench at the foot of
the bed, and strollto the window which opens
onto the public park that is St Stephen’s Green.
‘You’d rather I’d booked
something cheap and out of the way, right? Some hostel for backpackers where we could
bunk in a dorm with half a dozen others? I mean, it’s supposed to be our fucking
honeymoon!’
‘Lauren –’
She sweeps past me, having worked herself up
into a rage, goes into the bathroom and slams the door behind her. I collapse into an
armchair and drop my head into my hands. From the bathroom comes the sound of water
running, the hum and hiss of the shower. After a minute or two, I get up and find the
mini-bar, pour myself a gin and tonic, and by the time it’s finished, my nerves
have calmed and my irritation has died away. When my wife emerges from the bathroom
wrapped in a white robe, she is flushed and sheepish.
‘Feel better?’ I ask gently.
‘Yeah. You?’
I hold up my empty glass.
‘Much.’
We smile at each other then, a kind of
shyness between us, and not for the first time, I wonder how much there is that we still
have to learn about one another, about how we behave together, the rhythm of our
marriage having yet to establish itself.
‘Fix me one?’ she says, sitting
on the bed, one leg drawn up underneath her, towel-drying her damp hair. ‘We can
find somewhere else tomorrow,’ she says, in a conciliatory tone, taking her glass,
but I put my hand to her chin, tipping her face up gently so we are eye to eye.
‘Lauren, this place is
great.’
She smiles and I lean
in and kiss her, feeling a crackle of electricity in my lips as our mouths meet. Then I
lie down on the bed beside her, clasping my hands behind my head
‘I think we should have a talk. Can you meet me?’
‘Sure,’ I say.
‘Where?’
‘Grogan’s. I can be there in
half an hour.’
The arrangement made, I hang up, throwing my
phone onto the passenger seat. In the fading light of the day, I breathe deeply, trying
to collect my thoughts. Beyond the strand the headland of Shellybanks seems crushed by
the weight of industry – cranes and chimneys and stacks of shipping containers all cast
in a pinkish glow from the dying sunset. I watch the last of the evening walkers along
the promenade and realize I’m looking for Luke among them, hopeful of catching a
glimpse of him even though Iknow he’s
not there. And when I think of his expression on the day we met, the word that comes to
mind is ‘fearful’. That thought blots out any memory of the kiss, leaving a
chill at the back of my neck as I start the engine and move my car away.
6. Nick
The taxi pulls up outside our hotel and we
are greeted by a liveried doorman, with a top hat, then ushered inside the revolving
doors. Inside it’s all marble floors and mirrored walls, chandeliers suspended
high above us. As we walk to Reception, I can see a drawing room to the right, soft
carpeting, aproned staff, armfuls of flowers in oversize vases, the room populated with
elegantly dressed women sipping tea. My wife is wearing flip-flops and torn jeans, the
rucksack on her back her only luggage, and it hits home how conspicuous we are, like
fish out of water.
In the lift, we stand side by side. The air
between us is prickly, and it’s only when I close the door of our bedroom behind
us and Lauren dumps her bag on the floor that she breaks the silence.
‘Say it,’ she says, in a voice
that is soft but challenging. ‘Go on. Say it, Nick.’
‘What?’
‘This hotel. You hate it. You think I
shouldn’t have booked it.’
I feign ignorance, but we both know
she’s hit the nail on the head. To me the hotel is too upmarket for what
we’re doing, but I don’t want to say so to her. The last thing I want, right
now, is to get into a fight. I move past her, put my bag on the low bench at the foot of
the bed, and strollto the window which opens
onto the public park that is St Stephen’s Green.
‘You’d rather I’d booked
something cheap and out of the way, right? Some hostel for backpackers where we could
bunk in a dorm with half a dozen others? I mean, it’s supposed to be our fucking
honeymoon!’
‘Lauren –’
She sweeps past me, having worked herself up
into a rage, goes into the bathroom and slams the door behind her. I collapse into an
armchair and drop my head into my hands. From the bathroom comes the sound of water
running, the hum and hiss of the shower. After a minute or two, I get up and find the
mini-bar, pour myself a gin and tonic, and by the time it’s finished, my nerves
have calmed and my irritation has died away. When my wife emerges from the bathroom
wrapped in a white robe, she is flushed and sheepish.
‘Feel better?’ I ask gently.
‘Yeah. You?’
I hold up my empty glass.
‘Much.’
We smile at each other then, a kind of
shyness between us, and not for the first time, I wonder how much there is that we still
have to learn about one another, about how we behave together, the rhythm of our
marriage having yet to establish itself.
‘Fix me one?’ she says, sitting
on the bed, one leg drawn up underneath her, towel-drying her damp hair. ‘We can
find somewhere else tomorrow,’ she says, in a conciliatory tone, taking her glass,
but I put my hand to her chin, tipping her face up gently so we are eye to eye.
‘Lauren, this place is
great.’
She smiles and I lean
in and kiss her, feeling a crackle of electricity in my lips as our mouths meet. Then I
lie down on the bed beside her, clasping my hands behind my head
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