15
The next day passes quickly in a slew of signings and press across the city, and the following morning I wake up bleary-eyed for our flight to Dublin, probably looking like I’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards. I meet Jack out the front of the hotel with my bags. He, as always, is looking irritatingly good for the ungodly hour.
‘Morning,’ he says, his cheery tone like nails down a blackboard to my tired brain. Ugh. Morning people.
‘Morning,’ I echo back, my tone much less enthusiastic.
He smiles at me, a genuine smile, then he looks down at his phone. I close my eyes. It feels strange to think of London, where standing even two metres away from him like this made me want to scream. Where before he unleashed a storm of violent feelings in me, now I feel almost … calm.
But before I can dwell too much on that thought, the car arrives to take us to the airport. I turn my gaze out the window, watching Paris pass us by. It’s beautiful at this time of day – the soft morning light grazes empty streets, and Notre Dame sits silent and majestic, free of milling tourists. In my short time here I haven’t found Paris to be a particularly peaceful place, but in this moment that’s just what it is: a city asleep, its elegance shining quietly, all the more lovely for being unobserved. I’m going to miss it, I realise – but leaving means we’re moving on to the last leg of the tour. One more location. Then I’m back to Sara, and New York, and my plants. I can show up at Sara’s big glass flat and hug her, and we can work out all this stuff with my mum, and I won’t have to miss her anymore.
We navigate through the airport and board the plane easily – we’re two of about five passengers. It seems early morning flights to Ireland aren’t all that popular. Just as I reach my seat, my phone lights up with a call from my mum. I take a deep breath and answer without thinking.
‘Hi, Mum,’ I say, my voice cracking.
‘Andie!’ she says, her tone full of joy that I’ve answered. ‘How are you doing, love?’
‘I’m OK,’ I say, another half-lie – they’re becoming more and more common with my mum. But I don’t need to get into that now. ‘We’re about to leave for Dublin. I’m on the plane, actually. I might not be able to talk for long—’ I start, but she cuts me off.
‘Don’t worry, love. I am just calling because there’s something important I need to tell you, something that Nigel and I have been discussing—’ the name sends a ripple of panic up my spine, my senses alive for the pain that will follow. But it doesn’t come immediately.
‘Yes?’ I say, relieved by its absence, but still tense, expectant. ‘I hope you had a nice lunch, by the way,’ I add, in an attempt to sound normal, to diffuse the emotions that are currently raging through me.
‘Oh, thank you, darling – it was lovely. Now, I wanted to tell you—’
A voice chimes from my right, cutting my mum off. ‘Excuse me,’ the air hostess says, hands on her hips. I pull my phone away from my ear momentarily, my mum’s voice still ringing out of it. ‘All phones on airplane mode, please. And seatbelts on, ready for take off.’
‘I’m so sorry, Mum,’ I say, putting my phone back to my ear and talking over her. She’s saying something about the summer, a garden. ‘I have to go.’
‘Oh—’ she says, sounding disappointed. ‘OK, love. But you got all that, right? And you’re okay with it?’
‘Yes, of course,’ I say. My dad always said he wanted to do more with our garden, but he was hardly obsessed with it. If Nigel wants to plant some rose bushes, it’s not my business.
The air hostess raises her eyebrows at me. ‘Love you, Mum,’ I say, talking over her again. ‘I’m so sorry, but I really have to go now. Bye.’
‘Bye, love—’ she starts, but I hang up.
Love you, sorry. Air hostess being grumpy! Xxx I text her.
No worries, love. So pleased you’re OK with it all. I’ll tell Nigel! Xxx
I frown slightly at her text – it seems a bit of an odd response, for some gardening. But I suppose stranger things have happened, and given my display on the Heath she wasn’t wrong to be concerned I might overreact. I lock my phone and put it in airplane mode then put my headphones in. Jack does the same, and we settle into our seats in comfortable silence. I fall asleep about half an hour in and wake up to see rolling green fields outside the plane window. I can almost smell the fresh, clean Irish air. I turn to find Jack asleep too, and gently nudge him with my elbow. He wakes up looking a little disoriented, then smiles the same wide, genuine smile he aimed at me earlier. I look away, rifling through my bag to check my passport is there.
‘We’re here,’ I say, my voice informative and nonchalant, and turn back to gazing at the Irish countryside as our plane pitches lower and lower towards it.
The plane lands, rattling onto the tarmac, and a few moments later we’re clambering out of our seats and rooting around for our bags. Mine is in an awkward corner of the overhead cabin – it must have slid to one side while we were landing. I reach over and manage to grasp it by the handle, dragging it towards me, but it’s heavy and I lose balance as it tips out, hurtling towards me. Before it hits me, Jack’s hand shoots past me and steadies it, his fingers clasping over mine on the handle. They stay that way for a moment, and I catch his eye, my hand horribly and completely aware of his touch. For a split second I see a look in his eyes that I recognise, that takes me suddenly and inescapably back to a bar in Edinburgh, five and a half years ago. Then he springs away and turns to grab his case, deliberately avoiding my gaze. So he’s thinking about that, too . A blush spreads across my face, my cheeks blazing. I focus intently on the handle of my suitcase, sliding it up carefully, avoiding his gaze as he’s avoiding mine, willing my thoughts away from that night, that dark bar, his hand grazing mine.
The announcement blares that the doors to the plane are opening, breaking me out of my extremely dangerous reverie. I take a breath of the cool air as it rushes through the cabin, breathe it out slowly and make my way swiftly towards the door.
I don’t look at Jack again as we go through the airport, and he seems to have developed a sudden and burning interest in airport signage, so we make it most of the way to the car without having to make eye contact again.
I slip into my seat, willing the journey to be swift and short so I can have some time in my room to decompress and get my brain the hell away from any thoughts about Jack that aren’t totally and completely detached and professional. The streets of Dublin pass us by, a blur of old buildings and new, Georgian shopfronts adjacent to high-rise buildings, ramshackle lanes giving way to wider city streets. I catch sight of a few people wearing what look to be rugby shirts. There must be a game on.
We’re in the car for a while, and I look up from scrolling through my emails to find the streets are no longer ones I recognise from the trips I took with my dad when I was little – this hotel must be on the outskirts. I really should’ve paid more attention to our hotels from a geographical perspective, rather than just memorising their addresses. But we keep driving and a few moments later the streets have given way to a road that looks suspiciously rural and winding. I pull out my work phone and scroll through my emails, looking for the hotel booking confirmation. A few ping through at once, suddenly loading now I’m connected to an Irish data network. All from Jessica, all in increasing states of panic. I read through them, digesting the information. Our hotel booking was cancelled last minute: flooding, apparently. She found out a few hours ago and has been trying to get through to me but we were still on the plane. Everywhere in Dublin is booked up for the Six Nations – which explains the rugby fans I spotted. The closest place she could find with availability is in a village half an hour outside Dublin. She gave the driver the new address before we landed, so that’s where we’re heading now.
As I’m about to explain the situation to Jack, my phone chimes with a final email: the new hotel booking. I open it and stare at it for a few seconds, my brain not quite registering what’s happening. This can’t be right. Jessica must have made two bookings, and only sent one. ‘There’s only one room,’ I say to myself, horror slowly spreading through me.
‘Sorry?’ Jack says, his brow furrowed in confusion.
‘One sec,’ I say, scanning the email again. Fuck. It’s there, clear as day – two guests, twin suite. I look up at Jack. ‘Sorry, it’s just – our booking was cancelled, and my boss has found us a new hotel outside Dublin. But there must be something wrong with the new booking. It says there’s only one room.’
‘May I?’ Jack asks, and I hand the phone over. He looks over it for a moment, and raises his eyebrows. ‘It’s a twin room, apparently,’ he says, looking up at me. ‘So we won’t have to share a bed, at least.’
I squeeze my eyes shut, hard. ‘Excellent news, thanks Jack,’ I say, in a faux-enthusiastic tone, then sigh. At this point, reality is sinking in – Jessica must have either made the booking in a hurry and not noticed the rooms were joined together, or neglected to tell me because she was so tired and stressed. I take a deep breath and kick my brain into gear: there must be a way out of this. Perhaps I can find a camping shop and buy a tent to sleep in?
Jack doesn’t respond, so after a few seconds of silence, I open my eyes and look up at him, to see that he’s – smiling, his eyes sparkling with amusement. How the hell is he enjoying this?
‘This isn’t funny,’ I huff, crossing my arms and turning to look out the window.
‘Come on, it’s a little funny,’ he says, and when I look back at him he raises his eyebrows at me, expectant. I’m still horrified by the prospect of having no time away from him, but to my surprise I find a laugh building in my chest. I repress it, and return my face to its previous horrified expression quickly, before he can register any amusement.
‘Shut up, it’s not,’ I say, and return to staring at the Irish scenery.
But he’s not giving in. ‘I saw you smile just then,’ he says, his voice light and mocking. Damn. Not quick enough .
I breathe out. ‘Fine,’ I say, through gritted teeth. ‘It’s a little funny. In the way that the story about the man who was pretending to fall into the Grand Canyon to make his daughter laugh and then actually fell into the Grand Canyon and died is funny.’
He laughs. ‘Jesus, Andie, that’s dark.’
‘My point exactly. It’s both horrifying and hilarious that I’d rather throw myself out of this car than share a hotel room with you, but I’m going to have to sleep next to you for the next four days.’
I bite my lip, aware that my words came out a little harsher than intended. He is silent for a moment, and I’m momentarily worried I’ve gone too far, but then he breathes out a slow whistle.
‘I think that might qualify as a violation of the truce.’
‘Oh for God’s sake. I don’t care about the truce right now.’
‘I’m just saying, that was not very nice.’
‘Jack—’
‘—In fact, I think it was definitely hostile.’
I exhale sharply and turn towards him, my retort on my tongue, but find him with such an open and amused expression that it completely disarms me. I stare at him in silence for a fraction of a second, then suddenly the laugh builds until I can repress it no longer – it bursts out of me, and he’s laughing too.
In the seconds of silence that follow, as I’m looking at him and catching my breath, everything that’s been weighing me down for the last few weeks falls away, the pretence momentarily fading. We really could be just two people, in a car, with no past between us. My breathing slows, and he opens his mouth like he’s about to say something. But then, suddenly, we’re shunted forwards, the car coming to an abrupt halt. The jolt of the brakes brings me to my senses, and I look away, the moment gone, my attention very firmly back to the present and our less-than-ideal sleeping situation. We gather our various bags and exit onto the gravel driveway leading up to the hotel.
It is magnificent: stone turrets rise up into the sky above us, giving way to a cliff which falls into the sea, waves lapping against the shore. We’re staying in a castle . A castle! The new hotel booking gave us something, at least. I drag my suitcase across the driveway, bringing a large clump of gravel with me as I do so, and enter a room with a vast, vaulted ceiling. Wooden beams curve across it, giving it the feel of a medieval entrance hall. It probably was a medieval entrance hall, once. But now it’s a hotel reception. I take the lead, heading across the room to the desk and asking if they have a spare room. The concierge shakes his head – I’m the third person to ask today, apparently, but they’re fully booked. He checks us in and hands me two keys. I give Jack his, and it occurs to me as we’re climbing the stairs that we’re going to have to talk about ground rules: what if I walk in on him naked? But I immediately regret this line of thinking – it brings up an unwanted image of Jack, his eyes on me, unbuttoning his shirt, which I swiftly shove back into the box it came from. Jesus. What is wrong with me today?
Jack presses the key to the door and opens it. My first thought is that it’s not as bad as I’d imagined: the front room has a few amenities – a kettle, some teabags, a fridge full of drinks and an ironing board. The view out to the coast is breathtaking. There’s a chaise longue in the corner and a small, glorified camp bed by the window. To my right is an opening into the main suite, where a four-poster bed takes up the bulk of the space. ‘Twin’ is a generous term , I think. I’m also disappointed to see that there’s not a door to close between us, but with some creative use of the imagination this is almost separate rooms. In the grand scheme of unfortunate situations it’s still not ideal, but there’s a wall, at least. Jack and I glance at each other awkwardly for a fraction of a second. ‘I’ll take the smaller bed,’ I say, before he can do anything noble, and he nods and moves through into the other room.
I put my suitcase next to the bed as the full reality of this situation settles over me: all I want, right now, is a little time to get myself together and strategise for the next four days. But Jack is still here, three metres away, unpacking his bag. His presence draws my attention like a magnet: I hear the slow unzip of his suitcase, the rustling of his clothes, even the sound of his breath. ‘I’m going to shower,’ I say, grabbing one of the towels and heading towards the bathroom.
He looks up from his unpacking – I can see him, through the entryway to his part of the suite – and nods. ‘Enjoy,’ he says, and returns his attention to his suitcase.
The hot water reaches parts of me which desperately need soothing, washing comfort over my limbs. I breathe in the steam, grateful for the privacy. Four more days . I scan through the reports I’ve been sending Jessica every few days in my mind: objectively, on a purely professional level, we’ve been doing OK since the truce. I’ve been much more on my game, and Jack seems reasonably happy – he no longer jumps like a startled rabbit every time I look in his direction. Overall, the tour has gone smoothly. No cancelled events, no catastrophes – except for the journalist from London, who seems to have gone sour on us after her aborted attempt to corner Jack about his relationship to his father. But even that turned out fine: she’s just declined to print a review, which is more of a relief than anything – it definitely would’ve been coloured by her personal bias. The rest of his press has been excellent, and the TV director did reply to my email in the end and has booked Jack for a show in a few months’ time, when he’s back in the UK. We even had an email from the grumpy radio host in Berlin, thanking me for my performance with the interview. So far, so relatively good. Touch wood.
This evening, we’re going to an event in one of the largest bookshops in the city, Hodges Figgis. It’s half Irish launch, half celebration of Jack’s bestselling status over here – he’s been top of their bestseller list since publication. I am absolutely praying that I’m not going to encounter anyone like the charming men I met in London at Jack’s launch. I’m not sure I could handle that – not on top of everything else. If someone says something dismissive to me this evening, after I’ve discovered I have to share a room with Jack for four days, I’ll probably cry.
As I get out of the shower, I realise I have made a fatal mistake – I’ve forgotten to bring a change of clothes with me. Jack is, quite possibly, about to see me in a towel. Fuck. I briefly consider just staying in here for the rest of the evening, but really there’s nothing else for it. I open the door and emerge slowly, towel wrapped like a vice, intending to grab some clothes and return to the bathroom as quickly as possible, but to my surprise – and intense relief – I find the room empty.
Even still, I keep my towel firmly wrapped as I make my way over to the bed, unzip my suitcase and choose a simple skirt and blouse combination, rooting around for a pair of tights I haven’t yet laddered on this trip.
I’m self-conscious as I change, worried that Jack might come back at any moment – I pull my clothes on quickly, keeping the door in my peripheral vision. When I’m dressed, and I’ve applied my lipstick, I sneak a glance at my personal phone. I’ve somehow had it on airplane mode since I got off the plane, so preoccupied by the hotel scenario that I didn’t think to check it. A text welcoming me to Ireland and letting me know about phone rates greets me, along with something else – a missed call and a voicemail from my mum. Oh shoot – I had planned to call her back after the plane landed, but was so caught up in the hotel debacle that I forgot. I pause for a second, considering. Even though the message will be run-of-the-mill, probably, an extension of her earlier questions about the garden, this feels too personal to listen to in here, where Jack might walk in and find me. The thought makes me feel vulnerable. I check the time: I have about fifteen minutes until we need to leave for the event this evening, so I might as well head out early and find somewhere to sit outside before the car arrives.
I make my way down to reception and back through the vast wooden entrance. The air is still and cold, the silence broken up only by the sound of waves hitting the cliffs below. I walk around the edge of the stone walls until I find a bench which overlooks the ocean, then take a seat and pull out my phone, clicking the ‘call voicemail’ button.
I gaze out at the sea as I listen to the automated message – I’ve always found the ocean soothing, its vastness making everything seem smaller somehow. I click on the right number to listen to my mum’s voice, and for a moment it blends with the sound of the waves, its tone as soft, as soothing.
‘Andie, love!’ her voice comes out of the phone. She asks me if I’ve landed in Ireland, if the flight was OK. I wait for the mention of Nigel and only flinch momentarily when it comes: she’s spoken to him and he’s delighted that I’ve given my blessing, apparently. They’ve done a lot of the planning already, but would love my input on a few things. The message is short – she gets cut off by something Nigel says in the background, then tells me she’ll call me back. They’re really taking this garden stuff seriously , I think – it’s sweet, though, that they want me to be involved. I lock my phone and put it back in my pocket, making a plan to call my mum back in the morning – I don’t want another short, abortive phone call. I want to talk to her properly. To give her a chance to tell me about this person in her life, without making an excuse to leave. After all, I’ve managed to hear about Nigel twice now without falling into a black hole of grief. Maybe I’ve been overthinking this – maybe I just needed a second to process things. The more I hear about him, the more I get used to the idea of my mum spending time with someone else. And I like the idea of our garden being full of flowers again. I lean back on the bench, closing my eyes and letting the rhythmic crashing of the waves wash over me. As I do, the muffled sounds of someone talking reach me – they must be on the other side of the wall.
‘OK, sure,’ the voice says. As my ears adjust, I pick up more of the sound and realise the voice is familiar: it’s Jack.
‘No, really, it’s fine,’ he says, moving into my peripheral vision. He’s far enough that he probably won’t notice me, but I can see him: he’s pacing along the grass about a hundred metres away. His posture is tense, strained. Whoever is on the other side of the line has given him some bad news, clearly.
‘Yep. See you then.’ He finishes the call, his tone clipped, and throws his phone to the ground. Wow, OK. That must have been some really bad news. I watch as he takes a run-up towards the castle, kicking out at the wall with his right foot. The resulting collision looks incredibly painful, but he doesn’t seem to notice.
I’ve never seen this side of Jack. At Edinburgh, he was always the peacemaker, the calm one. The other sports boys used to get in fights all the time, but never him. Jack broke up the fights, cool as a cucumber, then went back to standing on the sidelines with an easy smile on his face. He was never angry, or violent like the others. And I know all too well how violent they could be , I think, suddenly. My stomach twists, my mind flashing without warning to a much younger me standing outside the student union in Edinburgh, shock pulsing through me, my hand pressed to my face. But I don’t want to think about that, not now. Not ever again. I pull my thoughts away and turn my gaze back to Jack.
He’s moved away from the wall, now, and I watch as he sinks into a nearby bench and puts his head in his hands. The tension in his posture crumples – he looks defeated. The charming veneer is totally gone. This Jack is stripped back, vulnerable.
I go back and forth in my mind, unsure what to do. On the one hand, Jack is clearly upset and should probably be left alone. On the other, I’m not sure how I’m going to spend the whole evening pretending I haven’t just seen him playing football with the battlements. In the end, just as I decide I should leave, it’s too late: Jack turns to walk towards the car park and spots me. He stares at me for a moment, stunned, then walks slowly towards me.
‘Hi,’ I say, lamely, once he’s in hearing distance. ‘I promise I wasn’t following you.’
To my surprise, he laughs. In a moment, all traces of his outburst have disappeared: normal, easy-going Jack has returned. He runs a hand through his hair.
‘I take it you saw that?’ His tone is playful, but there’s an undercurrent I can’t quite place.
I nod. ‘I won’t ask,’ I say, trying for a smile which indicates I’m not concerned that he just drove his foot into a thousand-year-old stone wall.
His posture relaxes almost imperceptibly. ‘I think I broke my toe,’ he says, laughing again and indicating his right foot. ‘It really fucking hurts.’
‘Do you think it falls under my job description to take you to hospital?’ I ask, only half joking. The next few days won’t be much fun if he has to hobble around the city on a broken toe.
‘I’ve seen worse,’ he grimaces, shaking out his foot and putting his full weight on it. Pain briefly crosses his face, but only for a second. ‘See? Good as new.’
‘Jack—’ I start, but he just balances on one leg and aims the full wattage of his charming smile at me. I give up and sit back, looking over the ocean. ‘It’s really beautiful here,’ I say to no one in particular, watching the waves crashing against the rocks below, the soft dusk light fading on the horizon. The vast space before me, the grass under my feet, the castle behind me – all seem to be of another time, another life. I feel a million miles away from New York.
‘It is,’ he says, and he walks over to the bench and sits down next to me. We watch the swell together for a few moments, a silence settling between us. I become increasingly aware of my proximity to Jack: if I moved a few inches to my right, our legs would touch. ‘Thank you,’ he says, his voice low. I look up at him, surprised.
‘For what?’ I ask.
‘For not asking.’
I draw a breath and shift in my seat, a warmth moving up the back of my neck. I need to stifle this before it goes any further. ‘You underestimate how little I care about your life, Jack,’ I say, my tone carefully nonchalant.
In the brief silence that follows, I’m worried I’ve gone too far again. But he laughs, then stands up. ‘Fair enough,’ he says, smiling.
I check my watch. ‘The car should be here by now,’ I say. ‘You can go ahead – I’ll be there in two seconds.’ He nods and starts walking towards the car park.
I gaze out at the sea for a moment longer, wrestling with the half-truth I just told him. It’s true that it isn’t my business how many walls he kicks. But watching him fall apart on that bench, part of me wanted to reach out, to ask what happened to make him so angry, to make the Jack Carlson persona fall away. I take a deep breath and stand up. Keep your head in the game, Andie , I think, as I turn my back on the sprawling coastline and head towards the car. Just four more days.