40. Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty
When the doorbell rang, May didn’t bother moving.
Instead, she buried herself deeper beneath the covers, hugging a pillow tight to her chest. The faint chime echoed through the cabin, sharp against the muffled cocoon of blankets.
Her ribs ached from the pressure of holding herself together, and her head throbbed from all the tears she’d shed.
A soft knock on the door made her poke her head above the covers.‘Come in.’
‘May,’ said Jack, walking into the room. ‘Cillian’s at the door.’
May groaned. ‘Tell him I’m sleeping.’
‘I did. He insists it’s important he speaks to you.’
‘You didn’t let him in, did you?’
‘No.’ Jack scratched his chin. ‘And I feel very rude making him wait on the doorstep.’
With a sigh, May climbed out of bed. The floorboards were cool under her bare feet.
Her legs were heavy, as though she were wading through seawater.
When she glimpsed her reflection in the mirror, she barked out a laugh.
She couldn’t remember a time she’d looked worse – hair tangled, cheeks blotchy, eyes red-rimmed.
Oh well. She wasn’t going to make an effort to improve things. Cillian McDonaugh didn’t deserve it.
Wrapped in her dressing gown, May greeted him at the door with a scowl. The morning air drifted in, the delicious tang of forest and sea salt doing nothing to lift her spirits. Her stomach twisted, and she clutched the edge of her dressing gown a little tighter. ‘What do you want?’
Cillian looked as bad as May, with shadows under eyes strained with worry. May hardened her heart against feeling sorry for him.
‘Can I come in for a minute and talk to you?’ he asked.
‘You can for one minute. Then I need to get in the shower.’
May turned, listening to the light tread of Cillian’s footsteps as he followed her to the sitting room. The scent of coffee lingered in the air, Jack’s mug steaming gently on the low table. It all felt too welcoming for Cillian McDonaugh, and May wished she’d kept him standing on the doorstep.
Jack gestured to his mug. ‘Can I get you anything to drink, Cillian?’
‘He’s not staying.’ May folded her arms.
‘Right.’ Jack glanced between them. ‘I might take my coffee out onto the veranda.’
‘Good idea,’ said May. ‘I’ll join you in a minute.’
When Jack had left the room, May faced Cillian, letting the silence stretch between them.
The ticking of the old clock on the mantelpiece was painfully loud, thudding in her head like her own pulse.
When Cillian made no move to speak, May made a show of looking at her watch.
‘Your one minute is whizzing by. If I were you, I’d get to the point. ’
‘Yeah, sure.’ He rubbed his hand through his hair. ‘Sorry, I don’t know how to say this. I, well, um…’
‘Thirty seconds.’
‘I have to leave. Brian’s lined up all these press commitments and gigs in an attempt to get my career back on track. I can’t afford to stay in Saffron Bay a day longer, or I could lose everything.’
Why wasn’t May surprised? ‘When you say leave, you mean for good?’
‘Until the wedding. I’ll come back for that, obviously.’
‘What you’re saying is you’re leaving me to organise everything by myself.’
‘I’m sorry. I know there’s still so much to sort out, but it’s my career, May. Things were already looking precarious, and then … well … you know … the photos in the paper.’ He shuffled his feet. ‘Anyway, we can’t all take the summer off and swan around for a couple of months.’
‘Swan around?’ May’s voice rose. Her throat burned as if she’d swallowed saltwater. ‘That’s what you think I’ve been doing, is it?’
He held up a placating hand. ‘No, I didn’t mean that. It was a stupid thing to say. I’m sorry.’
‘It’s fine. Right, your minute is up. You’d better get going, hadn’t you?’
Cillian hesitated, took a step toward the door, and turned. ‘Will you let me know how you’re getting on? With the wedding preparations, I mean?’
‘Absolutely … not.’
‘What?’
‘Well, you’re saying you want me to do all the work and, on top of that, give you a blow-by-blow account of what I’ve been up to.’ May sniffed. ‘It doesn’t work like that, Cillian. If you’re in, you’re in. If you’re out, you’re out.’
‘It’s still my sister’s wedding, May.’
‘And clearly your career and reputation are more important.’ She waved at the door. ‘You’d better go. You don’t want to keep Brian and Kia waiting.’ The sarcasm felt good.
Cillian opened his mouth to speak, but thought better of it. He shook his head, turned to leave, and paused. With a sad smile, he gave her a half-hearted wave. ‘See you around, May Tyler.’
‘Goodbye, Cillian McDonaugh.’
May watched Cillian walk out of Jack’s cabin. The door shut with a dull thud, and May muttered under her breath, ‘And good riddance.’ Her knees buckled, and she fell onto the sofa. Every muscle ached with the effort of holding herself together.
Silence settled over the cabin, broken only by the faint creak of Jack’s boots on the veranda outside.
May’s heart hammered at the thought of trying to organise the wedding alone, with Alice barely speaking to her.
The scent of Cillian’s aftershave lingered in the room, like some sick practical joke.
May thumped her palm against her forehead.
What an idiot she’d been for believing he was different from the others.
He hadn’t even asked how she was coping. Not once had he said, Are you all right, May? I’m so sorry you’ve got tangled up in my crazy, intrusive world. His words had been all about his career, his reputation, the scramble to get back into the good books of fans and agents.
Meanwhile, every time she dared set foot outside, her skin crawled with the eyes following her.
Conversations abruptly ended when she walked into the café.
People she’d known for years crossed the street rather than speak to her.
Those newspapers hadn’t just printed lies, they’d burned her life down.
She’d gone from promising Cambridge student to local scandal in the space of two weeks, and it was all anyone wanted to talk about.
And still Cillian thought the biggest problem was a kiss that had dented his carefully curated image.
May pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes until bright sparks flared. If she thought too long about it, about the way Kia had cornered her in the kitchen with that smug warning, about the way Alice wouldn’t look her in the eye, her chest grew tight and she couldn’t breathe.
Jack poked his head through the door. ‘He’s gone?’
‘Yeah,’ May croaked, forcing her voice steady.
‘Are you all right, love?’
She nodded too quickly. ‘Fine.’
As soon as Jack retreated, May crumpled back onto the sofa, curling into herself. Fine. The word she kept using, and maybe if she said it enough times, it would come true. In truth, she was anything but fine. She felt small, empty, and humiliated.
Cillian McDonaugh would fly back to London or Dublin or wherever it was Brian told him to be, and by next week he’d be on stage again, adored, applauded, forgiven.
May would still be here in Saffron Bay, every whisper and headline clinging to her like sea salt to skin. How much longer could she bear it?