16
The ride in the taxi passes in mostly silence, save Jack pointing out the occasional landmark as we approach the centre of Dublin. I don’t tell him it’s unnecessary, that I’ve been here before, a lifetime ago, with my dad: that’s not a conversation for this evening. We’re dropped off outside a beautiful bookshop, with about five hundred copies of Jack’s book making up a spectacular window display. I look over at him to see his reaction, but he seems distracted as we arrive, his mind on something; perhaps the news he received on the phone. His limp is almost imperceptible but I see the way he winces as he transfers weight onto his right foot. I’ve never understood men punching and kicking things when they’re angry: I’d never have the force of will to risk hurting myself like that, however angry I was. Even the thought makes me feel ill.
The shop is full – the event is open to the public, so industry people are clustered in groups alongside locals, all holding glasses of warm wine. This is much more my speed than the event in London: friendly, not too official, and with the UK publishing staple of cheap, room temperature alcoholic beverages. I grab a glass of red for myself. Jack grabs a glass of white. For a moment, I hesitate, unsure what to do: there’s a man here somewhere called Declan who we were supposed to be meeting at the door, but I can’t really see anyone around who looks official. I’m about to pull out my phone and search my emails for further instructions when a joyful voice trills from behind me:
‘There’s the man of the hour!’
Whoever the voice belongs to claps Jack on the back so jovially that he chokes a little on his wine. We both turn to find a man who is about five feet tall, portly and exuding warmth. He looks delighted to see us, and I brighten as he reaches out his hand to shake mine.
‘Declan Sweeney – a pleasure to meet you, miss.’
‘Andie,’ I say, returning his smile and his handshake. At this, if possible, he looks even more delighted.
‘You’re the famous Andie! Delighted, I’m sure. Thanks for all you’ve done.’
All I’ve done is sort out some stock issues with the Irish sales team to ensure there were enough books this evening, and – my main job – getting Jack here on time and in one piece (mostly successful, apart from his almost-broken toe). So in the grand scheme of things, not much. But this is worlds away from the audience I received in London, so I find myself basking in his gratitude. I look up at Jack to see him looking at Declan with an almost familial gaze. He mentions the window display, which results in an effusive spiel about how much this particular book means to the Irish community, and how delighted they are to be publishing it. Jack seems more himself here than I’ve seen him in a while – he’s relaxed, blushing at Declan’s praise rather than brushing it off. Declan then takes us over to what he calls his ‘secret’ fridge in the back of the shop, stocked with a small amount of chilled wine and beer – ‘only for the VIPs,’ he says – secures us each a cold drink, then asks if he can steal Jack from me for a moment to introduce him round. I nod my assent, and watch as Declan steers Jack towards an excitable group of people on the other side of the room, who look to be the rest of his Irish publishing team. There’s a woman at the centre of it who I recognise – she’s beautiful, with strawberry blonde hair, and she greets Jack with the familiarity of an old friend. It takes me a moment, but eventually I place her as another successful author: Aoife Smith.
I watch as she touches Jack’s arm and throws her head back to laugh at something he’s said. Something stirs inside me. Wasn’t her last book a bit crap? I’m sure I read that somewhere. In fact, I remember the review: it described her writing as dull and dreary.
But this is none of my business: just a beautiful, successful author flirting with another beautiful, successful author. I mean, a reasonably and objectively good looking successful author. Ugh . I tear my gaze from them and scan the room for anyone I’ve met before, eventually finding a few people from Jack’s literary agency who I’ve seen on Zoom calls before. I head over and introduce myself to them, and pass the next hour in small talk. I’m convinced I’ve put Aoife to the back of my mind but then the person I’m talking to says ‘Keeping an eye on your charge, are you?’ and I snap to attention. Fuck. I must have been glancing over there without realising. I nod, and take a swig of my wine. The woman who spoke raises her eyebrows. ‘Looks like they’re having a nice time …’
I follow her gaze and see Aoife whisper something in Jack’s ear. He laughs, and for a moment I’m transported back to that bar in Edinburgh, my face close to his like that, him asking if I wanted to go somewhere more private. Oh God. Unsafe thoughts, unsafe thoughts. I down the rest of my wine and sneak one more glance in Jack’s direction. He’s looking right at me. The wine I’ve just gulped sticks in my throat and I have perhaps the most embarrassing coughing fit ever, resulting in my white blouse being thoroughly stained by red wine. When I look back up, Jack has disappeared. I’m thanking God that he didn’t see and wondering where I might find a new blouse at this time of night when he reappears next to me.
‘Nice shirt,’ he says, a knowing smirk on his face. So he did see. Brilliant.
I smile sweetly back at him, aware that we are surrounded by industry professionals and he is my author, and whisper, ‘Bite me.’
He throws up his hands in mock-surrender and says, ‘I only came over because I can solve this problem, if you like. But if you don’t want my help …’ He turns to walk away.
‘Jack,’ I hiss, and he turns back around. ‘What kind of help?’
‘Follow me,’ he says ominously, and I follow him across the room to the coat rack, where he retrieves his rucksack, then to the back room with Declan’s secret fridge. He rummages around for a moment, then pulls out a patterned button up shirt. I frown at him, confused, and he looks at me for a moment as if assessing something.
‘You must take this to your grave,’ he says, throwing the shirt at me.
‘Take what to my grave?’ I ask, eyeing up the shirt. It’s cool, and not too large – I can make it work. It’s certainly better than my current situation.
‘I get nervous at events, sometimes, especially big ones like this.’ He gestures to his armpits, covered at present by a blazer. ‘And I sweat. A lot, actually. I once sweated through my shirt, and it was mortifying. I didn’t have a jacket to cover it. Ever since that happened I always bring a spare.’
I’m not sure how to react to this – I’m halfway between endeared to him and disgusted by this information. ‘I’d never have guessed you get nervous,’ I say, checking the door is firmly locked and gesturing at him to turn around. ‘You always seem so confident.’
‘It’s all a front,’ he says, turning to face the wall.
‘Interesting,’ I say, distracted, fumbling with the buttons of his shirt as I pull it on. ‘I’ve never understood why buttons are the other way around for men. Are you all left-handed, or something?’
‘Throw it here,’ Jack says, after a few moments of listening to me struggle. ‘They’re surprisingly stiff on that shirt. I’ll do some of them up for you.’
I pull off the shirt and throw it across the room, keen to get this over with so we can get back to the party. It lands half way between us. Fuck. ‘Have you thrown it yet?’ he says, as I lunge for my blouse so I can cover myself while I retrieve it and throw it the rest of the way.
‘I didn’t throw it far enough,’ I say, grappling with my blouse, ‘give me a—’
But he’s already, reflexively, turned round to look for it. Our eyes meet, and for a fraction of a second it’s as if we’ve rewound five years and we’re back in his dorm room, our clothes scattered across the floor between us. But then he looks down, grabs the shirt and mumbles ‘Sorry’, before quickly turning back to the wall. I catch my breath as he buttons up the shirt, and by the time he throws it back to me I’ve come to my senses.
‘Aoife seems to like you,’ I say, keen to divert the subject literally anywhere else, but also – despite myself – driven by curiosity about what exactly is going on between them.
He laughs. ‘Ah, yes. Aoife. She’s good fun.’
My cheeks burn. If he picked up on the loaded nature of my comment, which he must have, he hasn’t denied that anything is going on. In fact, I think ‘good fun’ is pretty well known slang for ‘we’ve fucked.’ I have a sudden, inexplicable urge to peel off my own skin.
‘It’s a shame you won’t have a hotel room to bring her back to, then,’ I say, and immediately regret it: the silence which follows is heavy and awkward.
‘Is that what it looks like to you?’ he says. His tone is odd, his voice quiet.
I can’t help myself. ‘Can you blame me?’ I say, some of my Edinburgh pain seeping out without warning. He mutters something under his breath which sounds like a swear word, and I want to ask what he said, but I don’t. Instead, I watch as he slowly turns around and looks at the shirt I’ve now successfully pulled over my head.
‘Looks good on you,’ he says, his expression carefully controlled. A thousand things come into my mind that I could say in this moment, but I push them all away. ‘Shall we go back out?’ he says, and I keep my eyes averted from his and say ‘Sure’, then follow him through the door and watch him return to Aoife.
I sigh and go to turn away, to find the people I was with earlier. But something stops me and I watch them for a moment more. Jack’s posture is different this time – more closed. He’s put a little more distance between them. When she puts her hand on his arm, he shifts to point something out on the wall, so her touch falls away. The signs are subtle, but they’re all there: clearly my words have affected him. As I’m watching, Jack’s gaze flickers around the room and suddenly lands on me. Fuck . That’s the second time he’s caught me being a creep this evening. What is wrong with me? I feel a blush cross my cheeks, give him a tight-lipped smile and turn away, crossing the room in search of another drink. This evening is already really, really out of hand: I’ve exposed myself to Jack, insulted him and voluntarily alluded to the fact that we’ve slept together. I might as well lean in while I’m here.
Happily, after a few moments of wandering I bump into Declan, who pours me a glass of his ‘special wine’ – an expensive red, which he keeps hidden with the rest of the nicer drinks. Just as delightful as he was when I met him earlier, he asks me about my career and listens with interest. At the end of my description of the last five years – moving to New York, working my way up from intern to here – he kindly says that if I ever want a job in Ireland I should get in touch. After this evening, I’m not sure I would hire me as a publicist, but nevertheless a few glasses later, we are getting along like a house on fire. So well, in fact, that I haven’t noticed that most of the shop has emptied while we’ve been talking. Jack’s soft tap on my shoulder alerts me to the party drawing to a close. He tells me the car has arrived on schedule with minimal eye contact, then heads off to wait for me by the door. Three weeks ago this was my goal – to annoy him enough that he would leave me alone – but this evening I don’t feel good about it.
I say my goodbyes to Declan, grab my coat and the wine-splattered blouse I’ve balled up inside it, and head over to the door, which Jack wordlessly holds open for me. Guilt curdles in my stomach. I could apologise, but that would involve revisiting what I said, and I’m not sure either of us wants that. So instead, I get silently into the car, praying that the journey back to the hotel will go by quickly so I can get into bed and sleep off this whole evening.
He spends the first ten minutes of the car ride with his back to me, looking out of the window. The wine is swirling in my brain and my eyes feel heavy. I lean back in my seat and let them flutter shut. For a few moments, I let myself drift off – then, suddenly, the car pitches with a horrible scraping sound, and we grind to a halt. My stomach drops. That didn’t sound good, and we’re still a few miles from the hotel. Jack looks at me, concerned, apparently now acknowledging my existence. My breath catches for a second and I’m flooded with strange relief at his gaze. Then the driver swears and gets out of the car to assess the damage, breaking me out of it. I push open the car door and stumble onto the road in my heels.
It’s bad. I don’t know much about cars, but I know that having most of your back wheel jammed in a pothole, the tire creased and coming away from the wheel, means you’re probably not going anywhere anytime soon. I pull out my phone, ready to call a taxi, or for roadside assistance, and the dreaded ‘No Signal’ appears in the top corner. I look across at Jack – he’s frowning at his phone, too.
‘Any luck?’ he says, breaking the silence that has stretched between us since we left the party, and I shake my head. He goes to talk to the driver, who appears to be having the same issue. Brilliant. We are in the opening of a Criminal Minds episode, about to be horrifically murdered.
I take a few deep breaths and force myself to think straight, cursing myself for tempting fate in the shower earlier by celebrating the lack of catastrophes so far. ‘That village we passed a few minutes ago,’ I say, eventually, the image of a few lit-up houses coming to mind. ‘It’s probably only a short walk. Let’s go there and find a landline.’
It’s as good a plan as I can think of in these circumstances, except for the fact that I’m wearing heels, but that can’t be helped. Jack and our driver, Jonathon, take the lead down the deserted country track. They remain a few paces ahead of me, making small talk, Jack back to carefully ignoring me as I drag my feet through the gravel. We walk for what feels like five hours, but is probably about twenty minutes, until we reach a small, quaint village.
In the darkness, the warm lights from peoples’ windows are a welcome sign of civilisation. I look around briefly and spot a pub a few hundred metres away with a few people clustered outside it. Jack has spotted the same thing – I follow him towards it, crossing the village green, trying not to lose my shoes in the grass.
Inside, the pub is warm and lively, with oak-panelled walls and exposed stone, and a beaten-up piano in the corner. Most of the village appear to be here this evening, watching recaps of the rugby matches from today. The mood is jolly: it seems Ireland had a successful day. I make for the bar, passing a few men wearing Ireland scarves and swaying on their feet, and find a bartender with unruly red hair and an open, kind face who looks to be in her mid-fifties.
‘What can I do for you, love?’ she says, with a warm smile. I take a breath and explain our car situation, asking to use her phone.
‘Of course you can, dear,’ she says, gesturing to a landline at the end of the bar. I move towards it, then realise I don’t know who I’m supposed to be calling. A taxi first, probably. Then some kind of vehicle recovery service. I glance back at Jack, hovering by the door, and quickly turn away.
‘Do you have the number for a local taxi company or mechanic?’ I ask, and she laughs.
‘Well,’ she says, pointing across the room at an extremely drunk man sitting in the corner, nursing two pints at once. ‘There’s Dave, your local taxi man.’ As I’m watching, Dave attempts to stand up, loses balance, and thumps back into his chair. Excellent. ‘And our mechanic Simon is in the Seychelles, if you can believe. Lucky bastard.’ Even more excellent.
‘What about Uber?’ I ask, desperately. ‘Do you have WiFi I can use?’
The look she gives me is one of gentle pity.
‘You’d be hard pushed to find an Uber this far out of Dublin, love. And I’m afraid our WiFi’s been down since Tuesday. Bad signal round these parts.’
Fuck . I thank her and start to turn away, thinking about what I’m going to say to Jack and Jonathon. Perhaps I’ll convince them to resort to plan B – banging on peoples’ doors and begging them to drive us back to the hotel. But just as I’m about to leave, she calls from behind me: ‘Tell you what – my son is Simon’s apprentice. He’s got some tools in his truck. I’ll have him take a look at the car, and if he can’t fix it he can give you a lift to Malahay.’
I glance at Jack again, who’s shifting his weight off his injured foot. I would rather not sit with him in a pub, alone, at this point of the evening, but unless I want to offer my own services as a mechanic it looks like this might be our only option.
‘Thank you, that would be great,’ I say, careful to sound as grateful and cheery as possible. She ventures briefly upstairs and returns with a boy in his late teens who looks like he hasn’t left his room in a few weeks. Jack makes his way over to the bar to find out what’s happening – I fill him in, and we watch the bartender’s son introduce himself to Jack’s driver. The two disappear through the door into the darkness outside, and I don’t envy them. Or perhaps I do. Because Jack is currently standing next to me, avoiding eye contact, and it’s clear that neither of us want to speak first.
‘Drink?’ he says, finally, still not looking at me. There’s a weird charge between us, like in the bookshop in Paris, but far less comfortable. I nod. He orders – a pint for himself and a glass of red wine for me – and we find a corner of the pub which is quiet enough and far enough from the television that we’re not at risk of being accosted by any drunk locals.
We sit down opposite each other, our knees almost touching under the cramped table.
‘So,’ I try, searching for safe ground. ‘That was a nice event.’
‘It was,’ he agrees. He’s still closed off, his tone carefully neutral. It’s jarring – even when I’ve really attacked him, his easy charm has never failed. Sitting opposite me now, his manner is almost cold. I shift in my seat and silence settles between us again.
‘Declan seems lovely,’ I try, after a few moments, and this gets a warmer response – Jack perks up at the mention of him, and his expression thaws slightly.
‘He is. I love working with him.’ He takes a sip of his pint, and as he leans back in his seat, regarding me, I imagine him weighing up his options – sitting opposite me in silence, perhaps all night, or at least humouring my attempt at conversation. ‘He’s actually the reason I set the book in Ireland,’ he says, finally.
‘Really?’ I lean forward, grateful he seems to have chosen the latter.
He nods. ‘He’s been my publisher in Ireland for years. When I told him I was thinking of writing a novel, he suggested I set it here. My grandfather was Irish, and I still have family here, so he convinced me to lean into those roots. I felt like a bit of a fraud at first, being only about a quarter Irish, but the way the market here has embraced it has been amazing.’
‘That window display was very cool,’ I say, an image of hundreds of Jack’s books piled up flashing into my mind. I wonder what it must feel like, to witness so many copies of something you’ve poured yourself into, piled up for the world to see. ‘Clearly, they love your book.’
‘Have you read it?’ he asks. The question catches me off guard.
‘I have,’ I say. ‘Part of the job.’
‘Did you like it?’
‘Classified,’ I say.
‘Come on, Andie. Give me something, at least.’
I shake my head slowly and sip my wine, hoping he’ll drop the subject. But I can see by his facial expression that dropping it is the last thing on his mind.
‘Another drink?’ I ask, getting up and gesturing towards the bar.
‘Sure. A beer, please.’ I breathe out, relieved that my ploy has worked. But as I turn my back on him, he says, just loud enough for me to hear, ‘I’m not going to drop this, you know.’ Fuck .
I make my way through the crowds of locals to the bar and order another round of drinks, searching for ideas to put Jack off this subject. I’m racking my brain for a solution when I see a sign advertising two shots for ￡5. It’s not the most professional of moves, but this hasn’t been the most professional of evenings. This may well distract him enough to drop the subject. I lean over the bar and order two shots along with our round.
Jack’s eyebrows nearly hit his hairline when I return to the table and place the shot in front of him.
‘To toast your Irish success!’ I say, smiling cheerily and holding up my shot glass, indicating for him to do the same. He doesn’t move. My hand hovers in mid-air, lamely.
‘I have a better idea,’ he says, leaning forwards. I stop smiling and put my shot glass back on the table. Whatever this is, I’m already sure I’m not going to like it. ‘I was thinking,’ he continues, ‘that it’s not fair for me to press you on this subject.’
Well, thank God for that. I sit back in my seat, relieved, and go to take a sip of my wine. But he’s not done.
‘Not without a quid pro quo.’
‘Jack, what are you on about?’ I ask, wine poised halfway to my mouth.
‘I suggest a trade,’ he says, gesturing to the shot glasses. ‘One shot, one question you think the other person won’t want to answer.’
I exhale sharply. ‘That sounds incredibly stupid.’ And reckless. And dangerous. But as I open my mouth again to tell him ‘No’, Aoife pops into my mind. The back of my neck burns.
He shrugs. ‘Your alternative is to for me to pester you about my book until they come back from fixing the car.’
I sip my wine slowly, meeting his gaze, deliberating. There’s no question it would be an interminably stupid move to take Jack up on this offer. And yet…
‘Could be hours,’ he adds, checking his watch for added effect. ‘I don’t tire easily.’
‘OK, fine,’ I say, finally, blocking out the rational half of my brain and lifting the shot glass again before I can regret my decision. He smiles, content with his victory, and lifts his. We knock them back at the same time. The alcohol burns the back of my throat, but I hold my smile as if I’ve just taken a sip of water.
‘Right,’ he says, leaning forwards with interest. ‘Did you like my book?’
‘Yes,’ I reply, ignoring the shiver that moves through me as I do. I feel surprisingly vulnerable, admitting this to him.
‘Which parts in particular?’ he asks, leaning in.
‘Whoops,’ I say. ‘One question only.’
He smiles. ‘Touché.’
‘My turn,’ I say, and I blurt the question before I can stop myself. ‘What did you mean, when you said Aoife was “good fun”?’
He blanches, and I can see from the look on his face that, of all the questions I could have asked, he didn’t expect that one. ‘Uh,’ he says, rubbing the back of his head, ‘nothing, really. We’ve had a few drinks, after events. She can put away pints like you wouldn’t believe.’ He looks at his own pint, his expression clouding slightly. ‘She – she has approached me, before. But that’s not – I wasn’t interested.’ He looks more flustered than he should, and I’m not sure why. I’m even less sure why I’m relieved by his answer.
‘Another round?’ I ask, to hide my own embarrassment. He nods, and I head to the bar and return a few minutes later with two more shots. He grabs his shot. I lift mine, and we drink them together again. This time, my throat is a little more numb than the last. I pick up my wine glass and prepare myself for the inevitable question of which sections of his book I enjoyed the most.
‘Why do you care what I think of Aoife?’ he says, with the shaky bravado of someone who has just spent the last five minutes building themselves up to the question. I almost drop my wine. Jesus . I steady the glass and take a sip, delaying.
‘I don’t know,’ I say, finally, my ears burning, staring at a scratch on the table. He regards me for a moment in silence. After a few painful seconds he seems to accept that I’m telling the truth and gestures to me. It’s my turn. Well. Two can play at this game, Carlson .
‘Why do you care what I think of your book?’
He purses his lips, caught. I lean back in satisfaction and sip my wine. Jack seems to be wrestling with himself. I watch for a few moments, undeterred, until eventually he answers, his voice quiet. ‘I don’t know.’
We sit for a few moments, the silence between us growing gradually less comfortable. This might be considered a stalemate, and it’s painfully awkward. I pick up the coaster in front of me and spin it on its edge.
‘It was my dad I was talking to, earlier, at the hotel,’ Jack says quietly, breaking the silence, his eyes fixed on his pint. I look up, surprised, my gaze flicking to his injured foot. The coaster I’ve been twirling drops onto the table.
‘It was stupid,’ he continues, still not looking at me. ‘A dinner we’d arranged, for when I’m back in New York, that he was cancelling. It shouldn’t make me so angry, because it happens all the time, but for some reason it still does.’
A memory flashes into my mind, now – Jack, in The Lost Bookshop in New York, telling me he used to spend hours there when he was visiting his dad. How old was he at the time? How long did his dad leave him in the bookstore, alone? I refocus on Jack, before my own dad – warm and ever-present and forever gone – intrudes on this chain of thought.
‘Remember how I told you my career so far has been an attempt to get his attention? Well, here’s the most pathetic part: he has never read a single one of my books,’ he continues, as if he’s talking to himself, sipping his beer and swallowing with vigour. ‘Not even when I’ve sent him copies. It’s why I got so flustered when the journalist asked about it. It’s not because of nepotism that he doesn’t review them. It’s because he doesn’t care.’
This admission hits me somewhere deep, filling me with inexplicable sadness. ‘Jack, I’m so sorry—’ I start, but he cuts me off.
‘It’s OK. Really. He would just find things wrong with them, anyway.’ His tone is carefully flippant, but I can see the muscles in his hand move as he clenches his glass. ‘Anyway, after my third book went ignored by him, I made the decision not to care what anyone thought about my books but myself,’ he says, folding his coaster in half, forcing a crease across the centre as if channelling his frustration into the inflexible cardboard. ‘It’s been a good policy so far,’ he says. Then he looks up, meeting my gaze, and something in his eyes makes my breath catch in my throat. ‘But for some reason, it doesn’t apply to you.’
Our eyes lock, and we sit for a second, unmoving, as if we’re fixed in place. Where the silence between us was awkward before, now it’s tense, taut – a string pulled across the table that could snap at any moment. Just as the cogs in my brain start turning, to work out what I’m supposed to say next, a raucous sound reaches us from the other side of the bar.
My head turns automatically towards it, breaking our eye contact and the strange charge between us. I can’t see what’s happening from here, but as my ears gradually adjust I realise it’s music: someone is playing the beaten up piano, and everyone else in the pub, if the deafening noise is anything to go by, is singing along. Jack catches my eye and inclines his head towards the noise in silent question, raising his eyebrows. I hesitate for a moment, then nod and stand up.
We make our way through the crowds of locals and reach the musician – a tall, thin man with a shock of black hair. He is poised, fingers over the keys, a silence descending on the pub around us. The crowd waits in anticipation, a thrill passing through them. As the music starts up again, the room comes alive: everyone clapping, singing, stamping their feet. Jack and I join them, the strange air between us caught up in the crowd, the noise, the music. We’re jostled into each other a few times, and I pull away quickly, careful not to have contact with him for too long.
As the pianist launches into another song, a feeling slowly creeps over me, dulling out the events of the last few hours, the last few weeks. I find my thoughts growing quieter, my focus pulling towards my surroundings: the music, the people, the solid oak floor under my feet. Then Jack is there, and he’s looking at me, and for a second – just a second – the room seems to slow down. He reaches up, gently, to move a piece of hair from my face, and my body comes alive with feeling.
‘Andie,’ he says, and for a moment everything falls away, like it did in the car earlier. Like we’ve just met, and we’re strangers in a bar, and I could reach across and kiss him if I wanted to. I am intensely aware of our proximity – all it would take is one step forwards to close the distance between us. The look in his eyes from the plane, from the party earlier, flashes through my mind, sending a shock across my skin. And I consider it – closing the distance. Allowing myself to stay here, for just a moment longer, in a place where there’s no pain between us. Following the desire that’s burning through me the longer he looks at me. But then there’s a sound behind us – the door to the pub opening, a rush of cold air hitting the back of my neck. I turn to see Jonathon standing in the doorway.
His arrival and the cold air brings me to my senses, knocking me back into the present. The landlady’s son crosses the room to his mum, now standing near me in the crowd, and tells her he fixed the car. Turns out it just needed the tyre changing, and he had a spare one in his truck. Jonathon waits by the door, gesturing for us to follow him. I look up at Jack, his eyes still locked on me, and the noise around me is suddenly far too loud, the pub far too crowded.
‘Thank you so much for your help,’ I say, to the woman and her son. Then I turn to Jack, avoiding eye contact. ‘Let’s go,’ I say, and I walk towards the door without looking back.
Once we’re in the car, an unbearable silence falls between us. For the first few minutes of the journey, I keep my gaze fixed on the road, determined not to break it. Though I can see Jack in my peripheral, fidgeting, his posture tense, I refuse to look at him. I just need to get back to the hotel and find somewhere to clear my head – the bar, perhaps. I’ll sleep there, if it means I can get away from Jack for a while.
‘Andie—’ he starts after a few seconds, and I’m about to interrupt him, but he cuts himself off before I can, seemingly out of words.
‘Please, Jack,’ I say gently, taking the opportunity to shut this down before it starts. ‘I’m tired. I just want to get back to the hotel,’ I say, without looking at him. He doesn’t speak again, but I can hear his breath, feel his agitation as he clenches and unclenches his hands in his lap. I focus on my own breath, deploying the same gentle yoga technique my dad taught me. I can feel my heartbeat in my throat, but it works, keeping my mind firmly blank until mercifully the car slows, pulling into the gravel driveway of our hotel. I wrench the door open almost before it has stopped moving.
‘I’m going to the bar,’ I say quickly, turning back to the car, still avoiding his gaze. ‘Don’t wait up.’
He nods, and I think I catch a flash of frustration pass across his face. But then it’s gone, and I shut the car door and practically sprint into the hotel.