Wedding Night
Page 82
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I give up. We’ll have to have a big chat at some time—but not now.
“Of course you can.” I ruffle his hair. “But, listen. No more chatting to strangers. You know that.”
“That lady wasn’t a stranger,” he points out reasonably. “She had a badge, so I knew her name. It was Cheryl.”
Sometimes the logic of a seven-year-old is undefeatable. We return to our seats and I sit him firmly down next to me.
“Look at your sticker book and do not move.” I take out my BlackBerry and polish off a few quick emails. I’ve just agreed to an entire supplement on Arctic holidays when I pause, frowning. Something has attracted my attention. The top of a head, behind a newspaper. A dark crest of hair. Long-fingered, bony hands turning a page.
No way.
I stare, riveted, until he turns another page and I catch a glimpse of cheekbone. It’s him. Sitting five yards away, a small travel bag at his feet. What the fuck is he doing here?
Don’t tell me he’s had the same idea as me.
As he turns yet another page, looking calm and unruffled, I start to feel a burning anger. This is all his fault. I’ve had to disrupt my life, take my son out of school, and stress out all night, simply because he couldn’t keep his mouth shut. He was the one who went blundering in. He caused all this. And now here he is, looking as cool and relaxed as though he’s off on holiday.
His phone rings, and he puts down his paper to answer.
“Sure,” I can hear him saying. “I’ll do that. We’ll discuss all those issues. Yes, I know there’s a time factor.” Strain appears in his face. “I know this is not ideal. I’m doing the best I can in tricky circumstances, OK?” There’s a pause as he listens, then replies, “No, I’d say not. Need to know only. We don’t want to start the rumor mill.… OK. Right. Talk to you when I get there.”
He puts his phone away and resumes reading the paper, while I watch with growing resentment. That’s right. Lean back. Smile at a joke. Have a good time. Why not?
I’m glaring at him so hard, I feel I might start burning holes in the paper. An elderly lady sitting next to him picks up on my glare and eyes me nervously. I smile at her quickly, to indicate that it’s not her I’m livid with—but this seems to freak her out even more.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “But … is something wrong?”
“Wrong?” says Lorcan, misunderstanding and turning to her. “No, nothing’s wrong—” He catches sight of me and starts in surprise. “Oh. Hello.”
I wait for him to add a fulsome, groveling apology, but he seems to feel this greeting is enough. His dark eyes meet mine, and with no warning I have a flashback: a blurred moment of skin and lips from the middle of that night. His hot breath on my neck. My hands clutching his hair. The color comes to my cheeks and I glare at him even more venomously.
“Hello?” I echo. “Is that all you can say? ‘Hello’?”
“I guess we’re headed to the same place?” He puts his newspaper down and leans forward, his face suddenly intent. “Are you in touch with them? Because I have to talk to Ben, urgently. I have documents for him to sign. I need him to be at the hotel when I arrive. But he won’t pick up when I call. He’s avoiding me. He’s avoiding everything.”
I stare at him in disbelief. All he’s concerned with is some business deal. What about the fact that his best friend has married my sister in a totally stupid knee-jerk gesture caused by him?
“I’m in touch with Lottie. Not Ben.”
“Huh.” He frowns and turns back to the paper. How can he read the paper? I feel deeply, mortally offended that he can concentrate on the sports pages when he’s created such a mess.
“Are you OK?” He peers up at me. “You seem a little … fixated.”
I’m simmering all over with rage. I can feel my head prickling; I can feel my fists clenching. “Funnily enough, no,” I manage. “I’m not OK.”
“Oh.” He glances at the paper yet again, and something inside me snaps.
“Stop looking at that!” I leap up and grab it from his hands before I’m fully aware of what I’m doing. “Stop it!” I crumple the paper furiously and throw it on the floor. I’m panting and my cheeks are blazing.
Lorcan stares at the paper, apparently bemused.
“Mummy!” says Noah, in delighted shock. “Litterbug!”
All the other airline passengers have turned to stare at me. Great. And now Lorcan is gazing up at me too, dark brows drawn together, as though I’m some inscrutable mystery.
“Of course you can.” I ruffle his hair. “But, listen. No more chatting to strangers. You know that.”
“That lady wasn’t a stranger,” he points out reasonably. “She had a badge, so I knew her name. It was Cheryl.”
Sometimes the logic of a seven-year-old is undefeatable. We return to our seats and I sit him firmly down next to me.
“Look at your sticker book and do not move.” I take out my BlackBerry and polish off a few quick emails. I’ve just agreed to an entire supplement on Arctic holidays when I pause, frowning. Something has attracted my attention. The top of a head, behind a newspaper. A dark crest of hair. Long-fingered, bony hands turning a page.
No way.
I stare, riveted, until he turns another page and I catch a glimpse of cheekbone. It’s him. Sitting five yards away, a small travel bag at his feet. What the fuck is he doing here?
Don’t tell me he’s had the same idea as me.
As he turns yet another page, looking calm and unruffled, I start to feel a burning anger. This is all his fault. I’ve had to disrupt my life, take my son out of school, and stress out all night, simply because he couldn’t keep his mouth shut. He was the one who went blundering in. He caused all this. And now here he is, looking as cool and relaxed as though he’s off on holiday.
His phone rings, and he puts down his paper to answer.
“Sure,” I can hear him saying. “I’ll do that. We’ll discuss all those issues. Yes, I know there’s a time factor.” Strain appears in his face. “I know this is not ideal. I’m doing the best I can in tricky circumstances, OK?” There’s a pause as he listens, then replies, “No, I’d say not. Need to know only. We don’t want to start the rumor mill.… OK. Right. Talk to you when I get there.”
He puts his phone away and resumes reading the paper, while I watch with growing resentment. That’s right. Lean back. Smile at a joke. Have a good time. Why not?
I’m glaring at him so hard, I feel I might start burning holes in the paper. An elderly lady sitting next to him picks up on my glare and eyes me nervously. I smile at her quickly, to indicate that it’s not her I’m livid with—but this seems to freak her out even more.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “But … is something wrong?”
“Wrong?” says Lorcan, misunderstanding and turning to her. “No, nothing’s wrong—” He catches sight of me and starts in surprise. “Oh. Hello.”
I wait for him to add a fulsome, groveling apology, but he seems to feel this greeting is enough. His dark eyes meet mine, and with no warning I have a flashback: a blurred moment of skin and lips from the middle of that night. His hot breath on my neck. My hands clutching his hair. The color comes to my cheeks and I glare at him even more venomously.
“Hello?” I echo. “Is that all you can say? ‘Hello’?”
“I guess we’re headed to the same place?” He puts his newspaper down and leans forward, his face suddenly intent. “Are you in touch with them? Because I have to talk to Ben, urgently. I have documents for him to sign. I need him to be at the hotel when I arrive. But he won’t pick up when I call. He’s avoiding me. He’s avoiding everything.”
I stare at him in disbelief. All he’s concerned with is some business deal. What about the fact that his best friend has married my sister in a totally stupid knee-jerk gesture caused by him?
“I’m in touch with Lottie. Not Ben.”
“Huh.” He frowns and turns back to the paper. How can he read the paper? I feel deeply, mortally offended that he can concentrate on the sports pages when he’s created such a mess.
“Are you OK?” He peers up at me. “You seem a little … fixated.”
I’m simmering all over with rage. I can feel my head prickling; I can feel my fists clenching. “Funnily enough, no,” I manage. “I’m not OK.”
“Oh.” He glances at the paper yet again, and something inside me snaps.
“Stop looking at that!” I leap up and grab it from his hands before I’m fully aware of what I’m doing. “Stop it!” I crumple the paper furiously and throw it on the floor. I’m panting and my cheeks are blazing.
Lorcan stares at the paper, apparently bemused.
“Mummy!” says Noah, in delighted shock. “Litterbug!”
All the other airline passengers have turned to stare at me. Great. And now Lorcan is gazing up at me too, dark brows drawn together, as though I’m some inscrutable mystery.
