The Girl I Used to Be(21)

“Hey,” he said, and smiled, his earlier temper forgotten. “Sorry I’m late. I didn’t realize the time.”

“Good night?”

“Yeah, it was great. We won, two-nil, then we went to The Crown for a couple of pints.” The Crown is a pub at the end of our road. “I brought the car back after football and walked down with Mike.”

I could have kicked myself then. I hadn’t heard him park the car earlier; if I had I could have run out to see whether the photo had been moved.

When he eventually got into bed, we chatted about Mike and his family and then Joe said, “He was telling me about someone he knows who’s moving over to Ireland.”

He gave a deep sigh and my heart sank. Joe’s from a huge, close Irish family and a couple of his brothers and sisters still live over there. Whenever he has a couple of drinks he talks about moving back home.

“What will he do there?”

“He’s transferring his business,” he said. “He’s a plumber and says he can do that there as well as anywhere. He said there are lots of opportunities in Ireland now.”

One of the things I loved and hated about Joe was his absolute and complete optimism. The trouble was that he was also able to talk all night.

I yawned. “Can you tell me about it tomorrow? I’m half asleep.”

“Sorry, sweetheart. It’s just that I was thinking—we could do that.”

I was losing track. “Do what?”

“We could go back to Ireland.”

“Back? I’ve hardly been there!”

“You know what I mean. Everyone goes back home in the end, don’t they?”

“But it’s not my home.” I wriggled away from him. “And what about my business? And the rentals?”

“Oh, you could do that anywhere,” he said confidently. “Everyone needs to buy houses. And you could get someone to manage the rentals. You could even get someone to manage the office and start another one there.” He turned to me, all excited. “We could make it work, Gem!”

All of me, every cell in my body, told me not to ask the question, but I couldn’t resist. “And what would you do in Ireland?”

“Me?” He sounded puzzled. “I’d look after Rory, of course. And hopefully we’ll have another baby soon. Or more than one.” He stroked my belly. “Who knows, we could have a football team!”

He snuggled close to me, dreaming his happy dreams. My happy dreams involved being able to take the whole day off for once in my life. Slowly I slid away from him and made a vow not to get pregnant until we were sharing the same dream.

And then as I lay there, feeling the familiar weight of Joe’s arm around my waist, his warm breath on my neck, I thought of that photo again and the lies I’d told him. If Joe saw it, he might go to Ireland anyway, without me. He might take Rory with him.





FOURTEEN


Sunday, July 30

ON SUNDAY SOPHIE was back at work. Her boundless energy made me doubt her illness earlier in the week, which, according to her, had made her think she was dying. I found I couldn’t drum up the energy to care. While she managed to type up her work and kept up a stream-of-consciousness monologue, I sat at my desk and tried to work out what was happening. In the end I couldn’t think straight and sent her out to the corner shop for milk, a job that I knew would buy me twenty minutes’ peace.

As soon as she’d gone, I called David’s number. There was no reply and it didn’t go to voice mail. I tried again and again. Frustrated, I sent a few texts, each one more hysterical than the previous one, but then had to stop myself. I was making an idiot of myself.

Sophie returned and made coffee. Surreptitiously I moved my computer monitor slightly so that she wouldn’t be able to see what I was doing on my screen, then opened my e-mail. I’d disabled it on my phone the night before, in case a message came in when Joe was with me. I’d felt grubby then, as though I were having an affair. There was no reply from the e-mail I’d sent to David. I looked around; the office was quiet. I picked up my phone and car keys and went out to my car. I looked up the hotel where I’d stayed in London and called them.

“Hi,” I said. “My name’s Gemma Brogan. I stayed at your hotel on Friday, the twenty-third of June.”

“Hi,” said the receptionist. “How can I help you?”

“I met a potential client that night. I believe he was staying with you for a few days around that time. He gave me his business card but unfortunately I’ve lost it. Would you be able to give me his contact details?”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “We’re not allowed to pass on personal details.”

My heart sank. I’d guessed she’d say that. “I don’t suppose you could pass on a message, could you?”

“Yes, of course, I could do that for you as long as he’s given us his details,” she said. “Just let me check. What was his name?”

“David Sanderson.”

“And when did you say you were here? The twenty-third of June?”

“Yes. That was a Friday night; he’d been there all week.”

“I’m sorry,” she said after checking her computer. “I’d love to help but he must have been staying somewhere else. There’s no record of him staying here.”