Page 23 of One More Day
OK, I can do this.
The kitchen door is to the left of the small hallway, the living room is to the right and the bedroom is up a narrow flight of wooden stairs by the front door. I didn’t think he’d be down so soon.
I open the knob on the bathroom door which always clicks so loudly no matter how you try to do it, and George jumps up on me, all clumsy, hot, breathy pants. Grasping my towel for dear life, I shimmy past him and Max, who is now running around in circles literally chasing his own tail and yelping in excitement. The kitchen door is closed, thank goodness.
With my feet still damp, I tiptoe quickly across the hallway, open the living room door and pull it to, letting George in with me in a bid to lessen the noise.
It worked. No more barking.
Charlie’s brown and white springer spaniel has settled after a few yelps now that George is out of sight, so I set about getting changed into my cosy, oversized fleecy winter pyjamas.
And then I smell what I assume is garlic frying in butter …
I’m so hungry I could cry. I sit down on the sofa, wondering if I should turn on the TV as a distraction. I’ll cook something for myself after he’s done. Yes, that will keep my mind and my belly in order. I’ve got some pasta and ready-made tomato sauce in my bag, and some pre-cooked spicy sausage, which happens to be George’s favourite too. Even though I know I shouldn’t, I always share a little bit with him.
I imagine Charlie in the kitchen right now.
There’ll be no ready-made sauce on his menu, I’m guessing. He was barefoot earlier in his jeans, so he probably still is, his dark brown hair all outgrown and dishevelled and his tortoiseshell glasses still on with the makings of a light evening shadow on his face. He’ll be sipping his red wine, stirring up a feast in the pan, smelling like a dream if that cologne is anything to go by, while I sit in here waiting and waiting for this moment to pass.
I must wait it out, yes. Then, when I hear him go back upstairs, I’ll quickly make my sad instant meal and hopefully fall into a deep slumber by the fire.
I hear music. Classical music. I shake my head in surprise.
Chopin? What a dark horse you are, Charlie.
I wonder what he does for a living. Despite his rock star looks, with his taste in music and how super organised he is, I’d bet he’s an accountant or a teacher. Even though he had been in this living room for a couple of hours before I got back with Rusty, there isn’t a thing out of place.
I look around me. My shoes are on the floor, my coat is over the back of the sofa, my small case lies open as if it’s yawning on the other sofa and my wet towel is strewn across the arm of the chair.
I wonder if he’s tried to figure me out in the same way. No, he seems way too preoccupied for that.
As the waft of spices drifts under the door and the hunger in my belly threatens to consume me, I brush through my wet hair, tie it up in a bobble and switch on the TV to take my wandering mind off what has brought Charlie to Seaview Cottage in the first place.
Whatever the reason and whoever he really is, I guess I’ll never get to find out.
Tomorrow morning can’t come quick enough so I can leave him to get on with it. But where do I go then?
I’ve absolutely no idea.
Eight Days to Christmas
Chapter Six
Charlie
I spend my first early morning on the wilds of the blustery beach at Ballyhiernan Bay with Max after a healthy breakfast and a surprisingly solid sleep, almost forgetting that I’d company in the cottage at all.
With the wind in my hair and an icy breeze catching my breath as I walk along the foam and swirl of the water’s edge, I find myself battling with an overwhelming feeling of regret that I’ve been smothering for too long.
Already, the time and space away from the norm is doing exactly what I’d hoped it would. I wanted to face up to my own realities here. I wanted to face my fears. And although I don’t want to close the latest chapter of my life and pretend it never happened, I do need to forgive myself a little more for my own sake. I need to practise what I preach, which is exactly what Niall said before he sent me here.
Niall has been by my side since as far back as I can remember. We did primary school, secondary school and even university together. Now he’s my accountant and althoughI wind him up about his quotes and sayings, I’d miss them if he stopped.
No need for the inspirational quotes, kid, I’d told him when he came to me with the news that the cottage was mine over Christmas. He was on some sort of roll with his famous sayings, proclaiming something about how holding on to anger is like holding a hot coal expecting the other person to get burned.
I’m already a walking cliché as it is, thank you. The therapist whose own life is falling apart.
The lonely divorcee facing Christmas alone, added Niall.
