Page 83 of Fling

When Colin arrived home to Hillcrest, he got out of his car and stared up at his house. To think, he had risked the life he had built for some fleeting fling. ‘Is glas iad na cnoic i bhfad uainn,’ the plaque above his door read, and only now did Colin fully appreciate its meaning. Claire’s faraway hills may have appeared greener but there truly was no place like home. He thanked his lucky stars that Tara had no idea about his online infidelity. Colin took his golf clubs out of his car from the game earlier and opened the front door.

‘Tara, you home?’ Colin said, his voice echoing through the house. There was no answer.

Colin opened the door to the living room and saw the room was in darkness.

‘Tara?’ he said again.

The lamp in the corner of the room suddenly turned on, revealing Tara to be sitting on an armchair holding a glass of wine.

‘Hello, honeybun,’ Tara said, taking a sip.

Colin immediately got a bad feeling. She looked like a femme fatale in an old film noir. The kind of woman who’s looks could kill. All she was missing was a cigarette. And she had called him “honeybun”. She was obviously annoyed about something. But what? His alibi had been air-tight.

‘Tara, is everything OK?’ Colin asked, setting his golf bag down against the wall. He turned on the main light to remove the ominous atmosphere in the room.

‘Colin, I’m going to give you one chance and one chance only to tell me where you’ve been,’ Tara said, deadly serious.

Colin was struck with fear. How could she have possibly known he wasn’t working late? Had she called Rory? No, Rory would have covered for him. Had she called his office reception? No, there was nobody at the front desk past five, so she wouldn’t have got through to anyone.

She had to be bluffing.

‘I already told you, I was working late,’ he said calmly.

Tara looked him dead in the eye for a solid ten seconds, their spaghetti-western-style face-off had begun again.

‘Interesting . . .’ Tara said, walking towards the room’s back wall. Tara looked at Colin’s collection of beer signs that were still hanging up. She scanned through them, as if she was choosing one for something. Colin had no idea what was going through her mind.

Then, with unrelenting force, Tara ripped a Guinness sign off the wall.

‘WRONG ANSWER!’ she roared as she flung the sign directly at Colin’s head. He blocked the sign with his forearm just before it could hit his temple. Thankfully the signs were made of aluminium and not real steel, so it wasn’t too painful.

‘WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?’ Colin yelled in complete and utter shock.

‘You tell me, Colin,’ Tara said, her eyes widening. ‘Now I’ll ask you again. Where have you been?’

‘Tara, I was working,’ he insisted.

‘YOUR NOSTRILS ARE FLARING, HONEYBUN!’ Tara shouted. She ripped off a Heineken sign and aimed it directly at Colin’s head. ‘YOU LYING BASTARD!’

‘Tara, STOP,’ Colin pleaded, but she threw it anyway. He ducked just in time as it flew over his head. ‘What are you, crazy?’

‘Oh don’t you dare call me crazy. YOU HAVEN’T SEEN CRAZY YET!’ she screeched.

Colin knew the jig was up. He had been caught. But he hadn’t technically cheated. How on earth was he going to explain the complexity of the situation?

‘Tara, let’s just talk this out, OK? Let me explain everything . . .’ he said.

Tara tore another sign off the wall. ‘Who is she? What is this TRAMP’S name?’ she said, with a firm grip on the sign, ready to propel it at any moment.

‘I swear nothing happened,’ Colin said.

‘Nothing happened? So you booked a hotel room with a woman to do what, exactly? Play Scrabble?’ Tara asked sarcastically.

‘I swear I didn’t cheat on you, Tara,’ Colin said, actually telling the truth. ‘I’m flabbergasted you would think that!’

‘People only use the word flabbergasted when they’re LYING!’ Tara screamed, flinging the sign at his shoulder.

‘Can we just talk about this like adults?’ Colin begged, ducking again to avoid the sign.

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