paedophile!
I paused in my tracks. Where should I go? Flee, flee! But flee where? I had a perfect right to go to my flat. After all, I lived there.
Too late! She’d seen me!
‘Lola?’ Smiling, smiling, speedily stubbing out her cigarette with a nifty swivel of her ankle.
‘Hi!’
Extending her hand. ‘Grace Gildee. Lovely to meet you.’
Her warm, smooth hand was in mine before I could stop it.
‘No,’ I said, jerking my hand away. ‘Leave me alone. I’m not talking to you.’
‘Why?’ she asked.
I ignored her and fumbled in my bag for my keys. Fully intended not to make eye contact but, against my will, found myself looking straight into her face.
Up close, I could see she wasn’t wearing make-up. Unusual. But she had no need to. Very attractive in a tomboy sort of way. Hazel-coloured eyes and a scatter of freckles across nose. The kind of woman who could run out of shampoo and have no problem washing hair with washing-up liquid. Good in an emergency, I suspected.
‘Lola,’ she says, ‘you can trust me.’
‘You can trust me!’ I exclaimed. ‘You’re a cliché!’
Nonetheless, something about her. Persuasive.
In a soft voice, she said, ‘You really can trust me. I’m not like other journalists. I know what he’s like.’
I stopped twirling my hand around the hidden depths of mybag, seeking my keys. I was mesmerized. Like being hypnotized by a snake.
‘I’ve known him half his life,’ she said.
All of sudden, I wanted to put my head on the shoulder of her hoodie and sob and let her stroke my hair.
But that was what she would have wanted. That’s what they all do, journalists. Pretend they’re your friends. Like the time SarahJane Hutchinson was interviewed at the Children at Risk Ball. The journalist woman was all lovely, asking where SarahJane got her gorgeous dress. And her delicious jewellery. And who did her hair? Trust me, trust me, trust me . Then the headline was:
Mutton Dressed As Pig
What forty-something, recently deserted wife has lost the run of herself? Running around town dressed in her teenage daughter’s clothes. A bid to recapture lost youth? Or a bid to recapture lost husband? Forget it, babes. Either way, it ain’t working.
My hand closed over my keys. Thank God. I had to get into my flat. I had to get away from this Grace Gildee.
17.07
Arrive in Knockavoy! Uncle Tom’s cabin is in a field, a short way outside town.
I drove down the bumpy boreen and parked in the gravel patch outside the front door.
Lime-washed cottage. Thick lumpy walls. Small windows. Red-painted latched door. Deep window ledges. Charming.
I got out of the car and was nearly blown away. Had a vision of being picked up and twirled high into the sky and out over the bay, then dashed to a watery grave in the Atlantic waves. Paddy would be sorry then. Would rue the day he ever heard of Alicia Thornton.
Go on, wind, I begged. Take me !
I stood with my eyes scrunched shut and my arms outstretched invitingly, but nothing happened. Annoying.
Leaning into the wind, I battled towards the front door. The airwas riddled with sea salt. My hair would be destroyed. Although was very proud of my Molichino highlights, had to admit they made hair prone to dullness and breaking. Hoped they had deep-conditioning treatment in the local chemist. Cripes! Hoped there was a local chemist. All I remembered from every other visit was pubs, many pubs, and a nightclub so extraordinarily bad it was hilarious.
I unlocked the adorable red door and the force of the wind made it fly back against the wall with an almighty bang. Dragged bags in across the flagstones. Was I imagining it or did the house still smell of smoke from the broken toaster even though several months had elapsed since the hen night?
There was one big living room, with sofas and rugs and a big open fire with rocking chairs in the alcove. The back windows looked out over fields, then the Atlantic, maybe a hundred yards away. Actually I’m just
I paused in my tracks. Where should I go? Flee, flee! But flee where? I had a perfect right to go to my flat. After all, I lived there.
Too late! She’d seen me!
‘Lola?’ Smiling, smiling, speedily stubbing out her cigarette with a nifty swivel of her ankle.
‘Hi!’
Extending her hand. ‘Grace Gildee. Lovely to meet you.’
Her warm, smooth hand was in mine before I could stop it.
‘No,’ I said, jerking my hand away. ‘Leave me alone. I’m not talking to you.’
‘Why?’ she asked.
I ignored her and fumbled in my bag for my keys. Fully intended not to make eye contact but, against my will, found myself looking straight into her face.
Up close, I could see she wasn’t wearing make-up. Unusual. But she had no need to. Very attractive in a tomboy sort of way. Hazel-coloured eyes and a scatter of freckles across nose. The kind of woman who could run out of shampoo and have no problem washing hair with washing-up liquid. Good in an emergency, I suspected.
‘Lola,’ she says, ‘you can trust me.’
‘You can trust me!’ I exclaimed. ‘You’re a cliché!’
Nonetheless, something about her. Persuasive.
In a soft voice, she said, ‘You really can trust me. I’m not like other journalists. I know what he’s like.’
I stopped twirling my hand around the hidden depths of mybag, seeking my keys. I was mesmerized. Like being hypnotized by a snake.
‘I’ve known him half his life,’ she said.
All of sudden, I wanted to put my head on the shoulder of her hoodie and sob and let her stroke my hair.
But that was what she would have wanted. That’s what they all do, journalists. Pretend they’re your friends. Like the time SarahJane Hutchinson was interviewed at the Children at Risk Ball. The journalist woman was all lovely, asking where SarahJane got her gorgeous dress. And her delicious jewellery. And who did her hair? Trust me, trust me, trust me . Then the headline was:
Mutton Dressed As Pig
What forty-something, recently deserted wife has lost the run of herself? Running around town dressed in her teenage daughter’s clothes. A bid to recapture lost youth? Or a bid to recapture lost husband? Forget it, babes. Either way, it ain’t working.
My hand closed over my keys. Thank God. I had to get into my flat. I had to get away from this Grace Gildee.
17.07
Arrive in Knockavoy! Uncle Tom’s cabin is in a field, a short way outside town.
I drove down the bumpy boreen and parked in the gravel patch outside the front door.
Lime-washed cottage. Thick lumpy walls. Small windows. Red-painted latched door. Deep window ledges. Charming.
I got out of the car and was nearly blown away. Had a vision of being picked up and twirled high into the sky and out over the bay, then dashed to a watery grave in the Atlantic waves. Paddy would be sorry then. Would rue the day he ever heard of Alicia Thornton.
Go on, wind, I begged. Take me !
I stood with my eyes scrunched shut and my arms outstretched invitingly, but nothing happened. Annoying.
Leaning into the wind, I battled towards the front door. The airwas riddled with sea salt. My hair would be destroyed. Although was very proud of my Molichino highlights, had to admit they made hair prone to dullness and breaking. Hoped they had deep-conditioning treatment in the local chemist. Cripes! Hoped there was a local chemist. All I remembered from every other visit was pubs, many pubs, and a nightclub so extraordinarily bad it was hilarious.
I unlocked the adorable red door and the force of the wind made it fly back against the wall with an almighty bang. Dragged bags in across the flagstones. Was I imagining it or did the house still smell of smoke from the broken toaster even though several months had elapsed since the hen night?
There was one big living room, with sofas and rugs and a big open fire with rocking chairs in the alcove. The back windows looked out over fields, then the Atlantic, maybe a hundred yards away. Actually I’m just
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