Chapter 11

Why can't I try on different lives, like dresses, to see which fits best and is more becoming?

Sylvia Plath

The Shelbourne Hotel is a blaze of light and Christmas decorations, and the doorman greets me with a welcoming smile as I walk up the steps and into the warm, busy foyer. I take a deep breath and turn towards the bar, which is heaving with people. There's a lot of expensive suit-wearing going on from the men, while the women are in dresses that clearly cost a lot more than my Ted Baker. They're chattering and laughing and clinking cocktail glasses, and I think that this is very much out of my comfort zone. When I go out for a drink, it's usually to my local pub in Marino, which is cosy and nice but not the sort of place you dress up for. And when I come into town, not that I do often, I don't usually venture as far as St Stephen's Green but go to the older, grungier bars like O'Neills or the Stag's Head, where there may indeed be cocktails but you're more likely to see people drinking pints of Guinness (as an aside, I hate Guinness, but I'm quite good at knocking back a pint of lager if challenged).

I scan the crowd and then I see him, sitting at the bar, looking distinguished and very literary in a dark jacket over a black roll-neck top. As I approach him, I'm suddenly afraid that I'm wearing the wrong thing. The Ted Baker is super-pretty, but it's not exactly sophisticated, and Charles Miller looks very sophisticated indeed. He's different to the man I first saw at the White Sands in his shorts and polo. He looks like he belongs here. I'm not sure I do, and I suddenly wonder what on earth made me say yes when he sent the text asking if I'd like to see him again. Holiday romances are best kept on holiday. But Charles said that he wanted to celebrate finishing the book and handing it over to his agent, and that as I was the one who'd inspired him to write it, he thought it would be nice to celebrate with me. It seemed a perfectly nice and normal thing to do, but now I'm wondering if I should simply turn around and leave.

As I hesitate, he looks up from the book that's open on the bar in front of him and sees me. He smiles, and I push my way through the crowd.

‘Iseult. You made it.'

‘Of course I made it. I'm sorry I'm late. I was . . . unavoidably detained.'

He raises an eyebrow.

‘Sorry,' I say again, not prepared to tell him about Steve.

‘No matter. You're here now.' He raises his hand to the barman, who, without Charles saying anything, places a glass of bubbly in front of me.

‘Thanks.' I sit on the stool he kept free for me and take a sip. It's crisp and cool and utterly delicious. ‘Congratulations on the book,' I say as I raise the glass to him. ‘I've been thinking of you lying on the beach sipping cocktails while I trudged to work in the snow.'

‘I wasn't sipping cocktails. I was writing all day every day. The words simply poured out of me. I've never written a book so quickly.'

‘What does . . . your agent think of it?' I want to use her name, but that feels too personal. He always spoke about her as though their relationship was entirely professional and there was never a personal aspect to it. I can't help thinking it's a bit odd that they seem to be able to work together when he's clearly scarred by whatever happened between them.

‘I don't know yet.'

‘What?' I stare at him. ‘I thought she was buzzing to read it.'

‘I gave it to her and she got a migraine.'

‘From reading it?' I give him a puzzled look, and he laughs.

‘No. When she got home with it. She gets them a couple of times a year and is absolutely flattened for a few days. She has to lie in a dark room and can't even move her head. She certainly can't read. Even after the headache is gone, it takes her a day or two to get back to normal.'

‘The poor woman,' I say with real sympathy. ‘That must be awful.'

‘It is.' He nods. ‘The first time I saw her with one, I honestly thought she was having a stroke or something. She couldn't keep her eyes open and she could hardly speak. It was frightening. Yet when she recovers, she's absolutely fine.'

‘I'm very glad I only get normal headaches,' I say. ‘And if I'm being honest, most of those are self-inflicted due to alcohol.' I glance at the tapered glass in my hand. ‘Though not this alcohol. It's lovely.'

‘Champagne doesn't leave you with a hangover,' he says.

‘I've heard that before, but I've never drunk enough to find out.' I smile at him.

There's a sudden surge in the crowd around us, and then it subsides. It appears that many of them are here for a private function and it's time for them to leave the bar. I'm thinking that their departure should give us some space, but almost immediately more people arrive, equally well dressed.

‘It's invariably busy here at the weekend,' says Charles. ‘Especially at this time of year. I should have thought of that when I suggested it as a meeting place, but it's where I always come when I'm in town.'

‘No worries.' I take another sip of champagne.

‘I've reserved a table for dinner,' he says. ‘We should go ourselves.'

‘Where?' I ask.

‘Oh, here. No point in heading out into the cold again, and it's a nice place to celebrate, don't you think? Elizabeth Bowen wrote about it, you know.'

I've no idea who Elizabeth Bowen is or was. I say nothing, but glance towards the window, through which I see soft white flakes gently falling from the sky. They've been doing that on and off all day, but fortunately the snow hasn't settled.

Charles and I make our way to the dining room. I've never eaten at the Shelbourne before, and I'm a little taken aback by the formality of the room, with its dark wallpaper and gloomy paintings. Starched white tablecloths are laid with shining cutlery, and each table has a small floral centrepiece. It's not really my thing, but with the wintry weather outside, it kind of works.

‘A far cry from the beachside restaurant at the White Sands,' remarks Charles as a waiter pulls out a chair for me.

‘It's different,' I agree. ‘I did like the White Sands, though. Everyone was so lovely there.'

‘On the one hand, I enjoyed myself immensely,' says Charles. ‘On the other, I'm not really such a warm-weather person that spending nearly six weeks away was a good move. I missed the rain.'

The wine waiter comes to the table and asks if we'd like to order something from the cellar. Charles does this without even looking at the list. I think of all the times I went out with Steve when we studied the wine list carefully, trying to identify wines we knew and always making sure not to choose the least expensive in case the wine waiter thought we were cheapskates. Steve knows as much as I do about wine, which is absolutely nothing. On the rare occasions when we were with people who knew a little more than us, he would always say that thing about not knowing much but knowing what he liked. He would then say he'd be happy with anything except a Tempranillo. This wasn't because he'd know a Tempranillo from whatever isn't a Tempranillo but because it made him sound as though he actually did know a little. I bet he's drunk it loads of times totally unaware.

Charles, however, seems to know quite a lot. On the occasions we ate with him at the White Sands, he used to have discussions with the staff about the wines and where they'd originated. He always chose something nice. When Celeste and I ate alone, we asked for glasses of the house wine. It was included in our package, so we saw no point in ordering anything else.

I pick up the menu and look at the choices. I wish I could see the prices. I'm sure they reflect that this is a luxury hotel, but I feel uncomfortable knowing that Charles is paying for the meal, and for the undoubtedly pricey wine as well as the excellent champagne. He insisted on this when he first asked me out, saying that the evening was entirely his treat. Nevertheless, I'm used to splitting the bill.

‘What's wrong?' he asks.

‘Huh?'

‘You're frowning at the menu. Don't tell me nothing appeals to you.'

‘It's not that.'

‘What then?'

I explain about the bill, and he looks at me incredulously.

‘I told you this was a celebration, a way of saying thank you,' he says. ‘I wouldn't dream of you paying.'

‘I appreciate that. But . . .'

‘What?'

How can I say what I'm thinking? That if I allow him to pay for everything, he might have expectations about where the night will lead. And that although I slept with him on the island, it was a very different proposition to sleeping with him now. It's not that I haven't thought about it. It's not that I might not want to. But I don't want to feel obliged.

I look at him wordlessly.

‘It's different,' I say eventually.

‘What is?'

‘Here. With you. It's different to the Caribbean. We were on holiday then. It was fun. You weren't paying for me.'

‘You're worried that me paying for you shifts the balance between us? Despite my reasons for asking you?' He zones in on the main problem.

‘Yes. But the thing is, if I was paying for myself, we'd probably be in Nando's.'

He laughs, and I feel my mouth twitch.

‘That's perfectly reasonable,' he says. ‘And if we ever go out again, we'll go to Nando's and I will stiff you with a bill for chicken butterfly and sides as well as halloumi, followed by a salted caramel brownie.'

‘You're a Nando's fan?'

‘It used to be my favourite treat,' he says. ‘I sometimes still order it online.'

‘Oh, Charles.' This time I'm the one who laughs, then he joins in, and we're both chuckling away happily when the waiter comes to take our order.

It's all wonderful. The meal, the setting, the company – especially the company. I did wonder how weird it might be to see him in Dublin. I wondered if I'd ask myself what on earth I'd been thinking by sleeping with him in the first place. I wondered if he'd think the same. But I don't. And I don't think he does either. And now we're in a taxi together, going back to his house for a nightcap. Of course, it's not at all convenient for me to go to Terenure for a nightcap. It's the complete opposite direction to where I live. And I'm doubtful that ‘nightcap' means only a drink. But I don't care. Along with the (fabulous) wine, I've had another glass of champagne, and after the trauma of Steve turning up at my house, scaring me half to death and seeing me in my underwear, being with Charles is calm and lovely and grown up. He held the door of the cab open for me when I got in, and I saw him unobtrusively tip the doorman of the hotel who'd whistled it up for us. He's a world away from Steve and I'm happy to be here with him.

When we arrive at his home, my eyes widen. It's a detached red-brick house with a bay window either side of the front door, which is painted pillar-box red. Ivy is growing up the walls, but it's kept under control, only covering part of the brick. There are five upstairs windows and a stained-glass fanlight over the door, illuminated by an internal light. A large Christmas tree decorated in silver and blue takes up one of the bay windows. The steps up to the door, where an enormous holly and ivy wreath is hanging, are granite, and two large stone statues of lions (at least I think they're lions, they're very decorative) stand either side. Their mouths are open, showing their teeth.

‘Temple dogs,' says Charles when I comment on them. ‘They protect the house from harmful influences.'

‘Hope they don't bite me so.' I watch him open the door, then follow him into the house.

It's gorgeous, in a kind of old-fashioned way. The high-ceilinged hallway is painted in navy and grey, and the floor is parquet wood with a carpet runner running the length of it. The light that I saw from outside comes from a tiered chandelier, although there are also a couple of gently glowing lamps on two well-polished tables on either side of the hall.

‘Jeepers,' I say. ‘Writing books is a profitable thing.'

‘More precarious than profitable,' says Charles. ‘I was probably a bit foolish sinking all my money into this house, but at least I have a lovely home to retreat to.'

‘You totally do.' I continue following him, this time into a kind of living room that has a clubby feel with its red and green decor and squishy sofa with oversized cushions. There's another Christmas tree here, with a more traditional feel to it, and I'm impressed that he's had the time to put up two trees and a wreath and fill the house with diffusers that give off a slightly spicy scent. If I'm honest, given that he lives on his own, I was expecting more of a man-cave than this elegantly decorated home.

‘I say foolish, but actually I was lucky.' Charles walks to a cupboard and takes out a bottle of wine and two glasses. ‘Even if I am, as they say, asset-rich and cash-poor, this is a good area and house prices have increased steadily.'

‘Your entire generation was lucky.' I sit on the sofa. ‘It's really hard for someone my age to buy a house. And I doubt you've run out of cash. You spent six weeks on a beach, after all.'

‘It's all relative.' He uncorks the wine, a deep ruby red, and pours it into the glasses.

I'd like his sort of relative, I think as I take a sip. I thought when I saw him at the White Sands that he was well off, given the gorgeous villa he was staying in, but this is another level altogether. I wish I'd paid more attention in English class and written a bestseller instead of joining the Civil Service and ending up stopping trucks at Dublin Port. I glance at my watch and then out of the window, where snowflakes are still drifting lazily from the sky. Even though it's late, ships will continue to arrive and unload their cargo while my friends and colleagues stand in the freezing night and look for signs of contraband. I'll be joining them in the morning. I'm looking forward to it.

‘You OK?' Charles sits beside me, and I nod and tell him I was thinking about work and how cold it is down at the port.

‘It's chilly in here,' he remarks, which is partly true, because it's a big room and the heating doesn't entirely eliminate the draught coming from beneath the door. ‘When I did the renovations, I tried to make it as snug as possible, but as it was a listed building there were some things I couldn't quite manage.'

‘It has a cosy feel, though. Do you live here on your own?'

‘Since the break-up of my marriage,' he replies.

‘What happened?' I ask, at the same time registering that he and his agent did actually get married in the end and wondering how well they really get on professionally. I think of my colleagues Sian Collins and Peter Tominey. They were offered a chance to move to different sections after they got divorced, but neither wanted to, although they're never on the same shift. Nevertheless, if it works for them, I guess it can work for Charles and his ex too.

‘Oh, there were a variety of reasons it went pear-shaped, but the truth was, I was jealous, and she, rather understandably, couldn't put up with me.'

‘Jealous of what?'

‘Her other male authors mainly.'

‘Oh.' I mull this over. ‘Did she give you a reason to be jealous?'

‘If someone wants to be jealous, they can always find a reason.' He gives his head an impatient shake. ‘It's not important. What matters is we messed it up.'

All the same, he sounds forlorn. And I'm thinking that they bought this house when they were full of hope and expectation and it must be awful to be still here when all that has gone. And that it's definitely amazing they still have a working relationship. I wonder if he still loves her.

‘You don't have children?'

Wikipedia didn't mention any.

‘No. One good thing at least.'

‘Did you want them?'

‘We decided to put a family on hold. One of our better decisions,' he adds.

I presume the lack of children is why he kept the house and she's not here instead, although even with children she'd be rattling around in it. I wonder if Charles feels he's rattling around. It's a big place for one person.

I ask him if he finds it lonely here.

‘Lonely? No.' He seems a little surprised at the question. ‘I find it peaceful, to be honest.'

‘I like living on my own, but I'm not sure I'd be as keen on it in a house like this where there are probably all sorts of nooks and crannies. My entire home would fit in this room.'

‘You're exaggerating.'

‘Only slightly.'

‘Would you like a tour?'

‘Yes please.'

I place the glass of wine on the dark-wood coffee table and stand up.

‘This is my living room. Obviously.' He gestures around. ‘And through here . . .' he opens connecting doors to the room with the blue and silver tree, ‘is my library.'

‘Oh, wow.' The only furniture is a couple of comfortable-looking armchairs and a coffee table. The walls are taken up entirely with bookshelves, which themselves are crammed with books. ‘It really is a library. How many books?'

‘Thousands,' he says. ‘I've more in my study, of course.'

I thought I was quite a good reader, with my overflowing IKEA Billy bookcase, but this is a whole new level. I walk over to one of the shelves and see that there are little numbered tags on them, while the books themselves are arranged in alphabetical order. I congratulate him on his organisation. My books are simply shoved on the shelf as I finish reading them.

‘My sister did it,' he said. ‘She worked in a library for a time. So they're arranged using the Dewey system.'

That goes completely above my head, and he explains that it's a way of classifying books into groups and then subdividing the groups to make it easy to find any volume. I tell him I don't need a system to know where all my Janice Jermyns are, and he smiles and confesses that he hasn't read all the books on his shelves.

‘I do read a lot,' he admits. ‘But when this room was finished and had so much space for books, I bought loads of old editions to fill the shelves. Of course, now I actually need more space again. I have an entire set of Dorothy L. Sayers,' he adds, and walks over to them to show me ‘So I'm not totally hopeless when it comes to crime, even if hers are classic murder mysteries.'

‘Maybe yours could be the start of a series.' I take out a couple of the books and smile at the old-fashioned covers before putting them back in their correct places. ‘After all, your detective is a very sexy character.'

‘I didn't try to make him sexy.' He looks appalled.

‘Imagine that! He writes sexy without even trying.' I grin. ‘Come on, show me more.'

He brings me to the kitchen next, which is at the lower level and, in contrast to the studied yet faded elegance of upstairs, is relentlessly modern, white and clinical. It connects to a smaller room which is set up as a home gym, with a Peloton bike and a rowing machine. No wonder Charles looks so fit! I think of my own lapsed gym membership and vow to renew it.

Then we go up two flights to his study, which is a lovely, comforting space with big armchairs, more bookshelves and quite an impressive desk with a vintage-style desk lamp with a green glass shade and a gold base. Dozens of framed quotes from famous writers are hung on the walls.

‘So this is the creative hub,' I say. ‘Cool.'

‘The allegedly creative hub,' he reminds me. ‘I had to decamp to the White Sands to write, remember.'

‘What was stopping you here?'

‘I don't know.' He perches on the edge of the desk. ‘Perhaps . . . perhaps it was having such a great place to write.'

I look at him curiously.

‘I wrote my first book in my office at work,' he says. ‘I wrote the second in my tiny one-bedroom apartment. The builders were in here when I was writing my third. Now that I have the perfect space, it intimidates me. To be honest, I got it done up like this for photographs.'

‘Photographs?'

‘You know, when I do TV or newspaper interviews. It's good to have a place that looks the part.'

I laugh. I can't help it.

‘You think I'm a complete arse, don't you?' he says.

‘Not a complete one,' I assure him. ‘But there's a certain arse-ness about it all right.'

‘It looked great when RTé did that programme about Ireland's prizewinning authors.'

‘I'm sure it did.'

‘The fact that you obviously didn't watch it has stripped me of all arse-ness,' says Charles, and I smile.

He suggests we go downstairs again.

‘Nothing else to see up here?' I ask.

‘Another room with books and bits and pieces. Not for the public, though. It's more of a dumping ground than anything else. And bedrooms.'

I nod.

‘Would you like to see the bedrooms?' he asks.

‘How many?'

‘Five.'

‘That's a lot when you're on your own.'

‘I do have people to stay,' he protests. ‘My sister whenever she's flying out of Dublin. And my mother occasionally. My nieces when they're in town too.'

‘Your sister is the one who worked in a library?'

He nods.

‘Do you have many brothers and sisters?'

‘One of each,' he replies. ‘Ellis is now involved in arts and crafts. She's two years younger than me. Nick is married with children. Well, I say children, but they're in their twenties now. Louisa is at college in Cork. Emily's working in Singapore.'

‘And your parents?' I didn't ask him about his family when we were at the White Sands. Other people weren't important then. But I'm interested now.

‘My dad died a number of years ago and Nick took over the running of the pub we own. He lives in the house that comes with it while my mother has a nice modern bungalow just outside the town. Ellis divides her time between staying with Mum, a house with a studio she rents in Enniskerry and the cottage we own in Mayo. Which is where I decamp to write from time to time.'

I'm dying to ask more, but as I don't want to appear too nosy, I ask him to show me one of the guest rooms.

He opens one of the doors. The room is decorated in the same dark colours as elsewhere in the house, but it's very cosy and I'm entranced by the original cast-iron fireplace and the old floorboards, partially covered by a large faded green rug. There are views over the long back garden, which is well lit by outside lights and has a renovated mews at the end.

‘Does anyone live there?' I ask.

He shakes his head, and I think that if it all goes pear-shaped he'd get a great price for renting it out. I don't say that out loud, though.

‘It's lovely,' I tell him. ‘And you've obviously worked really hard for it. So congratulations.'

‘Do you want to see my room?' he asks.

‘Your bedroom?'

‘Yes.'

I hesitate.

‘Just to see it,' he says. ‘I'm not . . .'

‘You're not?' I raise an eyebrow.

‘I don't want to pressurise you.'

I think for a moment about Steve and his lips on mine earlier. His assumption that it would be OK. And I smile at Charles.

‘I'd love to see your room.'

He smiles and takes me by the hand.

#ThePerfectMan, I think as I accompany him.