Chapter 15

The writer wrote alone and the reader read alone and they were alone with each other.

A. S. Byatt

I'm still thinking about the drug interception as I make myself a mug of coffee and take out a tin of biscuits. We've had big hauls before, even bigger than this, and it's always the same. You want to punch the air and jump up and down and say again how flipping fantastic you and your team are and how great your job is, even on days when you're outside freezing your buns off.

The last time we intercepted a large quantity of drugs, I was so pumped up that when Steve came home I couldn't wait to get him in my arms. We made love on the kitchen table, which was probably not the most hygienic thing in the world. Oh well. My table. My germs. All the same, the memory means I give it a quick spray of Dettol before I sit down with my coffee and biscuits, even though the actual event was months ago and I've both used and cleaned the table many times since then.

I take out my phone. Charles hasn't even seen my previous message, so I send another one.

Sorry. Very busy earlier. Is it too late to meet now?

He still hasn't seen it by the time I've finished my coffee. I wonder if he's sitting at the desk in his study pounding the keys of his computer. I fondly imagined that the manuscript was finished when he typed ‘The End', but he told me that that's just the beginning of another phase of rewriting and editing that can take ages. He'll certainly have to change the big giveaway to the identity of the murderer early on. There's another bit in the middle I'd change too. I didn't tell him when I read the manuscript that I'd guessed who it was because of it. I didn't want to puncture his bubble of joy.

Although I'm usually perfectly happy with my own company, I wish I hadn't left the pub so early, even though the others probably didn't stay that much longer after me. I scroll to my mum's name and try FaceTiming her. I let it ring for ages before deciding she's not up yet, but as I'm about to end the call, her face fills the screen.

‘Izzy.' She beams at me. ‘How are you?'

‘Great.' I go on to tell her about the drugs haul, and she's suitably impressed. She and Dad weren't initially supportive of my move into Customs. Dad was a teacher and Mum a tour guide – what she doesn't know about Dublin's historical sites isn't worth knowing – and I have a sneaking feeling they wanted me to have a somewhat more intellectual career when I joined the Civil Service. A diplomat maybe. Or something in the arts. Mind you, they probably wanted the same for Adrian, and he's ended up as a farmer on the other side of the world, so if they did have other ambitions for us, we've disappointed them.

‘How's everyone there?' I ask when I've milked my drug seizure success as much as I can. Mum tells me that Azaria is thriving and the boys are holy terrors. The love and adoration in her voice is evident. Then Dad takes over the call. New Zealand life suits him. He looks younger than before he left, and healthy in a rugged, outdoorsy sort of way. He's been googling the drugs seizure online and tells me that he's proud of me, which unaccountably makes me well up.

‘You OK, sweetie?' he asks when I sniff.

‘Of course. It's been a long day.'

‘Your mum and I are driving into town and meeting some new friends later,' he says.

‘I'm glad you're making friends.'

‘Tarquin and Jonelle,' he tells me. ‘They run a sailing school. Or at least they did. Their son runs it now.'

‘Are you coming home soon?' I ask.

‘Are you missing us madly or planning to do something with the house while we're not there?' He replies with a question of his own.

‘Missing you, of course,' I say. ‘And I don't have any plans. I just wondered. I know you're trying to manage your stays in New Zealand so you can go again next year.'

‘Your mum thinks our services are required here for another couple of weeks at least. But we have a plan for afterwards if you don't mind.'

‘What plan.'

‘A cruise.'

‘How lovely. Where?'

‘Around Asia.' Mum's face appears on the screen again. ‘But if you want us home first, we can do the cruise next time we come here.'

‘Of course not. There's no need to rush back for me, honestly. I think it's great you're living your best lives now.'

‘I'm glad we brought you up to be independent,' says Dad.

‘Me too.'

We exchange a few more pleasantries, then he passes the phone back to Mum and I talk to her for a little longer before we all say our goodbyes.

It's only later that I realise I never said a word about Charles Miller.

He still hasn't answered my text by the time I go to bed.

#AllByMyself

He does, however, call me the next day, although as I'm at a meeting about the drugs interception, I don't answer him until later. When I do, he's absolutely intrigued by it and peppers me with questions. I tell him I'll give him the full run-down next time we meet, and suggest it might be a great scenario for his next murder mystery. He asks if I'm free to go for a coffee, and I'm wondering if he's thinking of research and whether it's me or the drugs haul that's more important to him. When I say this, he says that not everything is research and he wants to meet me because he enjoys my company. I feel a warm glow at that. We arrange to meet later at Kavanagh's, an old-style pub at the end of the Malahide Road that's within easy walking distance for me.

When I get home, I change into jeans and the Christmas jumper that Adrian sent from New Zealand and that arrived far too early. It's bright green with a red-nosed kangaroo pulling Santa's sleigh.

‘Very festive,' says Charles when he arrives at the pub a few minutes after me. He's wearing another of his fine-knit polo necks teamed with dark trousers, and doesn't entirely fit in with the local seasonal fashion vibe that echoes my jumper.

‘I thought I should get into the Christmas spirit,' I say.

‘Being totally honest, I'm a bit of a Grinch when it comes to Christmas,' he admits. ‘I had my heart broken on Christmas Day.'

‘Like in Winter's Heartbreak?'

‘Not exactly.' He smiles. ‘I was six, and the girl next door wouldn't let me kiss her better when she fell off her new Barbie scooter. She told me she didn't need kisses from boys, she could get better all by herself. I was devastated.'

I laugh. ‘I thought it might have been your agent-slash-ex.'

He looks slightly uncomfortable at the mention of her, and I decide not to pursue it. Instead I ask if he knows anything about the girl next door now.

‘Not a thing,' he replies cheerfully.

‘It's funny how you can feel so deeply for someone and then suddenly it's over,' I remark. ‘Thanks,' I add, as the gin and tonic I ordered earlier is placed in front of me. I ask Charles what he'd like to drink, and he asks for a GT too.

‘Are you over your ex-fiancé?' he asks.

I'd told him all about Steve when we were at the White Sands.

‘Definitely,' I say, ignoring the fact that I haven't deleted him from my contacts yet. ‘I wish I hadn't wasted so much of my time on him.'

‘How was it wasted?' asks Charles.

I consider this for a moment before telling him that I'd thought Steve and I were putting in the work for something long-term. If he hadn't asked me to marry him, I could've been out there looking for someone else.

‘There has to be someone else, does there? You're not interested in simply living your life as a unique person?'

‘I was perfectly happy being a unique person before I met him,' I reply. ‘He changed everything. And not that I'm looking at every man as a potential partner, but there could've been someone out there who passed me by because I was with Steve. I realise it does make me sound a bit needy,' I add, after a brief pause when Charles says nothing. ‘But I'm not, honestly.'

‘I was just curious. You seem to be a very independent person. There's no need to explain yourself to me.'

‘What about you?' I ask, when I've finished processing the fact that I felt it necessary to explain myself to him at all.

‘What about me?'

‘Do you feel you wasted time on your marriage, or was it worth it?'

He thinks for a moment before replying.

‘Obviously the whole thing is a bit tricky because of knowing her professionally first,' he says. ‘That part certainly wasn't a waste of time. She's amazing.'

I say nothing.

‘I thought we were in love,' he continues. ‘I wanted us to be in love. I think she did too. I'm just not entirely sure we really were.'

‘You mean you liked the idea of it?'

‘It seemed right, that's all.'

‘Were you happy?'

‘We broke up, which speaks for itself. But for a while we were happy,' he concedes. ‘So I suppose our marriage wasn't a waste of time either.'

‘She's an attractive woman,' I say.

‘What?' He looks at me in astonishment. ‘How do you even know what she looks like?'

‘Google,' I said. ‘You really are hopeless about googling people, aren't you? I found her website. And earlier I saw a picture of you and her at an awards ceremony. There isn't much out there,' I add. ‘I guess she's not as important as you. Though information on you is surprisingly limited for someone so famous.'

‘It's a little disconcerting to think of you googling me,' says Charles.

‘Why wouldn't I? You're famous.'

He looks pleased at that, then asks whether if he googled me he would see pictures of me standing on top of a pile of seized drugs.

‘Nope,' I reply. ‘But there are probably some awful ones of me on social media.'

‘I never think to check people out,' says Charles. ‘At least not people I meet socially. Other authors, yes, of course, to see if they've sold more than me, but random acquaintances . . . never.'

‘Surely everyone checks out anyone new they meet.' I'm not sure if I'm insulted at being called a random acquaintance. ‘It's one of the flaws in your book. Nobody googles anyone else and they would.'

‘Oh.' He looks startled. ‘You should've said.'

‘Not up to me to say. I'm sure your publisher or your agent-slash-ex or your editor or whoever it is who looks after these things will mention it.'

He glances at his watch. ‘All of them probably,' he says. ‘In fact, my agent is on her way to London to talk to my publisher about it right now. Hopefully it'll go well.'

‘Even with the lack of googling and a few other fixable glitches, it's a proper page-turner,' I assure him, but he looks suddenly unconvinced. I like this about Charles. He can be so confident one minute and then, in an instant, completely insecure. I wonder are all authors like him, or is it only the Booker Prize winners. And do they all spend their time googling each other to see how successful they are? I smile at the thought.

‘What's so funny?' he demands.

I shake my head.

‘I hope you're not laughing at me.'

‘Wouldn't dream of it,' I say, though I'm not sure he believes me.

The door of the pub opens and a group of young men wearing GAA jerseys walk in. They're also wearing shorts, even though it's still freezing outside. I shiver involuntarily. The men sit at one of the high tables and order food. Charles looks at them with interest.

‘OK, I know you live in a rarefied literary world, but you must have seen Gaelic football players before,' I murmur.

‘Of course.' He gives me an impatient glance. ‘I played for the local team when I was younger.'

‘Seriously?' He's fit, but not bulky enough for a football player.

‘Under twelves,' he confesses. ‘I was very fast. But too light. I came off worst in every physical encounter. Broke my collarbone twice.'

I look at him in surprise.

‘So you can revise your preconceptions,' he tells me. ‘I support Waterford and always will.'

‘Better not say that too loud here,' I say. ‘This is a Dublin pub.'

‘The signed jersey on the wall is a giveaway.' He grins.

I laugh, and suddenly the atmosphere between us lightens and I don't feel like he's a fish out of water any more. We chat about Gaelic football for a while, and he's a lot more knowledgeable than me, because while most of what I know comes from the guys at work, he actually follows the Waterford team. Then the subject veers towards family, and he asks me what my Christmas plans are given that my parents are on the other side of the world.

‘I'm spending it with Celeste,' I reply. ‘Her family being my family too, of course. What about you?'

‘I'm not sure yet,' he replies.

‘But it's only a few days away.' I look at him in horror. ‘Surely you've made plans.'

‘I'm not much of a Christmas person,' he says. ‘If you hadn't had anything on, I was going to ask you to join me.'

‘Will you be on your own otherwise?' I really am horrified. I can't bear to think of him alone on Christmas Day. I wonder if I should invite him to my uncle and aunt's. But that would be unfair on Aunt Jenni, who's already got her entire schedule worked out and has stuck it to the noticeboard in the kitchen.

‘Don't worry about me,' he says. ‘I have a standing invitation to my sister's if nothing better pops up. We're both loners, so it suits us. But,' he adds, ‘I always have a get-together at home on New Year's Eve, which is great fun. I hope you can come. Bring Celeste. We might have a tropical island theme, for the cocktails at least.'

I look at him doubtfully.

‘Unless you already have a party to go to?'

‘No,' I say.

‘That's settled then.' He looks pleased, and I don't say anything else. However, it seems the right moment to take the narrow gift-wrapped box out of my bag and give it to him.

‘It's not much,' I warn. ‘A token really.'

He smiles and expertly begins to ease off the green and gold paper while I watch in anticipation. Inside the box is a silver bookmark with his name engraved on it. I saw it at a local craft and jewellery shop that offered the engraving for free, and bought it even though I wasn't a hundred per cent sure we'd even see each other before Christmas. I thought the engraver might recognise Charles's name, but he made no comment whatsoever. I won't tell Charles this if he asks, though!

‘Thank you,' he says, ‘It's lovely.'

‘You probably have loads of bookmarks.' I'm suddenly concerned that it's a rubbish gift.

‘Yes, I do. But none like this.'

I smile at him. He puts the box into his coat pocket. And now I'm wondering if I've embarrassed him, because he might not have bought me a present. It doesn't bother me if that's the case. I'm not exactly expecting one.

We sit in silence for a moment, and then he takes a wrapped package from his other pocket. It's the same shape as the one I gave him, and I have a sudden horrible feeling that he's bought me a bookmark too.

‘Are you going to open it?' he asks as I turn it over in my hand.

Unlike him, I'm not one of those people who can unwrap a gift without reducing the paper to shreds, so the exquisite wrapping is a mess by the time I've finished. He hasn't bought me a bookmark. He's bought me a watch. A gold-faced Gucci watch with a pink leather wristband. My eyes widen and I look at him.

‘It's way too much,' I say. ‘You can't buy me presents like this.'

‘Don't you like it?' He looks disappointed.

‘Of course I like it. It's beautiful. But it's an expensive watch, Charles. You can't give me an expensive watch for Christmas when I've only bought you a bookmark.'

‘It's the thought that counts, isn't it?'

‘Even so . . .'

‘I'll be upset if you don't accept it.'

I examine the watch more closely. It's really pretty, with a gold bee motif in the centre of the face. I like bees. I like their fuzzy little bodies and their industry in producing honey and looking after their queen.

‘It's beautiful,' I say, fastening it round my wrist.

‘It suits you.' Charles nods approvingly.

And it does.

I love it.

And I have all the feels for him too.

Maybe there's something more to me and Charles than I first thought.

#ChristmasPresents #FestiveRomance