Chapter 19

Quiet people have the loudest minds.

Stephen King

Celeste's dad is dropping us to Terenure for Charles's NYE party. He said he couldn't leave us at the mercy of Dublin's taxi service on the busiest night of the year, and told us to call him no matter what time it is if we struggle to get a cab later. I came to Celeste's earlier so that we could glam up together and help each other with hair and make-up – not that she needed help with her hair because she'd it done earlier and it's swept high on her head with a dinky little plait across the front of it, like a hairband. I've gone for my spiky look again. When we're finally ready, we take a selfie of ourselves and post it to our socials with lots of #PartyReady and #NewYear hashtags. Celeste looks great in the silver-sequinned mini dress with fringed skirt and spaghetti straps she bought in the sales, teamed with dangly earrings and sparkly shoes from Zara. I'm grateful I can still fit into my emerald-green silk. It doesn't matter that I've worn it multiple times this month. It was expensive, and at least I'm getting the wear out of it.

It's unusual for me to go out on New Year's Eve, as it's never been my favourite night of the year. I normally volunteer to do the late shift at work, preferring checking cargo to drunk-kissing and hugging at midnight. However, Charles's event is sure to be different. The invitations said black tie!

‘Ready?' Celeste turns to me.

‘As I'll ever be,' I say. ‘I wonder will there be any single men there tonight?'

‘Apart from Charles?' She arches a perfect 3D eyebrow.

‘He's not . . . well, he is, but . . .'

‘Have you decided if you're in a relationship with him?' she asks.

‘I'm in something with him,' I admit. ‘But a proper relationship . . . oh, Celeste, I don't know.'

‘As long as you're having fun.' She gives me a quick hug. ‘Don't let him hurt you, that's all.'

‘Absolutely not,' I assure her. ‘My heart is like a rock these days.'

‘Any more texts from Steve?'

‘Thankfully not a word since the Christmas Day message.'

‘Good.' Celeste does a shimmy that made her dress glitter beneath the light. ‘Let's have fun tonight.'

We clatter down the stairs and rouse Uncle Paul from his comfy seat in front of the telly.

It's forty minutes after the party was due to start when we arrive at Riverside Lodge. I was terrified of being too early (whenever Steve and I went to parties, nobody even thought of turning up before the pubs closed), but I can see through the lighted windows that there are already plenty of people inside. There's an actual red carpet leading up the steps to the hallway, where there's also a real-life doorman. Seriously, how much money has Charles Miller made from writing books?

‘Have fun, ladies. Stay safe,' says Uncle Paul as we get out of the car.

‘Don't worry, Dad. If we're stuck, we'll definitely call you,' says Celeste.

We walk up the steps to the house, and the doorman checks our names off a printed list.

‘Have a great evening,' he says as we step inside.

For a moment I'm reminded of Steve's posts from the art gallery in Florence. Not that the house is anything like the art gallery, but it's evoking the same vibe of glamour and sophistication and potential for a James Bond lookalike to knock back a shaken-not-stirred martini before quietly disposing of the villain, though I don't know who would be the villain in this crowd of tuxedos and cocktail dresses. Celeste and I have barely taken a couple of steps into the room when a waiter offers us champagne, and have hardly gone any further when another puts a plate of mini bagels in front of us.

I'm absolutely starving, so I grab two and shove one into my mouth. Celeste takes a couple as well. We smile at each other.

‘It's very flash, isn't it?' she says.

‘Oh, not flash. More . . . refined.'

‘It won't be refined by midnight,' she observes. ‘It'll be the usual heave of drunken lunatics.'

‘Probably,' I admit. It doesn't matter if you're in a tux or jeans. Once you've tipped yourself over the edge, you've tipped yourself over the edge.

We wander through the interconnecting rooms. Celeste is awestruck by the decor, even if it's been taken over by Christmassy stuff.

‘I feel like we're in a TV show,' she murmurs. ‘Or maybe even a movie, where we've been transported to somewhere amazing.'

‘There's a touch of Grand Designs about it all,' I agree. ‘Though this is more of a grand restoration than anything.'

‘Both of our houses would probably fit on the ground floor,' she observes.

‘I know.'

‘I wonder who owned it before Charles.'

‘I think he said it was a wine importer. Or maybe it was a tobacco importer.'

‘Gosh, you could've stopped the wine or tobacco at customs.'

‘Before my time, but you never know.'

We both laugh at the thought.

‘Ladies, you came.' Suddenly Charles is standing beside us, and the noise of conversation and laughter seems to disappear. ‘I'm so glad,' he says.

‘Thanks for asking us,' says Celeste. ‘This is an absolutely fabulous house.'

‘Would you like a tour?' he asks.

‘Oh, yes please.' She beams at him, and I can't help thinking that he really does know how to turn on the charm.

‘I've seen it already,' I say. ‘I'll stay here.'

‘Are you sure?' He frowns.

‘Yes. I want to eat a few more of those yummy bagels.'

‘I'll bring some with us.'

He grabs a platter from a passing waiter and leads us into the hallway. We do the same tour as he did with me, although this time without going into his bedroom. Celeste loves it, especially the hi-tech kitchen.

‘Feel free to use it any time,' says Charles. ‘I could do with some home cooking.'

‘What do you make mostly?' asks Celeste as she opens the door of the top-of-the-range Miele oven and peers inside.

‘Oven chips,' he replies. ‘And pizza.'

She looks at him in horror, and I laugh.

‘Seriously,' he says. ‘I don't cook. I get stuff delivered.'

‘How are you so fit?' she demands.

‘I get good stuff delivered. I work out too, although not as often as I should. Anyway,' he says, ‘let's get back to the madding crowd.'

We follow him upstairs, and he's immediately accosted by a man who he introduces as Myles, another author. Celeste is interested when he says he writes historical fiction, and they move slightly to one side as he tells her about his latest novel, set during the Second World War.

‘Are you having fun?' Charles asks me.

‘Yes. Thanks for asking us.'

‘I wanted you here.' He reaches out for another glass of champagne and hands it to me. ‘You look lovely, by the way. That dress suits you.'

‘Thanks.'

‘Though it'll always remind me of almost dumping drink over you in the Caribbean.'

‘Me too.' I grin.

‘I was so lucky to meet you there.'

‘I enjoyed spending time with you.'

The conversation between us isn't exactly flowing. Every time we meet, the first few minutes alone are awkward.

‘There'll be fireworks later.'

For a moment I think he means between us, but then I see him glance out of the window, where a couple of men are setting up the display.

‘I thought private firework displays weren't allowed,' I remark.

‘Not strictly,' he concedes. ‘But it's only a few, and none of the neighbours have dogs so they don't mind. In fact, they usually come out to have a look themselves.' He slides his arm around my waist and pulls me towards him. ‘Come on. Let's introduce you to a few people.'

We plunge into the crowd, where I meet men and women whose names I instantly forget. After a while, Charles abandons me and I wonder if he's going to come back. I look around for Celeste, and see she's talking to a very tall, very skinny red-headed man. She's laughing, he has a big grin on his face and the chemistry between them seems good. I don't want to interrupt them, but I don't know anyone else, and besides, they're all involved in deep discussions. I do what everyone in these circumstances does and take out my phone. I've missed five messages, all early Happy New Year GIFs from my work WhatsApp group. I send one back, and then another message comes in.

Wishing you all the best for the coming year and hoping it's good to you. Sx

I should have bloody blocked him at Christmas. Annoyingly, he's going to know I've seen this message now. So I send one back saying Same to you, and then my phone rings.

‘How are things?' he asks.

I'm struggling to hear him over the noise, so I walk into the hallway. It's equally noisy here, and I open the door to the dining-room where the waiting staff are loading up trays with more glasses of champagne. I apologise, take a glass that one of the waiters hands me, and return to the downstairs kitchen, which is blissfully quiet. Even as I do, I wonder why I'm bothering. Why I don't tell Steve I'm busy and can't talk to him. Instead, I say I'm at a party.

‘Where?' He sounds peeved.

‘Terenure.'

‘Terenure! You don't know anyone in Terenure.'

‘Obviously I do.'

‘Workmate?' he asks.

‘No.' I shake my head even though he can't see me. ‘Look, Steve, why are you texting me and calling me? We're not a couple any more and it's really disconcerting.'

‘We're friends, though,' he says. ‘I told you. We'll always be friends. So I'm texting you in a friendly way.'

‘Well stop.' My determination comes from the large gulp of champagne I've taken. ‘I've moved on.'

‘You have a new boyfriend?' He sounds shocked.

‘I have new friends.'

‘In Terenure? I find that hard to believe.'

‘Why?'

‘I've never met anyone as . . . as . . . conservative as you, Izzy. Everything in your life is always the same. You hate new things. You don't do anything that takes you out of your comfort zone. You—'

‘When you're finished insulting me, let me know,' I say.

‘It's not an insult, it's an observation.'

‘And is my conservatism, as you put it, the reason you dumped me?'

‘Partly,' he admits.

I end the call without saying anything else. My phone rings again and I silence it. I sit on the sofa (the kitchen has a relaxing space with a sofa!), and as I sip my champagne, I think that Steve is very wrong about me. Yes, there are ways in which I like things to stay the same. But I went to the Caribbean without him, and I slept with a man who's the complete opposite of him. A man who invited me to a posh party in his huge house. I'm hardly in my comfort zone now, am I? So what does Steve Carter know about anything.

The kitchen door opens and Charles walks in,

‘There you are,' he says. ‘I was looking for you.' His eyes narrow as he sits down beside me. ‘Are you OK?'

‘Yes.' I put Steve to the back of my mind and smile. ‘Just sending a few New Year messages. Thanks for the invite to your party. It's nice to have something good to do on New Year's Eve.'

‘You thanked me earlier. And you don't need to. I wouldn't have enjoyed it without you.'

‘Oh. Well, I'm enjoying myself too.'

‘And yet you're down here alone.'

‘Like I said, checking messages.'

‘People who are having fun don't need to check messages.'

‘I do.' I smile.

He puts his arm around me and draws me close. His kiss tastes of champagne and smoke. I say so.

‘I had a cigar earlier,' he confesses. ‘I smoke two at this time of the year. One on New Year's Eve. The other on New Year's Day. Oh, and I have one whenever a book comes out. It's my only vice.'

‘Oh, I dunno.' I find his lips again. ‘I'm sure you have others.'

It's quite a while later before we go upstairs again, and Charles is immediately accosted by a man who tells him there's only fifteen minutes till midnight and we should all be outside for the fireworks. Charles nods and asks if the man has spoken to Ariel. Why would she have anything to do with the fireworks? I wonder. It's Charles's party, after all, and she's only his agent. Slash ex.

‘I'd better get involved,' Charles says to me. ‘See you shortly.'

He leaves me standing in the hallway and joins the revellers, where he shouts at everyone to gather up and get outside. There's a general movement, and a stylish woman wearing what even I can see is a very expensive dress in midnight blue catches Charles by the arm and demands to know where he's been. She has a beautiful solitaire diamond on the third finger of her right hand, a multicoloured ring on her left, a diamond tennis bracelet on her wrist and a silver chain with a blue stone that matches the blue of her dress around her neck. It takes me a moment to recognise her because she's older than the photographs I've seen and, quite honestly, more glamorous.

It's Ariel.

She's gorgeous.

Dammit.

She puts her hand on his back as she ushers him down the stairs, and I stare at the ring she's wearing on the third finger of her left hand. The multicoloured stones gleam richly beneath the lights. I wonder if she's engaged, and if so, to whom. Charles never mentioned it. Though in fairness, he does his best never to mention her. It's usually me bringing up the agent-slash-ex issue.

The partygoers follow them down the stairs. I do too.

It's freezing outside, and I wish that I'd been smart enough to find my jacket, because my green dress is backless and I've a large amount of skin exposed to the elements. I tell myself that the cold is invigorating, and besides, I'm surrounded by people so I'll warm up quickly enough.

Charles jumps onto a box and shouts at us all to be quiet for a moment. Then he begins a countdown to the new year. As he reaches zero, a huge rocket bursts overhead in a shower of golden stars. He leads the applause, and Ariel kisses him. On the mouth. In a very non-agent-slash-ex way. I feel my stomach tighten and look around for Celeste. She's being kissed by the guy with red hair. Charles's editor is also being kissed, although somewhat more platonically, by a man who I think is an author.

I'm not being kissed by anyone. Platonically or otherwise.

The woman beside me turns and wishes me Happy New Year, and I say the same to her, then I push my way towards Celeste and tap her on the shoulder. She throws her arm around me before introducing me to the redhead. His name is Darragh Mackey and he's a bookseller. He gives me a peck on the cheek and asks me if I'm cold. I'm guessing that beneath my red lipstick, my lips are actually blue, but I say, ‘Not at all' and Celeste tells me I look amazing in my dress and I say that she looks amazing in hers and Darragh says that we both look amazing and it's great to meet new people at Charles's party. I'm trying to think of something other than ‘amazing' to say in return when I feel a hand on my own shoulder. It's Charles. He does the Happy New Year thing with Celeste and Darragh and then manoeuvres me away from them and from the mass of people who are now making their way back into the house.

We're standing beneath a tree that's covered in fairy lights.

‘Here.' He slips his jacket around my freezing shoulders and I breathe a sigh of relief even as the breath turns into mist in front of me. ‘That's the problem with women coming to parties in gorgeous dresses,' he says. ‘We guys are OK. Shirts and jackets.'

‘You're being very gallant in giving me yours. We should go inside.' My teeth are chattering.

‘Wait a moment,' he says.

I stand beside him in silence, watching the rest of the party disappear indoors.

‘I've been thinking,' Charles says. ‘A lot.'

About Ariel, I suspect. Because that was hardly a platonic kiss they shared. He's been lying to me about how ex she really is.

‘What have you been thinking about?'

‘Me. And you.'

‘Oh. Not you and Ariel.' I can't help myself. ‘She's beautiful, by the way.'

He looks startled. ‘Were you introduced?'

‘No, but I recognised her from the online photos,' I reply. ‘And she clearly means a lot to you still, despite everything. That was a very intimate kiss you shared.'

‘Hardly intimate given that it was in front of a crowd of people.' He shrugs. ‘Besides, she kissed me, I didn't kiss her.'

‘It didn't seem that way.'

‘Are you jealous?'

‘No.'

But I am. Of course I am.

‘Look, Iseult—'

‘I know that's my name, but I told you before, everyone calls me Izzy.'

‘I like your proper name,' he says. ‘Though if you prefer Izzy, that's what I'll call you from now on.' He gives me an impatient look. ‘I didn't bring you here to talk about names.'

‘What then?'

‘I suppose I should start by saying that I'm older than you and have lived longer and have more experience and wisdom.'

‘Jeez, way to make me feel like a child,' I say, sounding like a mulish teenager.

‘I don't mean it like that,' says Charles. ‘What I mean is – this isn't something I would've done years ago. I'd have thought it through, waited patiently, weighed up the options . . .'

‘Have you created a bucket list for next year?'

‘No,' he says. ‘I've created a priority list. And I only have one priority on it.'

‘A number one bestseller spot for A Caribbean Calypso.'

‘Not that,' he says. ‘Although perhaps that's in second place.'

‘So what's top of your list?'

‘This.' He clears his throat. ‘Iseult O'Connor, Izzy, I love you. Will you marry me?'

I think my jaw literally drops.

And I look at him without saying a word.