The Women Who Ran Away - Sheila O'Flanagan Page 0,7

‘But then I decided I would.’

‘Where?’ demanded Gill again.

‘France,’ replied Deira.

‘France! When did you go and when are you back?’

‘I’m on my way now,’ said Deira. ‘And I won’t be back for nearly a month.’ That wasn’t strictly true. She’d be home in less than three weeks. But there was no need to tell Gill that.

‘A month!’ Gill’s words ended in almost a screech. ‘How on earth can you take a month off, Deira O’Brien?’

‘Because I had holidays due to me that I didn’t take before,’ Deira replied.

‘Right.’ There was a pause before Gillian asked her where she was staying.

‘I’ll be travelling,’ said Deira.

‘With who?’

‘With whom, d’you mean?’ Deira couldn’t help herself.

‘Grammar Nazi,’ said Gill, as Deira had known she would. ‘Who are you going to France with? Where will you be travelling to?’

‘I’m on my own,’ said Deira. ‘I haven’t planned my itinerary yet.’

Gill’s next words were lost in a bellow from the ship’s horn.

‘What the hell was that?’ she asked.

‘The ship,’ replied Deira.

‘The . . . What ship?’

‘I’m on the ferry.’

‘But . . . I thought you were in the airport. Aren’t you flying to Paris?’

‘No. I’m sailing to Roscoff.’

‘Why on earth are you doing that?’

‘Why not?’

‘Nobody takes the ferry to France on their own.’

‘I have.’

‘Jesus, Deira, have you lost your mind?’ Although Gillian’s words were harsh, her tone had softened. ‘Look, I know it’s been hard for you this last while, but there’s no need to run away.’

‘I’m not running away,’ said Deira. ‘I’m going on holiday.’

‘Why didn’t you pick something nice, like a fortnight on the beach?’ demanded Gill. ‘I’m sure you could’ve got a lovely all-inclusive in the Maldives or somewhere. You can afford it, after all. Or can you?’ she added. ‘Are there money problems?’

‘I don’t like beach holidays,’ said Deira. Which was only partly true. She enjoyed a week on the beach with a few good books. But more inactivity than that did her head in. ‘And I’m fine for money.’ Which, despite the hiccup when the direct debit for the trip had hit her account, was currently true.

‘Have you heard from Gavin?’

Deira’s heartbeat quickened. ‘No. Should I have?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Gill. ‘But let’s face it—’

‘I don’t want to talk about Gavin.’ Deira interrupted her. ‘I’m off on my holidays. He’s the last person I want to think about or talk about right now.’

‘You should have told me you were going,’ said Gill.

You would have tried to stop me. Deira didn’t say this out loud either.

‘I’ll message you when I’m there. I think the signal will drop on my phone soon. We’re nearly out at sea.’

‘Message me every day,’ said Gill.

‘Whenever I can,’ said Deira.

And she ended the call.

Back inside the ship, Deira visited the onboard shop, which was already crowded with people stocking up on French wines and special-offer spirits. Her only purchase was reflectors for the headlights of her car to redirect the beams for driving on the right-hand side of the road. Living it large, she murmured to herself as she paid for her solitary purchase. I really do know how to have fun!

She then made her way to the self-service restaurant, which was loud and noisy and, she realised, the last place she wanted to be. The sight of a mother feeding her tiny baby while at the same time spooning food into a toddler made her feel dizzy.

She turned away and almost bumped into a man carrying a tray laden with food.

‘Sorry,’ he said.

‘My fault.’

He nodded at her apology and kept walking.

Are you on your own? she wondered as her eyes followed him. Are you the one? He was attractive, though not memorable. He would be suitable enough. Wouldn’t he?

Stop, she said to herself. Just stop. She turned away and headed for the waiter-service restaurant at the other end of the ship. There was a queue here too, which was surprising until she realised that the frequent ferry travellers knew to get to the food as quickly as possible and leave the shopping and everything else until later.

When she finally reached the top of the queue, she asked the young Frenchwoman with a list in her hand if a table for one was possible.

‘We have nothing until eight o’clock, madam,’ she replied.

Deira wasn’t hungry, but eight o’clock was a long wait. Nevertheless, she supposed the self-service restaurant would probably be full for most of the evening. And she deserved something peaceful and quiet. So she booked her table and then went back to her cabin, where she