The Button Factory was dark, crowded and very noisy. Had she lost her damn mind? Besides, she’d never find him in this chaos. But there he was, pushing through the people, his gaze intent on hers.
‘Nell.’ His eyes glowed. ‘You came.’ He took hold of her face, the palms of his hands rough and soft against her cheeks. Moving so close that they were breathing the same air, he asked, ‘Are you on your own?’
She could see the pores of his beard, the slight chapping on his lips, how his dark eyelashes clumped spikily together.
‘Let me get you a drink.’
She was seized by fear. ‘Ferdia. No. Sorry. I should go.’
The surge of panic propelled her through the crowds and out of the front door. In the busy street, she dodged and swerved, putting distance between them, her heart hammering.
Her phone buzzed with a text. Please come back. She moved faster, trying to breathe away the anxiety in her chest. Her phone began ringing. She shouldn’t talk to him, she couldn’t go back. This was scary and dangerous.
What had he been doing, holding her face and looking at her like that?
Maybe he was drunk. Stoned? Just being friendly? Looking to get one over on Liam? Anything was possible. The important thing she needed to keep remembering was that as of right now, at this exact moment in time, she’d done nothing wrong.
I’m safe. I’m still a normal person. I haven’t done anything bad.
If she crossed the line, she’d create a whole world of pain and regret. Not just for herself, but for other people, especially Liam. He deserved better.
Walking fast, she focused on Garr’s advice: to sort her shit out with Liam.
They needed to talk about the expectations they’d had of each other. They needed to adjust to reality and – maybe – be honest about their disappointments.
Communication was vital, everyone was always saying that – when they weren’t going on about marriage being ‘hard work’.
There was also the matter of his baggage: Liam had two daughters whom he never saw. That had to be eating away at his self-esteem.
By the time she’d reached home, she’d made a decision: she wasn’t giving up yet.
EIGHTY-FOUR
She was embroidering a barcode onto a ticket for the opening night of Human Salt. It was fiddly, intricate work, so easy to get wrong, and she had several hundred more to do … A hand on her naked hip surprised her. Fingers were pitter-pattering along the top of her thigh, lightly touching off her most sensitive spot, and moving away again. Hot breath on her face, then a voice said thickly, ‘I let you sleep as long as possible.’
Adrenalin spiked, moving her from the anxiety dream into grim reality. Liam was in the mood for sex. They hadn’t done it since they’d got home from Italy. It was no accident: she’d been keeping out of his way, up early and home late. The few times he’d put the moves on her, she’d been blunt about how knackered she was.
Today, though, he’d obviously decided she’d had enough of a rest.
Going through with this would be a challenge. Right now, Liam was just a man with an erection who wanted to have sex with her body. If she refused, it would trigger a crisis. Which she didn’t want. Not after last night’s decision that there was still hope for them.
I am agreeing to this.
I am consenting.
I am doing this to buy myself time.
She closed her eyes, tried to disappear into her head and reminded herself that she was giving Liam permission to do whatever it was that he was doing.
It was over quickly. Panting, he lay on top of her. ‘What about you?’ he asked.
‘I’m fine. Tired.’
‘Grand.’ He toppled onto the mattress and within seconds was snoring.
‘Should I wear my boots?’ Saoirse called, to the household at large.
‘It’s sunny!’ Bridey said.
‘But it’s September – it’s autumn. What if autumn arrives while I’m out and I’ve to come home in the cold in my sandals?’
Johnny kept his head down, afraid that Ferdia or Saoirse would ask for a lift to Errislannan.
Something about this, the turn in the seasons, made him remember other long-ago Saturdays when it had felt as if he practically lived down there.
After Rory’s death, he’d been given his own key and an open invitation. Almost every weekend, he’d driven there, had a quiet dinner, then watched Saturday-night telly, reassuring in its crapness. Sometimes Keeva dropped