that was what it was. That it made her seem interesting and grown-up.
Now she remembered actually saying to her dad, ‘We can always get divorced.’ She’d been joking but, subconsciously, had she sensed that this was not something for the long haul?
She hadn’t left Liam. Because if she had, the entire Casey clan would have been in uproar. She’d seemed so certain on Saturday night. But something had obviously changed after she’d arrived home. Had she decided to give him another chance? Realized she still loved him?
Whatever it was, Ferdia felt like shit. Hands down, these had been the hardest few days in forever.
On Sunday evening, when they’d all got back from the festival, he’d been holding his breath, waiting for the news to break that she’d left Liam. Nothing happened, so, feeling uneasy, he went to bed. The next morning, still no word. He went to college, trying to style it out, but checking his phone every ten minutes.
All he got was a big fat nothing. Every. Single. Time.
Tuesday, same. He was distracted, jittery and utterly fucking miserable.
The worst was that he had no one to talk to. Especially not Nell.
Whatever she decided to do – or not – he had to be cool: texting or calling would be stalker-y.
Who knew if she’d have a thing with him even if she left Liam? But while she was still married, there was zero hope.
It was crushing him. He felt abandoned, as if he’d lost someone precious. Which was insane, because he’d never actually had her.
Wednesday morning now. Still no news. For the first time, he admitted that there would likely be no news. This was his life now. He needed to carry on, act As If. Keep putting one foot in front of the other and eventually he’d get over her.
Up in the house, the breakfast mayhem was under way.
Jessie thrust a plate at him. ‘Bunny, toast, it’s going spare.’ Then, to the younger kids, ‘Go now or you’ll miss the bus.’
Ferdia looked at the slice of toast. His mouth was dry. He literally couldn’t eat. ‘Mum?’ he croaked. ‘When’s our next family get-together?’
She flicked a look at Johnny. ‘His birthday. Friday week. Dinner here at the house.’
‘Who’s coming?’
‘Usual. Us. Ed, Cara and the nippers. Liam and Nell. Why?’
‘Just wondering.’
She was all set to interrogate him further, but her phone beeped.
Zipping past, she took a glance. ‘From Nell. Liam’s looking for bodies to practise his massage on.’
‘Wha-at?’
‘His massage course.’ Jessie was impatient. ‘He needs volunteers.’
Nell was going in to bat for Liam? This really didn’t sound good.
‘I’m too busy,’ Johnny said quickly.
‘It can be any time over the next seven weeks.’
‘Even if I had all of eternity, I’m not having a massage. Doesn’t anyone ever consider how unnatural it is? One person scrubbing away at another person, like they’re trying to get dog wee out of the rug?’
‘When did Camilla wee on the rug?’ Jessie glared.
‘It’s fixed now.’
‘Grand. I’m also too busy,’ Jessie said.
‘So not loving the idea of a massage from Uncle Liam.’ Saoirse made an ick face.
‘Ferd?’
‘Seriously? You know what I think about that dick.’
‘He could ask Robyn.’ Saoirse’s voice was soft. ‘I’m sure she’d enjoy it. They both would.’
As Jessie descended the stairs into the gloom of Jack Black’s, the barman spotted her and reached for the gin bottle. No. Gin was for evening times, not for ten thirty in the morning.
There, at a sticky table, sporting yet another of his wacko suits, was Karl Brennan. In a different person, his reliability might be impressive but today, their third meeting, Jessie wondered if he actually slept there.
She shook her head at the barman. ‘Just water, thanks.’
‘But you always have gin!’
My God, these men with their fragile egos, looking for positive endorsement simply for remembering a person’s drink. Which was (a) their job. And (b) hardly the most challenging prospect when she was literally the only woman she’d ever seen in this small, desolate bar. Which, for her own sanity, she’d renamed Last Stop Before Rehab.
‘Bit early for gin,’ she said, which caused two men at separate tables to give her startled, wounded stares.
‘Ms Parnell.’ Karl gave an over-formal nod. ‘Always a pleasure.’
‘Mr Brennan.’ Jessie pulled up a stool.
She had no experience of management consultants but suspected Karl Brennan was wildly atypical of the breed. For a start, he seemed to do a lot of daytime drinking. Also, evening drinking.
His suits belonged to the lead singer in an eighties band.