it to her mouth.
As she inhaled, the very last of her tension drained away. Then they kissed.
Every touch felt different, better. Moving with Ed, the feel of her skin against his, was delicious. The judgey voices in her head were dialled right down to silence.
Afterwards, they lay entwined, listening to the music. Through the open window, the cool night air moved over their bodies.
Cara was falling asleep when ‘Mykonos’ came on. ‘I’ve just realized. This. It’s about addiction? His brother is an addict?’
‘What it sounds like.’
‘And he’s telling him to go to rehab? “You go today”? It must be so tough to do that.’
‘Brutal.’
‘So what’s the “ancient gate” he’s waiting at?’
Ed laughed sleepily. ‘Some old three-bar to keep the donkey from escaping?’
‘It’s a choice, right? Between getting clean or not?’
‘Well, if you knew, why’re you asking me?’
‘Because … I like asking you things … Are you asleep? That’s okay. I’m asleep too …’
THIRTY-FIVE
‘… throat or jaw pain.’ Johnny read on, with interest: ‘Feeling sick, sweaty, light-headed or short of breath.’
An article titled How To Tell If A Heart Attack Is Imminent had popped up in his feed. ‘I’m only forty-eight!’ he told his iPad.
So much for targeted advertising!
But he’d read on and was now anxiously rubbing his ribcage.
‘Sudden sweats’. A sheen of perspiration was suddenly beading his forehead. According to this, you mightn’t even get a pain in your chest if you were mid-heart attack. You might just feel ‘uncomfortable’.
No, hold on, you’ve got me all wrong. I run fifteen K a week.
He didn’t, though. In theory he ran five K three mornings a week, but between the school run and the work travel and the sheer, unrelenting knackeredness, he managed maybe one run a fortnight.
But he often walked the dogs. That counted for something.
‘Coughing or wheezing’. Instantly he coughed. Ah, he was definitely having a heart attack!
The following article covered signs that indicated a person had a blood clot. ‘Coughing for no reason’ – he’d just done that! ‘A racing heart’. Well, it was racing now.
He needed Jessie. She’d talk sense into him.
Well, maybe not. But she’d mock him back into his right mind.
Jessie, however, was on a day trip to Geneva, armed with gifts for Jin Woo Park and Océane, giddily hopeful that the chef was about to sign on the dotted line.
Even thinking about how much all this was costing was enough to start Johnny’s heart racing again. But when she was in chef-stalking mode, there was no talking to her.
It wasn’t just that. Even though he and Jessie were equal shareholders in the business – it was her wedding present to him – he never felt he had the right to criticize. How could he ask her to tone down her spending either on the business or in real life? Ultimately she had earned the money.
… Maybe he’d have a little snooze for himself. It was a Sunday afternoon, the rain was pelting down outside, and for once he had nothing urgent to do –
‘Oh, Joooooohnnneee?’ Saoirse sidled into the room.
Noooo! She was about to ask for something. Something awkward …
‘I need a favour.’
A sweat broke out on his face. Now, which one was that? Heart attack or a blood clot? Or just the realization that his rare peaceful afternoon was being stolen from him.
‘Ferdia and me are going to Errislannan.’ She meant Rory’s family. ‘To Granny Ellen’s. It’s their wedding anniversary. There’s going to be cake and that.’
A lift, that was what she was about to ask for. She’d point out at the rain and appeal to his kinder instincts.
‘It takes an hour and fifty minutes by public transport. Or twenty-five minutes by car. Google Weather says the rain’s not going to stop. Would you give us a lift?’
‘Ah, Saoirse! Can’t you drive? Or Ferdia?’
‘We’re not insured on your shit-bucket.’
‘The Beast?’ But, no, Jessie had driven to the airport in the people-carrier. Johnny admitted defeat. ‘Okay. Come on.’
As Johnny drove through the rain, he was reminded of the first time he’d visited Errislannan. It had been a Friday evening, a few months after he, Jessie and Rory had started working together. They’d had a particularly gruelling week.
‘Pub?’ Johnny had suggested. ‘Pints?’
Jessie had shaken her head. ‘Going home to bed.’ Then, ‘You know what? I want my mammy to make my dinner and put her hand on my forehead and tell me I’m great. But I’m too destroyed for the four-hour journey to the backarse of Connemara.’
‘I’d like that too,’ Johnny said. ‘But without the mammy.’
‘Come