Alberta Clipper (20 page)

“
Shay
.  I was just looking for Christine.”

“Ah yeah, well, sure have a seat here next to me, and we'll sort that out afterwards.” 
Shay
seemed to be smiling animatedly at no one in particular.  Before he knew it, Mark was sitting at a
large, circular
table, a small plate of prawns already in front of him, and
Shay
seated beside him.  “Why don't you have a couple of these.”  He poured Mark and himself a large glass of water each, and
passed the jug on
.  When Mark looked up, he could see Melanie watching him.  The rest of the table was filled with guys from
Shay
's team, all of whom seemed to be engrossed in their own conversations and their own prawns. 

Mark drank the water back.  The fog that had been all around and inside his head seemed to clear a little bit, and he tried to focus.  Christ.  He was hammered.  And it was early.  He coughed, and pulled at his bow-tie, before reaching over and taking
Shay
's water and drinking that too.  For some reason he noticed that he was the only one at the table still wearing his dinner jacket, so he tried to remove it as inconspicuously as possible. 

Shay
reached over and helped him hang it on the back of his chair.  “Just have something to eat.  You'll be fine,” he said without making eye contact, and Mark did as he was told.  Only when he had finished his prawns did he notice that the seat next to him was occupied by Freddie. 

“Oh, Fred.  Didn't notice you there.”

“No worries, Mark.”

Mark was mortified.  He searched for something computer-related to say, but could think of nothing.  “You wouldn't pass me the bread rolls there, would ya Fred?  Thanks mate.”

After eating two bread rolls and his roast beef main course, Mark felt a little less drunk.  Although he had attempted to involve himself in some of the conversation at the table, he knew that he hadn't
been saying
much, and was in no doubt that the others
were aware of
the state he was in.  Various colleagues had come up to him during the course of the meal, but thankfully
Shay
had done most of the chatting.  As the many waiting staff circled, leaving cups and saucers at each place, he stood up and put his hand on
Shay
's arm. 

“I'm just going outside for some air.  Thanks
mate
.”

Shay
looked up at him.  “You're sure you're okay?”

“Sure.”

Without making eye contact with anyone, he walked from the room, through the lobby, and out of the front door of the hotel onto the street.  He couldn't go to the courtyard for fear of meeting half of the company out there enjoying their post-prandial ciggies.  He longed for a smoke himself, and decided to walk as far as the convenience store
down the street
.  Outside it was cool.  Refreshing.  The relative quiet of the road buzzed in his ears after the noise of the dining room.  As he walked, he felt a vibration against his thigh.  He stopped and reached into his pocket.

Shit.
 

Two missed calls from Jennifer.

Shit, shit, shit.

He looked at the times.  She had tried to call him at eight twenty, and again at eight thirty-five.  That would have been while he was getting shit-faced at the bar.  Marvellous.  There was also a text.  He clicked on it and massaged his eyes, trying to clear the remaining gin-fog away.  The text was from her too. 
Even before Scotland,
Jennifer
had not liked
texting.  And when she
did text
, she never abbreviated anything.

MARK, I TRIED CALLING.  WANTED TO TALK ABOUT CHRISTMAS.  BETTER IF I DON'T COME HOME.  ALSO SHEILA AND ROB AND KIDS WILL SPEND NEW YEAR'S HERE WITH ME.  JUST SO YOU KNOW MY PLANS.  SORRY WE COULDN'T SPEAK.  JENNIFER.

Mark stood on the pavement and read the text for a second time as other people walked past, knocking into him and making him stumble.  He couldn't think clearly.  She wasn't coming home for Christmas.  He tried to remember if he had ever thought that she would.  What had he thought?  It hadn't been likely that she would have spent it in their house with him.  He recalled rationalising that she would
most likely have come back to her sister Sheila’s
.  That's right.  He had assumed
that
she would be in Dublin for Christmas with Sheila’s family, because he had imagined meeting her on Christmas Eve, going for a drink together.  He remembered now.  It had seemed the right thing to do.  It would have been like the soldiers of the Great War when they had stopped fighting at midnight on Christmas to play a game of football on the front lines.  A moment of sanity in the madness.  He had followed through on the fantasy by imagining her coming home with him, staying with him, sleeping with him, before she had returned to her sister's house early on Christmas morning.  Standing on the pavement with his
BlackBerry
in his hand being jostled by passers-by, Mark tried to recall if the scenario had ended with him and Jennifer back together.  He struggled with the memory, but it would not come, like a damaged computer file he could no longer access.  A rowdy group of Christmas revellers walked past, barely noticing him, and he lost his balance and found himself sitting on the bottom step of a staircase leading to a
n opulent
Georgian front door.  Thankfully, he was still holding his phone.  He tried to read the text again, searching for any sign of hope, or any clue as to where his life might be going.  Home.  She had said 'home'.  Did she mean Ireland?  Did she mean their house?  Did she mean him? 

Come home. 

Don't come home. 

If I don't come home. 

Better if I don't come home. 

Mark shivered.  He had left his jacket on his chair.  He looked up and saw passers-by averting their eyes, probably afraid of him.  He must look like a beggar.  Wel
l, possibly not
.  Most beggars don't wear bow-ties and hold
BlackBerrys
.  But he couldn't stay here.  Why was he even out here?  Then he saw someone puffing on a cigarette and he remembered.  But he didn't want a cigarette any more. 

He wanted a drink.

~

Christine finished her coffee and looked around.  The DJ was getting started, and there were already a few of the younger secretaries advertising their wares on the dance-floor.  Most of her table had gravitated towards the bar, only Amanda and Dee were sitting, chatting, finishing their profiteroles.  She scanned further around the room, smiling as she caught the admiring glances of some of the friendlier dealers.  When she noticed Damien Forde staring unabashed at her, she decided it was time for some fresh air.

“Just going for a little walkabout,” she told Amanda and Dee who smiled and nodded.  Leaving the room, she almost walked straight into
Shay
.  “Hey
Shay
.  There's no hurry.  The dancing's only getting started,” she laughed.

“Yeah, great.  Meal was nice, wasn't it?
”  His eyes darted around the room.  “
I don't suppose you've seen Mark anywhere, have you?”

“I haven't seen him
since the drinks reception,” she said. 

“Ah right. 
No bother.  Just looking for him.  Just need to check something with him.” 
Shay
looked over to the bar, where he seemed to be searching through all the white shirts and bow-ties, but evidently Mark was not there. 

“Okay, well if I see him, I'll tell him you're looking for him.”

“Eh, yeah.  Yeah, do that.  Thanks Chris.”

Christine resumed her exit through the doors.  She turned to call after
Shay
to ask for a dance later, but he was gone. 
There was
a queue beginning to form
at the entrance to t
he ladies' room, so she kept walking.  Still no text from
Gavan
.  She wandered
through the hotel lobby
, seeking out another washroom,
enjoying appreciative looks from the casually dressed hotel guests
as she went
. 
A
sign for another ladies’ room
across the lobby
brought her
past
glass
door
s
to another, quieter bar. 
Glancing in, she saw
Mark,
sitting
up at the counter
with his back to her
.

Without thinking, she pushed the door open and went in. 
“Hey Mark.  Are you hiding in here? 
Shay
's looking for you.”

Mark swung around when he heard his name called.
 
He found he needed to close his eyes tight and open them again to clear the blurring.

“Christine, hey.” 
He cleared his throat, which appeared to have taken on a strange rasping quality. 
“I was just having a quiet moment.” 
He tried to pull himself up straighter on his seat. 
“
Here
.
”
He patted the stool next to him.
 
“
Have a drink with me.  What'll you have?”  He strained to remember what she had ordered in London. 
He needed to remember.  It was –

“Vodka!” 
he exclaimed,
delighted with himself.  “You're a vodka girl.”

With only the briefest hesitation
,
Christine settled herself on a stool next to him and turned to the
beefy
barman.  “Well I suppose it is Christmas.  Vodka tonic.  Thanks, Mark.”

“It's definitely my pleasure.”  He sat gazing at her.  The barman poured her tonic, and took the twenty that Mark had left out on the counter.  He returned with the change and left it back down. 

Her hair was so pretty tied back like that.  It showed her face.  Her lovely face.  He looked at her shoulders.  Pity to hide them under that cardigany-thingy.  He noticed she was wearing a small sapphire pendant.  It didn't seem to suit the dress.  If she was his girl, he would buy her every kind of jewellery he could.  Rubies.  Emeralds.  Diamonds.  Then it occurred to Mark that he hadn't spoken in a while.  He should say something.

“This is just like the Dorchester, isn't it?”

The barman
,
w
ho was standing close,
raised an eyebrow at Christine, who giggled. 

“I mean,” said Mark, “this,” he swished his arm through the air, “is not like the Dorchester.  No offence mate,” he added to the barman who s
hook his head graciously
.  “This,” he paddled the air between himself and Christine, “is like the Dorchester.”  He leaned forward onto the bar and smiled like an old friend at the slice of lemon in his gin.  “Best night of my life.  Well, best night of the summer.”  He thought hard.  “No, definitely one of the best nights of my life too.”

Christine sipped her drink, and looked up at the door, at the barman, and back to Mark. 

“How long have you been at CarltonWachs, Christine?”  Mark didn't look up from his drink.

“Almost two years now.”

“Two years.”  Mark tried to remember a time before Christine had been there, but he found he couldn't.

“It's a great place to work, Mark.”

“It is, it is.”  He looked up at her.  “They're a great bunch.  It is.”  The barman was called to the other end of the bar.  Mark turned on his stool to face Christine.  “You know, I broke up with Jennifer.  We're not together anymore.”  He
swivell
ed back to the bar again.  Then it struck him that Christine might not know Jennifer.  “Had you met her?”

“I had.”  Christine put a hand on his arm.  “I'm sorry Mark.  I know you were together a long time.”

“Yeah, well.  It hadn't been right for a while.”  He
shook his head slowly
.  “Probably for two years.  It hadn't been right.”

Christine took another sip of her drink, but found she couldn't swallow it.  She looked hopefully towards the doors again, but it was unlikely anyone else from CarltonWachs would come in here.  Poor Mark.  She felt so sorry for him.  He was obviously still devastated by his break-up, and he probably had no one to talk to about it.  Men.  At least she could confide in Emily
, or Aggie, or even her Dad
if she felt the need.  But if
Nina
hadn't told her months earlier, she would have never known about Jennifer and Mark.  Well, it was coming out now.  Thinking of
Nina
gave Christine an idea.  She surreptitiously pulled her phone from her purse, and wrote a short text to
Shay
.  Hopefully, he would have his phone on him.  People with kids usually did.  As she put her purse back up on the bar, her hand was suddenly covered by Mark's.  She froze.