Love Me Or Leave Me (2 page)

Suddenly, violent flashbacks start to crowd in on me. I get a pin-sharp memory from this morning of the make-up artist, a lovely girl called Zoe, hysterically screeching, ‘Mother of God, the groom! What the hell is he doing here?! Would you ever just get OUT!’ as Frank gingerly tapped at the door of my hotel room while we were all still getting ready.

‘Frank! You know right well it’s bad luck to see the bride just before the ceremony!’ I can remember my niece Emma screeching over her thin, emaciated shoulder blades, in between lashing on more bronzer than you’d normally see on a
Strictly Come Dancing
finalist. At that, a sudden, disconnected thought ricochets round my addled brain. Poor Emma. God love the girl, she was so looking forward to being a bridesmaid today. Even joined Weight Watchers especially, then went and lost a whopping eleven pounds. She was the envy of her whole class in school, apparently. And is now so stick-thin, I honestly don’t know whether to feed the kid, or else make soup out of her.

And yet still Frank didn’t budge. Instead, he just stood there, taking us all in with flat-fish eyes. Dead eyes, I’m now thinking.

‘Ehh … sorry to interrupt you all, but by any chance Chloe, would you have a minute?’ he said directly to me, and just in case I’d missed last night’s subtle clues, there it was yet again for all to see. That telltale twitching.

‘Oh, isn’t that sooo romantic,’ I can clearly remember Mum having to practically shout at the young one who was blow drying her hair, raising her voice so she could be heard above the blast of the hairdryer. ‘Bet Frank wants to give her a lovely wedding present before the ceremony. Bit of jewellery, probably, he’s a good lad like that. Wait till you see, our Chloe has him well trained!’

I can remember being a bit taken aback when he suddenly appeared out of nowhere like that, but nothing more. Some last minute problem with buttonholes or seating arrangements, was my ridiculous guess. Because how could I have possibly foreseen what was to come?

A sudden wave of nausea sweeps through me as the whole thing hits me square in the face again, its impact getting more and more painful each fresh time. I’m sweating now, cold and clammy, shivering and shaking weakly, wondering when my life will finally stop spinning out of control.

‘Chloe?’ says Gemma softly through the gloom of the hotel room. ‘I’m right here if you want to talk about it.’

‘Do you want to know what Frank’s last words to me were?’ I eventually manage to croak back at her.

‘Tell me.’

‘He said, “I’d better go now. My left buttock is getting numb from sitting on this tiled floor.”’

‘Well, my oh my, what a diehard romantic he is.’ And even through the darkness, I can sense her rolling her eyes up to heaven. ‘Seriously Chloe, you couldn’t have married Frank,’ she goes on, hauling herself up on one elbow now and looking down at me. ‘I mean, come on, all the signs were there … I did try to warn you …’

‘Sorry,’ I interrupt, staring up at the ceiling, ‘but I can’t do this right now. Please bear in mind this is supposed to be my wedding night.’

Gemma looks steadily down at me.

‘Any point in my mentioning great romances of the past that have all crashed and burned? Charles and Diana? Liz Taylor and Richard Burton? Jennifer Aniston and Brad?’

I manage a weak shake of my head, then turn away from her, savouring the cool feel of the hotel pillows against my thumping head.

‘For God’s sake, look at you, you’re completely drained,’ she says, eyeing me steadily. ‘Now how about you just go back to sleep, and have a nice little snooze, love? And just wait till you see, everything will be so much better tomorrow. Trust me. I’ll leave you in peace and make sure no one disturbs you.’

She tiptoes out the room, like I’m a convalescent recovering from major heart surgery who can’t even handle the stimulation of a door being closed gently … and finally I’m alone again.

With my mind racing.

What to do? Go back to sleep, then get up tomorrow and somehow try to piece my whole life back together again? Go back into work and face everyone? In the very hotel I was supposed to have my wedding reception in? To make matters worse, where Frank and I have worked shoulder to shoulder together for the past few years?

Then comes a sudden straw of hope which I wildly clutch at. Maybe I could try to laugh it all off? Side-step all the humiliation by pretending it was mutual and that Frank and I are actually good friends?

But even if I had the energy, I know deep down that it just can’t be done. Because how am I supposed to come back here to work and just act like nothing happened? How could I look across a function room at him and smile, like he hadn’t just ripped my entrails out and mashed them up against a wall? How can I just pick up the threads of my old life and somehow struggle on? Even in my semi-drugged state, I know I can’t do it.

Not. An. Option.

And then suddenly, from out of nowhere, an idea.

You don’t have to
, a tiny voice inside me prompts.
You don’t have to face any of them, not if you don’t want to. Who says you even have to? You can just pack up and go. Start a new life, start over. Start right now.

Suddenly I’m sitting bolt upright, heart walloping cartoon-like in my chest, as I really start to give it serious thought.

London, I could go to London, couldn’t I? Not too far from Dublin that my family would think I’ve completely lost the plot and yet distant enough for me to get some perspective. I even have an old pal there who couldn’t make it over for the wedding, maybe she’d look after me for a bit? We did hotel management together in college, so who knows? She might even know of a few job opportunities I could go for.

For the first time all day, I feel a surge of fresh energy coming over me. Just the thoughts of a new life in a whole new city, where I wouldn’t forevermore be branded as the girl who got dumped on her wedding day, and suddenly I’m on my feet and already unhooking the back of my wedding dress. I’ve already got loads of luggage in packed suitcases here, full of clothes I needed for the honeymoon. Admittedly, most of it is fancy-schmancy underwear, but I know at least there’s a pair of jeans and a warm jumper in there somewhere.

Ten minutes later and I’m out the door, pulling a small wheelie bag after me, tiptoeing down the deserted corridor like some kind of fugitive from justice. I know all my family and pals are still downstairs in the hotel’s Cellar Bar, which is in the basement, so with any luck, chances of my running into any of them are slim.

I check my phone and am astonished to see it’s actually still early; just coming up to six in the evening. And I know there’s always late evening flights to London, so with all going well and if I can grab a last minute seat, I might just make it.

Then a sudden dilemma. How do I get out of here unseen by the rest of the staff, by my colleagues, maybe even my boss? If I’m spotted, they’ll just drag me back, tell me I’m not acting rationally and possibly call a psychiatrist to give me the once over. And if I use the staff entrance like I always do, there’s no way on earth I won’t be spotted.

Main door then. No choice. Just like any other guest. Best shot all round. I take the precaution of using the stairs in case I bump into anyone I know in the lift who’ll physically try to haul me back, but thankfully, my luck holds; I’ve the whole stairwell to myself. I make it all the way downstairs and apart from distant voices wafting up from the Cellar Bar, I don’t start running into any other guests until I make it to the busy, packed foyer.

Please, please, please, I find myself praying to a God I barely believe in, don’t let anyone I know see me …

And for the first time throughout possibly the shittiest day known to man, the heavens actually send me a break. The Merrion Hotel is a real weekend hotspot, so the drawing rooms by reception are packed with the fake tan brigade out in stiletto-heeled force and a clutch of hunky looking men wafting around them. Heart palpitating, I spot two lounge staff that work for me, but thank you God, they’re so busy weaving in and out of the throng that they don’t seem to even notice me.

Chest hammering cartoon-like, I weave my way through, slip out the main door completely unnoticed and in the blink of an eye I’ve escaped outside, clattering my wheelie bag behind me.

Mercifully, the air outside the hotel is cool and I allow myself a few deep, comforting gulps of it, feeling exactly like I’ve just escaped from Alcatraz. I make a silent vow to call Mum and Dad as soon as I’m safely booked onto a flight, because let’s face it, last thing I need after the day I’ve had are any of my family going to the cops and filing me as a missing persons case.

Mind’s made up and this girl is not for turning.

The Merrion Hotel is just round the corner from Stephen’s Green, which I race towards as fast as humanly possible, all the while scanning right, left and centre for a cab.

And then, a miracle. Just at the junction of Kildare Street and the Green, with immaculate timing, a taxi turns the corner. I instantly let out an almighty yell at the driver and am just about to shove my way through the crowd to get to him, when a voice from behind suddenly stops me dead in my tracks.

‘Any spare change for a hostel, love?’

No, no, no, no, no! Please, please, please don’t let it be someone I know, come to haul me back … not now! Not when I’ve got this far! But even through the befuddled haze clouding me, a tiny part of my logical brain says … hang on just a sec. Your wedding guests are hardly likely to be out on the streets looking for change for a hostel, now are they?

‘I don’t drink or do drugs, love, I’m only looking for a bit of spare change.’

I turn sharply round to see a homeless guy just at my feet, huddled under a sleeping bag and shivering, even though it’s a warm, balmy evening.

‘Even just a few coins would help,’ he adds, eyeing up my handbag.

Instinctively, I open the bag to fumble round the bottom of my purse for a few coins … and that’s when my eye falls on it.

My engagement ring. The one that Frank flew me especially to New York to buy, just so we could always say it came from Tiffany’s. I take a good look down at it. Three tiny neat little diamonds. And much as I loved it, I know I can never look at it again as long as I live.

In an instant, I whip it off my finger and without a second thought, hand it over to the homeless guy.

Will we both be okay, do you think?
I wordlessly ask him as our hands momentarily lock.

I don’t know
, he seems to say, looking lifelessly back up at me.

Two minutes later and I’m in the back of the taxi, speeding out towards the airport. And for the first time in my entire life, I don’t have a single clue what tomorrow may bring.

Chapter Two

London, the present.

‘Miss Townsend? Miss Chloe Townsend?’

‘Yes, indeed,’ I smile brightly back. But then I’m a firm believer that when nervous, just look and act confident and effervescent on the outside, and sooner or later, the rest of the world will eventually believe the lie.

‘Rob McFayden from Ferndale Hotels,’ he nods back, giving me a firm, businesslike handshake. Strong, confident grip.

‘Good to meet you and thanks so much for coming along today, especially at short notice. Here, grab a seat.’

I do as he says, but then Rob McFayden from Ferndale Hotels is someone you just automatically do what you’re told around. Even guests who’ve paid handsomely for the privilege, I’d hazard a guess.

‘Okay if I call you Chloe? Sorry, but as you probably know, I’m not so big on formality.’

‘Yes, that’s fine.’

Not so big on formality?
I think.
Ha!
Rob McFayden is famous for coming to work in jeans and trainers; almost like he was in such a rush to get there, he ended up sprinting. Rumour has it he’s frequently acted as impromptu doorman/receptionist and even barman on the rare occasions when he feels things aren’t being done snappily enough in his hotel chain. Received myth is that, at a wedding in his Parisian hotel, he once jumped in and acted as a sous-chef for the night, on account of they were one man short in the kitchen.

Yup, an unpredictable man, by all accounts.

‘Great,’ he nods curtly back at me. The mighty Rob McFayden doesn’t even bother to sit behind his desk either, I notice, like would-be-employers usually do in interviews. Instead, he just rolls up his sleeves and perches casually on the edge of it, as if he’s already decided this meeting will take no longer than three minutes, so the application of his bum to the seat is just a waste of time.

‘So, I have your CV here, Chloe, and my HR team tell me it’s all looking pretty good. Well,’ he throws in briskly, ‘obviously it’s a glowing CV, otherwise, you’d hardly have got through my door in the first place.’

‘Well, emm … thank you,’ I smile tautly, although I’m not actually certain he meant it as a compliment.

Suddenly, the nervy tension between us is shattered as his phone rings. He whips it out of his pocket, checks the number then rolls his eyes.

‘Sorry, but do you mind if I take this? It’s my Locations Manager in Italy and it’s more than likely an emergency.’ Then with a wry smile, he adds, ‘It inevitably is.’

‘Of course not,’ I smile overly brightly to compensate for sheer antsiness. ‘Please, go right ahead.’

He takes the call, giving me the chance, for the first time, to really get a half-decent look at the guy. A lot younger than I’d have thought, is my initial impression. Early forties at most, salt and pepper slightly greying hair, long, skinny build. Well travelled, lean, all angles. One of those ectomorph body types you’d almost automatically take a dislike to, on account of they can probably eat all they like and never gain a single gram. Well, either that, or the man lives off fags.

Then with a quick, businesslike, ‘well, let’s set up a meeting with the architect and I’ll see you in Milan on Thursday. We’ll pick this up then,’ he’s off the phone.

‘Apologies for that,’ he says, though not looking at me, instead totally focused on the CV in front of him, eyes darting busily up and down the page. ‘So I see you’ve been working at the Bloomsbury Square Hotel here in London for the past couple of years.’