Two For Joy Page 10

  ‘Just up this little street here.’ Carl took her arm and guided her up a steep hill lined with small cottages. Lorna was a tad disappointed to say the least. The sea was in the other direction. No sea view unless his place was at the top of the hill and had panoramic views. She felt a bit daunted, not to say out of breath, at the thought of walking much further, but to her surprise, Carl took a key out of his pocket and fitted it into the door of one of the cottages.

  Was this it? Lorna was shocked. It looked so … so ordinary from the outside. No doubt it had all been changed and renovated on the inside. It probably had a mezzanine and lots of wood and glass out the back. There was a small, dirty Fiesta parked outside. Was it Carl’s? There certainly wasn’t a Beemer in sight, or a Porsche for that matter, she noted disgruntledly. She sincerely hoped it wasn’t Carl’s. It would be so uncool for his image. Even her own Honda Civic at least looked a little bit sporty and with it.

  ‘Home sweet home.’ Carl gave a wide toothy grin as he switched on the hall light and stepped over a clutter of tennis rackets, trainers and football boots. Lorna wrinkled up her nose. They didn’t smell too sweet either, in fact, they were distinctly pongy. The tiny hall led directly into a small sitting-room, even smaller than the one she shared with Heather, and there wasn’t a mezzanine or any other architect-designed features in sight.

  ‘Is this your own place?’ she asked, gazing around in dismay.

  ‘God no! I’m just renting it with two other blokes.’ Carl flung his jacket on the sofa.

  ‘Oh!’ Lorna murmured. ‘And do you work in town? Where’s your practice?’

  ‘My practice?’ he looked puzzled. ‘Oh, my architectural practice,’ he said hastily. ‘It’s in town, yeah. Now let’s get ourselves a drink. Red wine? Beer? Don’t have any spirits I’m afraid. We’re mostly beer drinkers here.’

  ‘You’re not really an architect, sure you’re not?’ Lorna said bluntly.

  ‘Yes I am!’ Carl said hotly, but he couldn’t meet her gaze.

  ‘Well, if you’re an architect, I’m a rocket scientist. Would you phone for a taxi for me please.’

  ‘Oh, come on, don’t be like that. Maybe I told a little fib. I’m an architectural technician, nearly as good as.’ He gave a practised Aren’t-I-Awful smirk and ran his hands through his tawny highlighted locks.

  ‘I’d still like a taxi.’ Lorna was ripping. She certainly wasn’t going to waste time with a chancer who claimed to be an architect, and, even worse, didn’t even own his own place, but was merely a tenant like herself.

  ‘Phone yourself – it’s in the hall,’ Carl said sulkily.

  ‘I don’t know the address, and I don’t know the southside numbers,’ Lorna retorted frostily.

  He brushed past her, went out to the hall and punched in a phone number with bad grace. She heard him give his address.

  ‘You’ll be waiting at least an hour, they said,’ Carl reported triumphantly. ‘It’s Saturday night, don’t forget. Come on – let’s have a snog. You wanted to shift me, didn’t you?’ He grabbed her and tried to kiss her, his hands roaming all over her ass.

  ‘How dare you. Get off me!’ Lorna gave him a shove that sent him sprawling.

  ‘Hey ya bitch!’ Carl hauled himself up and advanced towards her, eyes blazing.

  ‘Get lost,’ Lorna snarled. She turned on her heel and raced out of the front door.

  ‘Prick teaser! You were all over me in the pub!’ he shouted after her.

  Lorna turned and gave him the finger, furious. Now she had to go trekking all the way back to Dalkey unless she was exceptionally lucky and able to hail a taxi on the street. At least it was downhill, she tried to comfort herself, near to tears. Her feet were murdering her. Her poor sandals were not meant for this harsh treatment and were grubby and mud-spattered. At least they weren’t the fabulous Manolo Blahniks she’d been so tempted to spend an arm and a leg on. She click-clacked her tottering way down towards Dalkey, the rain beating into her face. She was frozen. A taxi passed her and she raised her hand and waved frantically, but even though he had no passengers he sped past and she cursed long and loudly.

  It was an hour before she got a taxi. She was drenched to the skin and chilled to the bone and her teeth rattled as she gave the address. The taxi driver was none too pleased. ‘Bleedin’ northside. I could have three fares while I’d be driving across there,’ he grumbled as he stepped on the juice none too gently. Lorna refrained from comment. All she wanted was to get warm and fall into bed and stay there. What a lying git that Carl had been. And to think she’d fallen for his crap in Finnegan’s. She certainly wouldn’t be telling Heather about this.

  She should have known when he’d made her walk all that way in the rain that he wasn’t what he seemed. He certainly wasn’t a gentleman. Next time she was bringing the car, Lorna decided, as the taxi swerved around a corner at speed and came to a halt at a set of pedestrian lights. She was never going to be in a position like this again. If it meant giving up drinking when she was out socially, so be it. When she met the right man he’d have his own car and she wouldn’t have to drive.

  She was beginning to feel a bit queasy. The taxi stank of stale smoke and she knew that if the taxi driver lit up she’d be sick. She’d better not puke or the taxi driver would kick her out. She slipped a Polo mint into her mouth and tried to ignore the cold beads of sweat that were breaking out on her forehead and upper lip.

  Hold on! she urged. They were driving up Dorset Street. He’d got across town very quickly and he hadn’t even taken the East Link. She should never have had that last drink, she thought unhappily. She wished Heather was here to help. Through a supreme effort of will she held on and was never so glad to see Drumcondra hove into view. ‘You can let me out here, I’ll walk the rest of the way,’ she said, not caring that her feet were covered in blisters. She couldn’t risk another second in that taxi. She paid him the fare but didn’t add a tip. He didn’t deserve one, the cranky old bugger. The taxi driver gave her a filthy look, but she didn’t care, she was too busy breathing deeply as she turned left at Fagan’s and began to walk up Botanic Avenue. She passed a block of luxury apartments, with their neatly landscaped grounds, and wished mightily that she lived there. They overlooked the river. They were large and elegantly designed, not at all like some of the eggboxes she’d been at parties in. She was so busy gawking that she wasn’t looking where she was going and she stumbled over a dip in the pavement. An excruciating pain shot through her ankle; she fell flat on her face, felt weak, sick and dizzy and then passed out.

  ‘Ohmigod, ohmigod,’ she moaned as she came to. Two men were kneeling beside her and one was talking into a mobile phone. Lorna tried to get up but squealed in pain and went white and almost passed out again.

  ‘It’s all right, girlie, we’ve called an ambulance, take it easy,’ one of the men said. He was middle-aged and reeked of alcohol. The one with the phone tapped her on the shoulder.

  ‘A word of advice, love, those things you’re wearin’ on your feet aren’t the best for walking in,’ he said paternally.

  Talk about stating the obvious. Lorna closed her eyes and said nothing. This was a total disaster. To think she’d walked from Dalkey to Killiney and back in those blasted shoes and just on her own doorstep, practically, she’d come a cropper.

  ‘I think she’s fainted again,’ the older man said. Lorna didn’t disabuse him of the notion. The pain was so agonizing she couldn’t speak even if she’d wanted to. She heard the ambulance siren in the distance with some relief. Soon she’d be looked after, snuggled up in a nice warm bed, after being tended to by a George Clooney type, who might even ask her to go on a date with him. Maybe this was meant to happen to her so that she could meet the man of her dreams, she thought woozily as the flashing blue lights of the ambulance made her blink.

  ‘Are you all right, love? What’s your name?’ a red-bearded ambulance man asked her kindly.

  ‘Lorna Morgan,’ she whispered tearfully. ‘I thi
nk my ankle’s broken.’

  ‘Anywhere else hurting?’ he asked, his hands gently probing her ankle.

  ‘Aaaahhh!!!!! That hurts,’ she shrieked.

  ‘OK love, OK, we’ll have you sorted in a jiffy.’ While he was talking, he had eased her up into a sitting position and almost before she knew it she was lifted into a red wheelchair-type thing, wrapped in a blue woollen blanket and whooshed up into the ambulance by the two ambulance men.

  ‘We’ll be there before you know it,’ Redbeard said kindly. ‘It’s the Mater that’s on call tonight.’ True to his word, she was being wheeled into Casualty six minutes later. It was nothing like ER, she thought with horror as she was wheeled past a crowded waiting room and transferred to a hospital wheelchair while Redbeard had a few words with a staff nurse.

  ‘Take care, and get a sensible pair of shoes, you’re lucky you didn’t break your neck!’ He gave her a smile before rushing off to his next assignment.

  It was four hours before she was even X-rayed. There wasn’t a George Clooney lookalike in sight, just some extremely pale-faced, tired, harassed, busy young doctors and nurses. Casualty was a nightmare. Ambulances arrived every few minutes disgorging patients, some merely suffering the effects of too much alcohol on a Saturday night, others the victims of street fights and car accidents, as well as elderly people with heart attacks and other serious complaints. Patients lay on trolleys without even the privacy of a cubicle, some of them very ill and in distress.

  She was way down the list of priorities and as she watched a drunk stagger and fall on top of a patient lying on a trolley, she felt scared and lonely as well as exhausted and in pain. She took out her mobile phone and rang the flat. She needed Heather badly. All she got was an engaged tone. How weird! Lorna glanced at her watch. It was five thirty a.m. What on earth was Heather doing on the phone at this hour of the morning? She burst into tears. No one took the slightest bit of notice of her and she sniffled and sobbed for a good ten minutes, feeling extremely sorry for herself. It turned out that her ankle wasn’t broken but badly sprained, and after X-ray she was strapped up tightly, given a pair of crutches and a taxi was ordered to take her home.

  It was almost bright as the taxi driver drove out through the hospital gates on to the deserted North Circular Road. The morning had a pale pink hue to it and the sun was struggling to shine. A Sunday morning calm enveloped the city and apart from a man walking his dog along the canal and a couple buying early morning papers the streets were deserted. The taxi driver took less than five minutes to get to her front door and he kindly helped her out of the back of the car as she struggled not to put her weight on her foot. In her left hand she carried her handbag and tattered sandal. She paid him and gave him a tip for his kindness and hobbled as best she could up to the front door. It was extremely difficult trying to get the hang of the crutches. She was going to have to crawl up the stairs, she thought sorrowfully as she managed to insert her key in the lock. She had tried the phone again, hoping that Heather could come and collect her to bring her home, but had got the same engaged tone.

  Somehow Lorna managed to get up the stairs on her hands and knees, clutching her crutches, and hammered on the door to the landing. Silence.

  Frustrated beyond measure, she managed to get the door open but lost one of her crutches in the process as it slid down the stairs.

  ‘Heather!’ she called loudly. ‘Heather! For crying out loud, wake up!’

  Her cousin staggered out of the bedroom, tousleheaded and bleary-eyed, in a pair of faded flannel pyjamas. Even in her distressed state, Lorna winced at the sight of them. How on earth could her cousin wear such passion-killers? Even if they were snug and warm.

  ‘What on earth happened to you?’ Heather demanded.

  ‘Oh, Heather, I’ve had the worst night of my life,’ Lorna blubbed, ‘and I tried to ring you but the phone’s not working.’

  ‘Not working,’ Heather echoed and glanced down at the small table between the bedroom and kitchen to see the phone off the hook. ‘Oh, yeah, I got a funny phone call last night, well this morning actually, so I left it off the hook, and they were having a party downstairs and the racket was beyond belief. Just as well you weren’t here.’

  ‘Well, I wish I had been here,’ Lorna sobbed. ‘It was a real nightmare. Can you help me get into bed? I need to sleep. I was sitting in Casualty all night, I might as well have been invisible, and then I rang you to come and help me and the phone’s off the hook. Some help you were.’

  ‘Now hold on a minute, Lorna, don’t get your knickers in a twist. How was I to know you were going to end up in hospital?’ Heather demanded. ‘I didn’t have such a good night myself either if you want to know.’

  ‘Well, I’ve had enough! Anywhere has to be better than this crappy joint. If we don’t move into a better place than this you can stay here on your own,’ Lorna wept on a rising note of hysteria. She’d had a terrible trauma and her cousin wasn’t being particularly sympathetic. It was time to call a spade a spade. Heather was holding her back, she thought resentfully. She hadn’t been there for her in her hour of need. Maybe it was time to go solo.

  11

  ‘I suggest you relax about it, Noreen. Don’t forget you’ve had a rough couple of years looking after your mother. Stress can do things to the body, so don’t get hung up on it and let it take over your life. Enjoy this time with Oliver in your new house. Make the most of it.’ Douglas Kennedy smiled over his bifocals at Noreen.

  ‘I know you’re right, Douglas. I think maybe I’ve too much time on my hands. To tell you the truth I’m a bit bored. I’m not used to being a lady of leisure,’ Noreen said ruefully. ‘Perhaps I’ll go and get myself a job.’

  The doctor looked at her thoughtfully. ‘Back to nursing?’ he queried.

  ‘Well maybe. I might try a couple of the local nursing homes. Or do private home care.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you’d be interested in doing job-sharing with Kitty, here?’ he said hesitantly. ‘I have three surgeries a day, except Thursdays. Kitty does all the dressings, cholesterol checks, cryotherapy, ear-syringing and the like. But she wants to cut down to spend more time with her children, especially in the afternoons, now that they’re going to school.’

  ‘Oh!’ Noreen was taken aback.

  ‘Think about it?’ Douglas Kennedy suggested. ‘Have a chat with Oliver. I don’t want to put you on the spot.’

  ‘I will, Douglas,’ Noreen said briskly, as she stood up to go.

  ‘Great stuff. And don’t worry about getting pregnant. If nothing’s happening in another six months or so, we’ll organize a few tests and take it from there,’ Douglas said reassuringly as he held the door open for her.

  Noreen walked out of the surgery feeling almost happy. Douglas was right, she had been under stress in the years leading up to her marriage and now she was putting herself under even more stress being hung up on getting pregnant. From now on she would enjoy her life with Oliver. Hopefully in six months she’d be pregnant anyway and life would be peachy. And she was going to get a job, she thought, feeling decidedly up. She’d had enough lolling about the house. A part-time job would suit her fine, and the idea of being a surgery nurse was quite appealing. It would be different to anything she had done before. She’d get to know a lot more people around the locality. And she was going to join the health club too, she decided.

  It was so easy to sink into depression. She’d had enough of it. The last two months had been miserable. Time to nip it in the bud. Noreen got into the car and headed in the direction of the Lake View.

  The annual membership was steep enough and as she wrote out the cheque she reflected gratefully that Oliver was very generous with money. He never questioned her spending and always seemed glad when she bought something new for herself. He was so different from her mean, spiteful, controlling father. Noreen frowned as she remembered how her mother would have to ask his permission to light the fire. Her father had nearly put her off men for life, No
reen thought grimly.

  Oliver might not be very demonstrative in his affections but he was a good, kind husband and she’d been very moody with him lately. She’d make it up to him.

  It was a cracker of a day. The lake shimmered in the pale magnolia sun. The air was crisp, bracing. It would be nice to go for a walk. She walked briskly through the landscaped grounds of the hotel. Russet, cinnamon and gold leaves crunched underfoot, and a squirrel scampered up the bark of a tree, his red bushy tail disappearing into the sun-dappled foliage. She pushed the creaking, groaning, red swing gates that had been there since her childhood, and came on to the tree-lined path that circled the lake. The water lapped gently against the shore. It was so peaceful here, the silence broken only by birdsong. She and Oliver had often walked here when they had been dating. She hadn’t been for a walk with Oliver for ages. They should start doing things together. Noreen sighed. He worked so damn hard. He was driven. It wasn’t for the money. It was as if his work affirmed him, who he was, what he was. It hurt sometimes that his work seemed to fulfil him far more than their relationship did. What had made him turn to his work rather than his relationship for sustenance?