We talked for hours and never ran out of things to say. He opened up about his past; told me he’d never met anyone serious before, though he’d apparently been ready for a while. About his career, how he had progressed from a college degree in sport science, to a farmer running his own show.
He mentioned he had another business as well, but he didn’t elaborate; he said he’d show me one day. It piqued a little curiosity within, but I didn’t have time to consider it because there was always so much to talk about.
We took it in turns to ask each other the daftest questions, like if you could only have one more meal on this earth what would it be. We talked about music, films, running (his love of it and my loath of it, although I loved the calories it burned) and books. I was an avid reader; I could read a book in a day if it was really good. John hated reading, he said he couldn’t think of anything worse. He preferred films. On the rare occasion we actually did fall silent, I simply enjoyed listening to his quiet breathing over the phone line, enjoying the knowledge that he was there.
We got to know each other better than two people that were doing the regular dating thing, primarily because we couldn’t do that, not just because of my marital status but because of the distance.
So we talked instead, sometimes for an hour or two. He quickly became my closest confidant.
For a week, we’d been toying with the idea of meeting up for the day; either him flying to London or me flying to Dublin. I made it quite clear there would be no overnights.
It wasn’t him that I didn’t trust; it was me.
There was an early morning flight out of Southampton that would have me in Dublin at eight in the morning. John was going to drive from Mayo, spend the day with me, and I would fly back to Southampton that evening, and go to Lizzie’s hen night as arranged.
The second we had a plan in place, I began counting down the hours until I saw him again.
How did this happen to me?
The excitement was physically unbearable. The weight was falling off me at a rapid rate. Not only could I not sleep, but I could barely eat as well.
My brother’s wedding was ten days away and I couldn’t wait to reclaim my life afterwards.
Chapter Eight
THURSDAY 19TH JULY 2012
Nineteen has always been my lucky number. It wasn’t so lucky for Betsy. While I was working, a patient reversed his car out of the practice car park, straight into the back of my car.
I dropped my car at the BMW garage and was lent a brand spanking new BMW One Series while mine was repaired. It was gorgeous, but that was the whole point; to suck you in to a hire purchase agreement you would never normally consider, unless of course you had driven the car, become profoundly attached to it, and somehow convinced yourself that the ridiculous monthly repayments weren’t actually that bad after all.
The smell of the brand-new leather, the feel of the power at the wheel, the quiet hum of the engine, the metallic graphite grey paint, what wasn’t to love?
The one-thousand-pound excess – what was not to fucking love.
Admittedly, I was thinking about John, just for a change, not concentrating as I should have been. On approaching a small roundabout, I watched the traffic from the right as I waited for an opening to pull out. After several seconds, I saw my chance and put my foot on the accelerator. A deafening bang alarmed me, but not as much as the fact that I couldn’t actually go morethan a foot forward. I pressed hard on the accelerator once again. I kid you not.
Sadly, I hadn’t taken into account the car in front of me had not taken the opportunity to progress out onto the roundabout. Not only had I driven into the back of it once, but I had done it a second time for good measure. Fuck.
A middle-aged, angry little man thundered out of his Vauxhall Clio and stormed over to me. I let the window down with a wince and inhaled deeply to prepare for the onslaught of abuse that was surely coming my way.
‘What the fuck were you thinking? Were you even looking at all?’ he shouted.
I presumed it was a rhetorical question and didn’t bore him with my potential new lover and impending divorce.
‘What am I meant to do with this now? How much do you think it’s going to cost to get this fixed?’
I let him vent before I replied. ‘I’m really sorry. This isn’t even my car, it’s a hire car. I’m so sorry.’ I repeated myself about twenty times while he stood there shaking his head and pointing at the back of his car.
I didn’t dare get out and look at the damage to the BMW. He mustn’t have had any insurance because eventually the angry little man got back in his car and drove off. There was a tail of traffic forming, and frustrated commuters beeped their horns at the delay.
I shakily drove the rest of the way to work, turned off the engine and put my head in my hands before I started to cry. I mean really cry.
It wasn’t the car.
It was everything. My head was wrecked from over-analysing everything. I’d barely slept a wink in weeks.
It was the straw that broke the camel’s back.
