Page 10 of The Honeymoon Affair

He hauled himself out of bed and put on his shorts and a T-shirt. Then he opened the patio door and leaned over the glass balcony, staring into the distance.

I was worried now. He said he didn’t want to lose me, but he didn’t want things to go on like this either. We weren’t exactly a long-distance relationship, but there were definitely stresses involved. I thought about this for a while longer before joining him and standing behind him. I slid my arms beneath his T-shirt, my fingers pushing through the hairs on his chest. He was the single most wonderful thing that had happened to me. I didn’t want to lose him. But would I if I didn’t go to Dublin with him?

I could see why he’d suggested it. After all, I’m a Dubliner by birth, although I moved to London after leaving college and rarely went back. There was no need. My parents sold the family home and retired to the island of Mallorca shortly after I landed my first job, thus instantly providing me with an excellent holiday location whenever I needed it. I don’t have any close family in Ireland. So there was nothing to draw me back, although from time to time I missed the lilt of the accent and the easy wit and good humour of the city.

‘I’m a London girl now,’ I said as I rested my head against his back. ‘Why don’t you move here? It’s surely a way more exciting place for a writer to be.’

‘I don’t need excitement,’ he said. ‘I don’t write exciting books.’

‘The literati are always very excited about your books,’ I reminded him. ‘Xerxes has made an excellent offer for the next one.’

‘An entirely different thing,’ he pointed out. ‘As you should know.’

‘I do. What,’ I asked, ‘would you expect me to do in Dublin? The company I work for is here.’

‘There are publishers in Ireland,’ he said. ‘Agents too.’

‘Not a lot,’ I remarked.

‘Of which?’

‘Either, I guess.’ I thought about it for a minute, the idea suddenly taking hold and bubbling up inside me. My long-term ambition had always been to have my own agency. I’d assumed it would be in London. But there was no reason I couldn’t work from Dublin. It was a short flight, after all. Besides, communications were improving all the time. My heart began to beat faster. I could do it, if I wanted. And perhaps there’d be more space for me in Dublin, fewer other agents pitching to authors. Fewer authors too, of course.

‘It’s not like you have to be physically here,’ said Charles, echoing my thoughts. ‘You can Skype and conference-call just as easily as rushing off to someone’s office. In fact, the way technology is going, I bet in a few years everyone will be working from out-of-office locations. Working from home has its advantages.’

‘It’s easy for you,’ I said. ‘Writers don’t exactly need to be in an office environment. But for me it’s important to have face-to-face contact. I had to actually meet Graham Weston to interest him in your book, remember.’

‘You could base yourself in Dublin and come to London every few weeks,’ said Charles. ‘Press the flesh and enjoy the social side of things. It’s eminently doable.’

The more I thought about it, the more I thought he was right. And I loved the sound of the Ariel Barrett Agency – ABA. I’d picked the name years before. I accept it’s not exactly original, but it has impact.

‘Besides . . .’ he turned around to look at me, ‘I’d like the woman I love to share the amazing new house I’ve bought.’

I knew he’d been looking at property as a way to invest his earnings from Winter’s Heartbreak, and he’d shown me images of some of the houses he was interested in. But I hadn’t realised he was looking for a place to live. He always said he was happy in his rented apartment.

‘I can’t believe you’ve bought a house and you want me to live in it with you.’ I couldn’t keep the surprise out of my voice.

‘You say it as though it’s a bad thing.’

‘Not at all. But it would be a big move for me. And . . . well . . . it’d be your house, not ours.’

‘In the end I had to move quickly on the purchase,’ he said. ‘I didn’t have time to talk it over with you. There was a lot of interest because it’s in a lovely neighbourhood, so I just went for it.’

‘Where is it?’

‘Terenure.’

I nodded. I was probably more familiar with the area than him, having grown up in Ballyboden, a mere 4 kilometres away, whereas his family home was in Waterford, which is about 160 kilometres from Dublin.

‘You’ll love it. Period. Detached. Double-fronted. Five bedrooms. Two reception. Lovely dining room. Massive kitchen.’

‘You sound like an estate agent.’

‘I’m trying to sell it to you,’ he said. ‘I do feel a bit bad about not bringing you to see it first.’

‘You don’t have to consult me about everything,’ I told him. ‘I’m your agent, not your wife.’

He walked back into the apartment. I followed him. He reached into the pocket of the jacket he’d slung over a chair the night before and took out a distinctive blue box, which he handed to me.