Page 87 of The Honeymoon Affair

Chapter 24

Iseult

Writing is like getting married. One should never commit oneself until one is amazed at one’s luck.

Iris Murdoch

There’s a part of me that doesn’t quite believe Charles and Ariel are completely over, despite his promises that the divorce will happen quickly. But then he takes me shopping for an engagement ring in Warren’s, the very exclusive jeweller’s near Grafton Street, where every single ring is exquisite and breathtakingly expensive. I’ve often stopped and looked at the window displays, but I’ve never been inside the store in my life.

When Charles says we’re looking for an engagement ring, the saleswoman brings a tray of sparkling diamonds along with two glasses of champagne.

Charles likes their signature ring, the Snowdrop, which is a diamond solitaire in a white-gold setting. It’s gorgeous, but too imposing for me, and I ask for something smaller. The saleswoman seems slightly horrified by the idea of someone wanting a smaller ring, but brings another tray of neater, more modern designs.

My favourite is the Ice Cube, which is an arrangement of small square diamonds in a white-gold band. As I slide it onto my finger, I feel my eyes fill with tears.

‘What’s wrong?’ Charles notices me wipe them away.

‘It’s this. I love it.’

‘Oh good.’ He sounds relieved. ‘I thought you hated it, and I was afraid we’d be here all day.’

The saleswoman goes to get a box for the ring, even though she knows I’ll be wearing it out of the shop because it fits perfectly. While she’s out of earshot, I ask Charles if he bought Ariel’s engagement ring here too.

‘Why would you even . . .’ He shakes his head. ‘No, I didn’t. I bought it in London.’

When the saleswoman returns, I give her my mobile and she takes a photo of Charles and me holding hands, and then one of me holding a refilled glass of champagne, my ring very visible. That’s the one I post to my Instagram account: #Engaged #LuckiestGirlInTheWorld #ForeverInLove.

It only takes fifteen minutes for my phone to buzz with a message. It’s an unknown number and the message is brief.

What the actual fuck?

I know it’s from Steve.

I send him a reply when Charles and I are in Davy Byrne’s pub having more champagne to celebrate our engagement. (I’ve become a convert to champagne over Prosecco. It seems I’m already growing accustomed to higher standards.) Charles has gone to the Gents’, so I message to say that I’ve met someone and am engaged to him. A second later, my phone rings.

‘Are you off your trolley?’ he demands. ‘A few weeks ago you were going to marry me.’

‘Whose phone are you using?’ I ask in return.

‘A work one,’ he says. ‘You blocked me after New Year’s, Izzy. That was a horrible thing to do.’

‘Because you kept contacting me and we’re not together any more.’

‘I was being friendly.’

‘You were being stalkery. It’s like you didn’t want me yourself but you don’t want me to be with anyone else either.’

He’s silent for a moment, then tells me I’m talking rubbish, yet I can’t help feeling I’ve touched a nerve.

‘There’s no need for you to be friends with me any more,’ I say.

‘OK, OK, I’m sorry if you feel hassled. I didn’t mean it. But before we stop being friends, I have to point out that you’ve gone from being engaged to me to being engaged to someone else in jig time. Are you sure you know what you’re doing? And who on earth is he?’

‘His name is Charles Miller. He’s a writer and I love him. That’s all you need to know.’

‘I’m saying this because I care about you. You’re on the rebound.’

‘If you cared about me, you wouldn’t have dumped me. And FYI, I’m not rebounding from anything.’