Love Me Or Leave Me. Claudia Carroll

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СКАЧАТЬ 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, СКАЧАТЬ