Last Chance Saloon - Marian Keyes [99]
He was thirty-eight. Of course, he looked far younger and his resumé didn’t have him as a day over thirty-three, but he knew the truth. I’m nearly forty, he realized, and I’ve nothing to show for my life. A failed marriage. No money, no friends, no fame outside Ireland. No British or American glory. Not even a proper bed to my name. You’d think at my age I wouldn’t have to sleep on a lousy futon.
Most of all, he had no money. He couldn’t let himself think about all the loot he’d let slip through his hands today. Adrift and frightened, he racked his brain for an assertion of some kind, a reminder that he still mattered.
But he drew a blank. Time hung heavy on his hands. He’d nothing to do and no one to play with. When, out of nowhere, he thought of Amy. Alarmed, he realized that she hadn’t rung him in – he counted back – four days. Four days without a cheery, sombre or drunken message from her on the answering-machine. He hadn’t even noticed at the time. Bigger fish to fry. A career to worry about. But now that he had nothing else, it suddenly seemed extremely important.
God forbid that she’d given up on him, or started to get over him. That made him panic.
It was time to get her back.
Then be mean to her again.
He looked at his watch. If he left now he could be in Hammersmith to meet her as she left work. Adrenalined-up with purpose, he checked his hair – still gorgeous, some nice gloss ‘n’ shine for it later if it continued to behave itself – and hurried from his flat. On the way to the tube, he smiled at a woman and watched her pale. But was it his imagination? Did it not feel as good as it used to? Was it becoming harder and harder to get the rush?
It was eleven days since Amy had sent the police around to Lorcan’s flat. Eleven of the longest days of her life. Utter hell. She’d gone completely crazy, and she knew her life was over. But amid the agony of separation was a consolation prize – a strange nugget of relief. Lorcan was just too high-maintenance. His game-playing had turned her into an unrecognizable, shrewish lunatic and at least now she could reclaim her soul.
Nevertheless, she had to make her sister, Cindy, come and stay with her to guard the phone. ‘Promise me,’ Amy begged Cindy, ‘that even if I tell you my leg has fallen off and it’s an emergency, do not, I repeat, do not let me have access to the phone!’ And although they’d had a couple of late-night wrestling matches, Cindy had managed to keep her promise.
Amy was leaving work, gearing up for another action-packed evening of not ringing Lorcan, when she saw something in the lobby that made her stumble. Lorcan. Big and bold, using his elbow to lean against a wall, his arm over his head, his jacket swinging open to reveal his flat stomach, his big chest. Oh, the sweet rush of joy as she realized that all wasn’t lost.
Lorcan held the pose for a count of five as, in his head, the camera panned in on him. Then, with perfect timing, while his face filled the imaginary screen, he smiled, and Amy was blinded. Jump to camera two, showing Amy’s willowy back, following her dazed, hypnotized progress towards him. No doubt but that she was powerless to resist. Cut to Lorcan’s eyes, full of love, as he looked at Amy’s upturned face. Nearly time for his line – but, wait for it, wait for it, the non-existent director cautioned. And… now!
‘Baby, did you miss me?’ Lorcan asked, with precisely the correct degree of gentle amusement. Cue, mute expression from Amy, followed by an affectionate little chuckle from him. Pan back out again to see Lorcan roughly clasp her head with his big hands, and pull her to his chest. A shot of Amy’s face, her eyes closed, her expression transported, as she smelt the suede of his jacket, felt the hardness of his thigh manoeuvring between her legs.
Next, Lorcan pulled back, to trace Amy’s mouth with his finger, slowly, almost in wonderment. Beautiful, he thought. A