Undone
Thankfully the mini-bar stocked brandy. Claire unscrewed the bottle, poured the contents into a glass from the bathroom, and started sipping. It burned her throat.
Her wedding dress hung on the outside of the wardrobe; long, ivory, halter necked. The beads sparkled.
The muted TV flickered in the background, as the Friday night chat show host interviewed an actress. Claire should have been sitting back, relaxing. For a second, she contemplated doing just that.
Instead, she ran through the list of phone calls: the priest, the photographer, the hotel. Guests. Christ, the one hundred and fifty people who had travelled to Dingle to be with them. She would have to put a message out on Facebook.
That wasn’t the worst of it. She would have to tell Donnchadh. The muscles in her stomach clenched and unclenched.
She’d lost a stone in the past six weeks. Once the invitations went out she couldn’t put a bite in her mouth. She’d admitted it to herself then. Admitted that Donnchadh wasn’t ‘the one’.
West of Dingle, on a summer’s evening, Donnchadh had asked her to marry him. Pink sky, intoxicating sea air, stunning view. He’d gone down on one knee in the middle of a field, his trousers stained with sheep shit afterwards. She’d been caught off-guard, said ‘yes’ without thinking it through.
Wedding mania took over. The booking frenzy. She was about to undo twelve months work. About to undo Donnchadh.
She slipped out, unknown to her bridesmaids. On the street tourists drifted from the pubs and restaurants, unhurried. Teenagers headed in the direction of the night club — loud, boisterous, propelled by drink.
Donnchadh was staying across town. She made her way there on auto-pilot. The incident with her phone played out in her mind. She’d found him scrolling one evening, scowling, wanting to know who Peter was. “Can I not have work colleagues now?” she’d answered, annoyed. She’d lived to rue her assertiveness.
From the foyer of his hotel she texted him. I’m downstairs.
Her phone pinged. Isn’t it unlucky to see each other? Smiley face.
‘Jesus, Donnchadh!’ she hissed, texting furiously. Just let me come up. What room are you in?
In his bedroom the TV chat show host interviewed some boy band.
“I’ll put that on mute,” she said, swiping the remote.
Donnchadh sat on the bed, frowning. He was in his PJs, the checked ones she’d bought him in Dunnes. “Claire, what’s eating you?”
She felt like the worst person in the world, wondered what her punishment would be. “Donnchadh, I can’t go through with it tomorrow. It doesn’t feel right. It wouldn’t be fair in the long run.”
His blue eyes widened and his mouth made an ‘o’ shape.
She tried to take his hand but he pulled away.
In the en-suite, hunched over the bowl, her brandy came back up. That was when she felt Donnchadh’s hands tighten around her throat.
Too late she realised he had, indeed, come undone.
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