The Summer Villa. Melissa Hill
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in your life and came out of your shell.’
‘And live it up a little, too,’ Noelle added with a grin. ‘Go and meet a nice Italian who’ll show you a good time.’
‘Well, maybe not too much of that,’ her mother cautioned automatically, though unlike Noelle she knew well that her eldest wasn’t much of party person. ‘But, love, it is definitely time to see what’s out there for you, don’t you think?’
It sounded all too good to be true, and rather frightening, to be fair, Colette thought. She supposed she’d become quite dependent on her routine, so the idea of going somewhere outside of Brighton, let alone to a foreign country on her own, was a little overwhelming.
Oh, come on, a voice inside chided her. You took care of your mum, a business, and a household. What’s so scary about the Amalfi Coast?
She looked again at the brochures and the ticket with her name on it. Italy had always been such a dream, and like Noelle said, she’d studied Language and International Relations in college, so she did already speak quite a bit of the language. She could view this as a chance for some practical application of her skills. A chance to try new things, meet new people and the opportunity to push herself out of her comfort zone and widen her worldview.
You need this.
Colette had worn the badge of responsibility like a true soldier, never faltering or complaining, but she was tired. She was weary of the routine, of having to always say no to social invitations or a chance to just be flighty or careless. For feeling as if her life was on hold with a terrible end awaiting her. The thought that her mother might die had been a shadow that always loomed in the back of her mind, clouding her decisions. Now that cloud was lifted. She could breathe again.
An escape …
‘All right,’ she decided, smiling. ‘I’ll do it.’
Then
There was an incessant drilling sound that was driving Annie O’Doherty insane. It was Saturday morning. What the hell … ?
‘Oh, feck off!’ She attempted to toss an errant pillow in the direction of the noise but when she turned over in the bed to grab one, she was met with an unexpected obstruction.
There, sleeping soundly beside her, was someone – a man – she didn’t recognise.
Annie felt familiar discomfort rise up in her stomach as she tried to remember the previous night’s events.
Damn. She’d done it again, the thing she’d sworn time and time again not to: come home with some random stranger.
She raised her head slightly, trying to avoid any sudden movements that would alert Prince Charming to her presence, or indeed make her blinding headache even worse.
Now she had to figure out the best way to get this fella out of her flat without complication. This was her flat, yes?
She squinted around suspiciously at the messy room, discarded clothes scattered everywhere – Annie was more a floor-drobe than a wardrobe person – make-up littered all over the dressing table, and a hairdryer and straightening tongs hanging precariously from the radiator.
She’d remembered to turn the tongs off, which was good; it meant that she must have been sober before she went out.
And yep, this was definitely her room. Thank God for small mercies.
Annie raised the sheets a little to see she was wearing her pyjamas, which was another good sign – she hoped. Gingerly, she shimmied her way off the bed, grabbed her dressing gown and threw it on.
She always did this to herself. She’d have a bad week at work, or a fight with her mam, and then she’d go on a binge.
Eileen called her a slut, floozy or whatever else her angry, inebriated self felt like. Theirs was a hugely dysfunctional relationship, she knew, but it was the only consistent one Annie had ever had. She could just imagine what her mam would have to say about this.
‘Nothing else for it,’ she murmured, deciding to bite the bullet and wake up Prince Charming. ‘Hey, sunshine, time to get up!’
The words sent her bedfellow scrambling to his feet and it seemed to take him a while to realise he wasn’t under attack.
‘What the hell?’
‘Time for you to get going,’ Annie muttered, unable to meet his eyes. She really had no idea who he was but she figured she must have hooked up with him in the late bar last night. ‘I’ve things to get on with and I need you to leave.’
It was her day off, Annie recalled (hence the night out in the Dublin hotspots), so she didn’t have anything pressing to do really, she just wanted him out.
The guy scratched his jaw and took a deep breath before flopping back down onto her bed.
‘Another half hour, maybe? I’m wrecked,’ he protested, as he puffed up her pillow and stuffed it under his head, closing his eyes once more.
‘Hey! I said I need you to leave, so off you go.’ Annie poked at his exposed leg. He was wearing boxers, another cause for relief in her books. He didn’t seem her type at all, either; he was bone-skinny with a bit of a culchie accent, so she had no idea how or why he’d ended up here.
But did she even have a type these days?
Still, if this gobshite thought he could grab a lie-in at her expense, he was sadly mistaken. She’d throw him out on his arse herself if he didn’t skedaddle on his own, pronto.
Her persistence got his attention and he forced his eyes open once more.
‘Hey, why don’t you get back in and we can finish what we started last night?’ he said suggestively, and Annie’s hackles rose even more.
‘Are you deaf? Get the feck out!’ She grabbed the end of the duvet and yanked it off him. ‘I mean it.’ Then, grabbing his clothes, she marched across to the door of her flat (which didn’t take long as it was a tiny studio) and flung it open, launching his stuff through. ‘Don’t let it hit you on the way out.’
Her unexpected guest looked completely bewildered. ‘What the hell? Why are you being so weird? You asked me back, remember? You were all over me.’
Annie didn’t remember – that was the problem – but she wasn’t about to tell him that. ‘Look, I’m sorry but I told you already that I’ve got stuff to do and you’re getting in the way. So please just go,’ she insisted.
She watched as her guest jumped up again and stepped out into the hallway, scrambling for his clothes. He pulled his shirt over his head, sticking his arms into the sleeves in one smooth movement, then eyed her angrily from the doorway.
‘You’re something else, you know. Pure psycho.’
‘I know,’ she murmured airily, as she closed the door behind him, her heart racing a thousand beats a minute. She’d done a pretty good job convincing him of her bravado, but all the while she’d been terrified. A strange man in her bed and in her flat. It wouldn’t be the first time things had gone awry.
‘That’s it. No more getting pissed out your head, Annie … No more.’
She walked to her bed and looked at the sheets with scorn, before yanking them off. She’d be doing a wash today for sure. Once all the bedding was off, she returned to the bare mattress and flopped down on the edge of it.
Annie O’Doherty was never supposed to live, but she had. Abandoned in the toilets at Connolly train station in the centre of Dublin almost thirty years ago, she’d barely been breathing when she was found by a curious Irish Rail cleaner, who heard a noise from inside the ladies. There he found an infant, scarcely a few