She barely knew him, she reminded herself. Just because they’d had two lovely days together, where they had been able to talk to each other about almost anything. And, yes, there had a been a moment or two when she was fairly sure there was a fizz of something between them, but that didn’t give him the right to judge her actions. She could make her own decisions and she didn’t need Lorcan ‘high and mighty’ Gallagher judging her for it.
He’d urged her to live big. She didn’t realise he had a very clear idea of how big in his head. ‘Yes, Jo, live big and chase your dreams. But stop at the medium-sized dreams. Those old big dreams can get messy. Put yourself out there, but not, you know, actually out there.’ She imagined his face, his lips moving, his mouth speaking those words. She imagined the glint in his eyes. How he made her feel kind of shaky. It was okay to trust her gut, as long as she trusted his gut more.
‘Oh feck off!’ she mumbled, throwing open her case and starting to fill it. She vowed not to think about him any more and, besides, she had far more pressing things to worry about.
The previous night she had presented a perfectly groomed image of a woman in a designer suit, poised and elegant. The rest of her wardrobe – the wardrobe Ewan McLachlan would see over the course of the next three days – fell very much outside of the poised and elegant bracket.
What would he think when she rocked up in her black skinny jeans, her oversized T-shirt, Converse and the shapeless but exceptionally comfortable cardigan she wore on days when she felt like she needed a hug? It wasn’t like she could wear her fancy blue suit for several days in a row. It wasn’t exactly a versatile capsule item, and even if it were, it was currently en route to the dry cleaners after Mags had accidentally tipped half a gin and tonic over the trousers the previous evening. It had been shortly after they’d found a particularly handsome picture of Ewan through Google – one in which he looked like he was a real life Disney prince. Mags had declared herself having a hot flush and went to wave her hand in front of her face, realising just a moment too late she was still holding her drink.
‘This is about your writing, not your clothes,’ Jo told herself. She pulled a capped-sleeved floral summer dress, in bright yellow with a little bluebird motif, from the back of the wardrobe and put it in her case, along with her bright white, hardly worn Converse which she saved for summer months. If she slathered on some of that slow-building, self-tanning moisturiser on her legs, it might even make for a good look for her. Next, she packed a few of her nicer T-shirts and a black smock top which looked amazing with skinny jeans and her wedged sandals.
Wishing she had a proper laptop bag, she folded her ancient laptop in a towel and packed it, along with the battery charger, which needed to be permanently attached to it at all times. She grabbed a few pens from her dressing table, and two of the notebooks she kept beside her bed. Those were the sum total of her writing tools, but, she told herself, that didn’t matter. Even without the latest and most fancy MacBook, specialist writing software or expensive moleskin notebooks, she had written something that Ewan McLachlan had loved so much he’d offered to mentor her.
Ewan McLachlan, who Google had told her, had sold fifteen million books across twelve different counties. Ewan McLachlan who had won almost every major crime writing award that there was to be won in the UK. Ewan McLachlan who, according to Google again, was single but the father to one child. (She’d had to search all the details she could find about him, after all.) Ewan McLachlan who smouldered in black and white in the author picture on his publisher’s page but who smouldered even more in real life, not that it mattered of course, because this was purely and entirely a professional trip.
Zipping up her bag, she headed out of her room. Her mother looked more than a little green around the gills as Jo carried her case downstairs. ‘Never again, Jo. That’s a promise,’ she said, but there was a hint of a smile on her face all the same.
‘Tell that to Auntie Mags,’ Jo smiled back. ‘Look, I’ll probably be gone by the time you make it back from dropping Clara at school. I’ll keep in touch and, if you need me, sure, I’m only in Donegal. I can be home in an hour or so.’ A pang of love for Clara rose in her, closely followed by a wave of guilt that she was leaving her, even for a short trip.
‘Darling, I love you, so believe me when I say that we won’t need you this weekend. There is nothing that could possibly happen that would be more important than you getting this time to work towards your dream. Miss Clara and I will be just fine. I’ve raised kids before, you know. Clara’s hardly a handful. Unlike some others were…’
‘Surely you’re not talking about me, Mum?’ Jo blinked, as she pulled her best innocent expression.
‘Of course not. Sure, you always were an angel,’ her mum said, her voice suddenly thick with emotion.
‘Yeah, but that halo was propped up with two horns. You just didn’t know the half of it!’ Jo teased and enjoyed the expression of confusion on her mother’s face. ‘I’m only kidding, Mum. Now, you better get going or Clara will be late for school and you’ll get a bad look from the school secretary.’
In all the things that were considered a fate worse than death, a bad look from the school secretary of Clara’s school was definitely a top-five contender. She’d an expression that could turn a man, woman, or child to stone.
‘God forbid,’ her mother said, crossing herself.
Jo pecked her mum on the cheek and crouched down to give Clara a hug.
‘Now, you be a good girl and I’ll bring you back a surprise with me. I love you.’
Clara nodded, her expression was serious and then she wrapped her small arms around her big sister and squeezed her tightly.
‘Come on, ladybug,’ her mother said. ‘We’d best be off.’
With a reticence that pulled at Jo’s heart, Clara extricated herself from the hug and followed her mother out of the door. Jo knew that Clara would be better than fine. She knew that within a minute, she would be holding her mum’s hand tightly and swinging her arms as she walked to school and chatted about her routine. It was just Jo who had to fight her mythical guilt demons.
‘No,’ she said aloud as she looked at the affirmations her mother had stuck around the hall. ‘Today is for positivity. I am in control. I am successful. I can do this.’
22
Are We There Yet?
Jo had arranged to meet Ewan at the Bishop Gate Hotel right in the centre of Derry, just off The Diamond. She figured it was much easier to meet him at a central spot rather than try and direct him through the streets of Derry to find her home. It also gave her a little bit of control over her own nerves as she didn’t have to sit, impatiently, on the edge of the sofa jumping every time a car pulled up outside in case it was Mr McLachlan himself.
She was already jumpy enough. Every time her phone pinged with a new message, she felt her heart skip a beat. Auntie Mags was first to text to wish her luck and tell her that she loved her very much. She added that she too would never, ever drink again and she hoped very much to make it through the day. ‘Another Crochet Club with not a single crochet stitch done. That’s a win!’ the message ended.