Love Me Or Leave Me. Claudia Carroll

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, the air outside the hotel is cool and I allow myself a few deep, comforting gulps of it, feeling exactly like I’ve just escaped from Alcatraz. I make a silent vow to call Mum and Dad as soon as I’m safely booked onto a flight, because let’s face it, last thing I need after the day I’ve had are any of my family going to the cops and filing me as a missing persons case.

      Mind’s made up and this girl is not for turning.

      The Merrion Hotel is just round the corner from Stephen’s Green, which I race towards as fast as humanly possible, all the while scanning right, left and centre for a cab.

      And then, a miracle. Just at the junction of Kildare Street and the Green, with immaculate timing, a taxi turns the corner. I instantly let out an almighty yell at the driver and am just about to shove my way through the crowd to get to him, when a voice from behind suddenly stops me dead in my tracks.

      ‘Any spare change for a hostel, love?’

      No, no, no, no, no! Please, please, please don’t let it be someone I know, come to haul me back … not now! Not when I’ve got this far! But even through the befuddled haze clouding me, a tiny part of my logical brain says … hang on just a sec. Your wedding guests are hardly likely to be out on the streets looking for change for a hostel, now are they?

      ‘I don’t drink or do drugs, love, I’m only looking for a bit of spare change.’

      I turn sharply round to see a homeless guy just at my feet, huddled under a sleeping bag and shivering, even though it’s a warm, balmy evening.

      ‘Even just a few coins would help,’ he adds, eyeing up my handbag.

      Instinctively, I open the bag to fumble round the bottom of my purse for a few coins … and that’s when my eye falls on it.

      My engagement ring. The one that Frank flew me especially to New York to buy, just so we could always say it came from Tiffany’s. I take a good look down at it. Three tiny neat little diamonds. And much as I loved it, I know I can never look at it again as long as I live.

      In an instant, I whip it off my finger and without a second thought, hand it over to the homeless guy.

      Will we both be okay, do you think? I wordlessly ask him as our hands momentarily lock.

      I don’t know, he seems to say, looking lifelessly back up at me.

      Two minutes later and I’m in the back of the taxi, speeding out towards the airport. And for the first time in my entire life, I don’t have a single clue what tomorrow may bring.

       Chapter Two

       London, the present.

      ‘Miss Townsend? Miss Chloe Townsend?’

      ‘Yes, indeed,’ I smile brightly back. But then I’m a firm believer that when nervous, just look and act confident and effervescent on the outside, and sooner or later, the rest of the world will eventually believe the lie.

      ‘Rob McFayden from Ferndale Hotels,’ he nods back, giving me a firm, businesslike handshake. Strong, confident grip.

      ‘Good to meet you and thanks so much for coming along today, especially at short notice. Here, grab a seat.’

      I