Free Mile High Guy by Marisa Mackle Page B

I mean I don’t know what he drinks. I wonder is he a Guinness man? It’s hard to tell, isn’t it? I pay for my drink and hope the girl behind the bar isn’t feeling sorry for me. I mean it’s not like I’ve been stood up or anything. Not yet, haha. Actually that’s not a very comforting thought. Not nice at all. Being stood up is never great. It happened to me once. But only just the once, thank God.
    I think I’ve time to tell you very quickly. A friend of mine threw a party for me a few years ago. She did it as an excuse to meet my new man. All my friends had been complaining about my mysterious man whom they had never met. Jack, you see, was a private man. Very private indeed. I had never been to his house as he lived in Kildare, so it wasn’t really convenient. Especially since he lived with his wheelchair-bound sister who wasn’t used to visitors – apparently. Because of her, Jack could never stay the full night with me either. I was sharing a flat with friends in town at the time. But Jack’s sister worried about him so much. I never actually spoke to her of course, because Jack never got around to giving me his home number. And besides, it never occurred to me to ask for it.
    Anyway my friends all thought my relationship with Jack was all very suspicious. I mean, he didn’t even turn up to the annual cabin crew ball and I was forced to go alone. Jack’s sister had supposedly come down with the ’flu on top of everything else. I was more upset than angry. After all, how could I get angry with somebody who was so kind and considerate? He was one in a million and the only sibling in his family willing to look after his poor sister. The rest of them were selfish gits. So he told me anyway. I remember once asking him if he’d consider getting in a carer, but he’d looked at me like it was the most outrageous suggestion he’d ever heard. I felt terrible afterwards and never again complained. Or hassled him to come out with me again on a Saturday night.
    Then one night, friends of mine threw a party and invited Jack and myself. At this stage I think they were beginning to question his existence. Not that I blamed them; sometimes I used to question it myself.
    Jack and I were great together in the physical sense. He was an expert lover and even had me doing strange things, like spending more on lingerie than I would on a coat. Up until then I’d been a real Marks ‘n’ Sparks kind of woman. I loved fancy underwear but never saw the point in breaking the bank to deck myself out in frills and lace. If nobody was going to see my expensive undies, then what was the point?
    He used to take me to quiet little pubs off the beaten track and loved weekends away. Especially weekends abroad. The further away the better in fact. But he was never keen on meeting me in Dublin for dinner. Or going to a club with myself and my friends. He was definitely more of a take-away, video and then straight-to-bed kind of man, although he always got out of the bed in the middle of the night to drive home to check on his sister, which I privately found intensely annoying.
    But something bothered me about Jack. I mean, one minute he’d be all over me, telling me I turned him on like no other woman, but the minute I showed any real affection or casually tried to mention the future, he completely clammed up.
    Now I’m not a lovey dovey freak, but I would have liked some reassurance that I was more than simply a convenient bed partner. So one day I just put my foot down, giving him an ultimatum. I said he was either going to meet my friends, or I was breaking it off. It was just an idle threat really, as I’d no intention of dumping Jack, but surprisingly he took it all very seriously and agreed.
    I was so delighted. In fact I was proud of myself for taking a stand. If only more women would ask for what they wanted instead of pussyfooting around, life would be a lot less complicated, I told myself smugly.
    Of course Jack never