The image of the mysterious Mr Balaclava flashed in front of her eyes, much to her annoyance because, frankly, he’d no right to be there.
Now she was home, with the prospect of her own hot shower and a mug of coffee, the day felt more like a little adventure.
That evening she offered to make dinner for Mam and Eric. Chicken curry and rice. She found it a strange experience to see the two sixty-somethings settled on the plush sofa side-by-side with a gin and tonic, talking through theIrish Timescrossword together.
They’d clearly established themselves as a steady couple somewhere in the months since she’d been home on a flying visit during the summer. Whenever over the years Mam had asked her why she could only stay a few days, she’d always replied, ‘I’m so busy. I’ll stay longer at Christmas.’
But then Christmases had come and gone, and it was always the same story. What had she been so busy doing? Waiting tables. Waiting to hear if she got the part. Waiting for Gav to come home from tour. A lady in waiting. And in the meantime, she’d had a static view of home preserved in her mind. Funny, wasn’t it? Like in dreams, where you remember places as they were in the past, preserved forever. She knew Da was gone but in her mind the picture had remained exactly the same, just without him. It was only now, watching the two of them together, that it struck her that Eric wasn’t the visitor. She was.
* * *
The following Friday she was heading back into the dog park, as had become her routine. By then the weather was milder, so she’d shed her heavier layers and was now dressed in a pale-pink fleece and jeans, and feeling a bit less like a hot-water tank than on her very first visit. To her relief the place was almost deserted, although she had to admit that she felt just the smallest pang of disappointment not to see Napoleon and Phyllis, as well as a certain tall someone and his dog – but she rapidly quashed that feeling. An uneventful half hour followed, watching dirty snowballs delightedly chasing each other round the field as she lounged on the bench, scrolling on her phone, watching influencers suggest outfits she couldn’t have afforded if she’d sold an organ. Finally, she began to scrabble around, trying to gather her charges up to leave, when she noticed the tall figure approaching in the distance. He was accompanied by his equally tall dog, who this time was kitted out in tartan. Involuntarily, she felt a lurch in her heart and a flash of heat whoosh up her face.
‘Stoppit,’ she warned herself severely. ‘None of that shite now, just cop yourself on.’ She deliberately busied herself with clipping on leads, her face studiously turned away from the gate, all the time furious with her heart for insisting on beating like a marching samba band.
‘Glad to see you’re showing them who’s boss this time,’ came a voice from behind her. Feck off, she thought. Who actually needed smart-arse comments on a miserable Friday in January, when it was his actual freaking pony-sized dog who’d caused all the trouble in the first place.
‘Excuse me?’ she replied, feigning confusion, though there wasn’t anybody else he could possibly have addressed.
‘I hardly recognised you without the mud,’ he said with a boyish laugh. Which made it even harder to feel indignant.
‘I hardly recognised you without the balaclava,’ she retorted, then kicked herself for the lame comeback. She had to admit he was good-looking, with wavy reddish-brown hair and blue-grey eyes that changed colour depending on the light and drew you in – if you were of a mind to be drawn in, which, of course, she wasn’t. Why were men given false-looking eyelashes like that when they patently didn’t need them? A clear misallocation of resources in the grand scheme of things.
‘Well, I’m fine after being knocked flat by your dog, thanks for asking. Except that it took a week to get the mud out of my hair.’ What was she telling him that for? She kicked herself. This guy was a stranger, for God’s sake.
He exhaled a little laugh. ‘Yeah, look, I’m really sorry. I felt bad afterwards, so did Thor, but he just doesn’t know his own strength.’
‘Yes, well. No harm done. Just a bit of mud, even if I did look a total sight.’ As she said that, she noticed she reached to just the height of his ear .?.?.
‘I’ve played Gaelic football for years. I can tell you, a bit of muck doesn’t faze me.’
‘Really? I played hockey but I was very bad. I’m more of a swingball girl myself.’ What sort of weirdness was she spouting?
‘Not so much into contact sport, then?’ He seemed to be focusing mainly on his mucky Timberland boots. He’s shy, she realised.
‘No, I’ve always been afraid I’ll get hurt.’
‘That’s part of the fun, isn’t it?’
‘Spoken like a real man.’ She was trying hard to keep her mouth straight and not to smile at him, which was proving increasingly difficult.
He took a deep breath, as though about to hurl himself into empty space. ‘Would you .?.?. fancy a coffee?’
‘But you just got here, what about Thor’s exercise? Maybe somebody else will turn up that he can flatten?’
The Great Dane looked mournfully at her. Perhaps he was missing his superhero costume. Balaclava man shrugged.
‘We can come back.’
This was new, this was good, this was somebody actually changing their plans to accommodate her.
‘Well, this sure is thirsty work,’ she quipped in a Wild West accent. Jesus, just be freaking normal, or is that too much to ask? She kicked herself. ‘What I mean is .?.?. Yes, thanks, I’d love a coffee.’
Ten minutes later they were settled at a little round table in the courtyard of the café, as Cassie tried to ignore the glares from other customers. The place was allegedly dog-friendly but in moderation, for God’s sake. Thankfully, the six little Bichons had exhausted themselves and were quite happy to flop in a twitching, snoring heap. Thor, on the other hand, proved to be an extremely neurotic dog with a bad case of separation anxiety and refused to be comforted until his dad returned with a skinny latte – extra hot – and coconut milk cappuccino.
He put down the takeaway cups and a plate with two slices of cake – one carrot, her favourite, and one lemon. Presenting not-previously-agreed-to cake demonstrated a certain confidence, she decided. Balaclava man then reached out his hand for a handshake, which struck her as quaint and sweet.
‘I’m Finnian, but people call me Finn. It’s after some saint, though that’s not really me.’
