They lingered over brunch for at least an hour, chatting easily. Then they headed off in the direction of Merrion Square, Claire leading the way.
‘This isn’t where we’re going,’ she told Mark, ‘but I thought we should pay our respects to Oscar since we’re in the neighbourhood.’ She brought him to visit the colourful statue of Oscar Wilde in the park, pointing out the house opposite where he had grown up.
When they had spent some time reading the quotes on the pillars that formed part of the memorial, she led him towards St Stephen’s Green, heading in the direction of Earlsfort Terrace. She had a blissful sense of well-being as they walked slowly along the side of the park. The trees were covered in young, bright green leaves and cherry blossom, and tulips were visible through the green railings. It was officially the beginning of summer, the first Sunday in May. There was a sense of newness and possibility, of the world coming to life again, and she was part of it.
‘Is this where we’re going?’ Mark asked, as she led him through the gates of the National Concert Hall with its imposing façade, the billboards outside advertising symphonies and performances by world-famous soloists.
‘No.’ Claire led him through the car park to the back of the building, then through an arched gateway into the hidden grandeur of the Iveagh Gardens. ‘This is one of my favourite places in Dublin,’ she said, as they passed the statue of Count John McCormack, the famous Irish tenor, near the entrance. It was her least favourite feature in the gardens – it was too new and pristine, she thought, too prosaic and at odds with the romantic decay of the older, lichen-covered statues with their classical lines and missing limbs.
She was disappointed to hear the squeals of children as they crunched along the wide gravel path, flanked by two large ornamental fountains. She found a bench and they sat down ? a couple of children were playing nearby while their father watched. Claire tried not to resent them, but she loved the gardens best when she had them to herself, when they felt like her own secret place. As if on cue, the father rounded up his children, and they headed to the exit.
‘Alone at last,’ Mark said.
‘I thought they’d never go.’
He cocked his head to the side, regarding her consideringly. ‘You’re very sweet.’
‘You sound surprised.’
He smiled. ‘You’re different from how I imagined.’
‘Oh?’ Claire wasn’t sure she liked where this was going. ‘Different how?’ Did she really want to know?
‘I thought you’d be more…’ He hesitated.
‘What?’ She thought of all the ways the sentence could end – more sexy, more ballsy, more confident, more fun, more interesting…
‘Can I be honest?’
She nodded. ‘Of course.’Please don’t say ‘sexy’. Or ‘interesting’.
‘Well, to be honest, I thought you’d be a bit… intimidating,’ he admitted finally.
‘Oh!’
‘More strident. You’re nicer than I was expecting.’
‘Really?’ She felt a warm glow from the way he was looking at her.
‘Much nicer.’
‘I did tell you I was a nice girl.’
‘The name should have been a giveaway.’
‘So, is “nice” a good thing?’
He nodded, smiling at her. ‘Nice is good.’
‘Nottoonice?’
‘No. Just right.’
‘Come on, let’s explore some more,’ she said, getting up.
They wandered in companionable silence through all the hidden nooks and crannies of the garden, down stone steps leading to dark verdant paths, past the statues of girls in flowing robes that stood on plinths, their lichen covering blending with the bark of the trees so they seemed almost to merge with the landscape. They came across some broken pieces of large statues lying on the grass, half buried in the bushes and wondered what their story was. The gardens were empty, the only sound the crunch of their feet on the gravel.
They were walking along one of the smaller paths when Claire stopped in front of a statue. ‘She’s my favourite,’ she told Mark, shielding her eyes from the light that filtered through the trees as she looked up. ‘There’s something so… noble about her. She’s so elegant and poised.’
