ABBY
However good it feels going to bed with Callum Connolly, waking up in his arms is equally fulfilling. Today’s papers headlined, Does Callum Connolly Have Another ‘Injury’? One More Limiting Than His Cruciate? My headshot from the radio website stares back at me from the second page .
He reads the article over my left shoulder. The delicious aroma of pancakes and sickly sweet syrup lingers in the air. I perch on a leather stool at the breakfast bar with a strong black coffee in front of me. Callum chuckles into my ear.
‘I wouldn’t exactly call you an ‘injury’,’ he muses.
Though we’re both aware there’s the potential for casualties along the way, we can only trust one another not to inflict them.
‘What are your plans for today?’ I glance casually at him, not making any assumptions.
‘You mean, what areour plansfor the day?’ he corrects me with a raised eyebrow.
‘Do you think I’ve nothing better to be doing than hanging round here having sex with you, Callum Connolly?’ I smirk.
We’re both fully aware that neither of us has anything else to do that could remotely compete.
‘I know you don’t.’ The arrogance which initially infuriated me has even become sexy.
‘I need to call in on my dad at some point. Do you want to come?’
I take a sip of my coffee to mask my surprise. Bringing me home to his family takes our relationship to a whole new level. Though technically I’ve already met his dad at the fundraiser, so maybe it isn’t such a big deal. The prospect of unravelling another dimension of him is an offer I can’t turn down.
‘I’d love to.’ I mean it.
Callum drives us through the city in the direction of Dun Laoghaire. The temperature on the dashboard reads nineteen degrees, though it’s currently cloudy. The weather report on iRadio promises sunshine by the afternoon. Automatically I change the radio station, re-tuning Callum’s Jeep to Ireland Today with a meaningful glare. He laughs and shrugs.
‘That’s like me coming to your game and cheering for the other team,’ I huff in jest.
‘Don’t even think about it.’ It’s an effective analogy. I’m pretty sure I’ll never have to change his radio station again.
‘I didn’t realise you grew up in Dun Laoghaire.’
‘I try not to spend too much time here.’ He reaches for my hand, kissing it lightly as he concentrates on the traffic.
It never ceases to amaze me how the psyche of men and women differs so much. If it were me, I’d probably never leave, desperate to relive the memories of my mother. Then again, I shouldn’t judge. I barely visit my own since I left.
We park on the main street outside a row of three-story Victorian terraced houses directly overlooking the sea. His usual humour is absent. Taking my hand, he leads me to the last house in the row. A white recycled-plastic picket fence surrounds the overgrown garden and a stone-paved path leads the way to a red front door.
‘This garden needs attention,’ he says.
Callum knocks on the door lightly and his Aunty Linda opens it with a smile. Her red curly hair is pinned up on her head, and she wears a rainbow printed pinafore, dusted in flour.
Knocking on his own family’s front door is clearly for my benefit. He’s afraid of what we might walk in on.
‘Callum. We weren’t sure if you’d make it over this week.’ A surprised smile crinkles on Linda’s face, instantly giving her a more youthful appearance.
‘How is he today?’ Callum asks conspicuously.
‘He’s the right side of the soil, anyway.’ She laughs at her own joke and leads us through a dark corridor. The walls are painted a similar shade of grey to Callum’s place. White skirting boards contrast dark wooden floors. The place is beautifully restored and very well kept, especially considering it’s the home of a single elderly man. Callum lingers for a second at the bottom of the staircase, and Linda tugs his arm as if to hurry him on.
‘How are you, Abby? You’re still suffering him, I see,’ she says with a knowing smile.
‘Someone has to.’ The only suffering I have is if an hour passes by without me getting my hands on Callum’s body. But the poor woman doesn’t require the details.
I absorb my surroundings as the pieces of Callum’s childhood slot into place. The absence of any childhood photos speaks volumes. Callum’s father sits in the kitchen at a mahogany table, today’s papers open alongside a cup of milky tea.
‘Callum.’ Jimmy stands shakily to greet him, his delight obvious. He throws his arms around Callum, who stands somewhat stiffly in front of him. For a man that demonstrates such tenderness toward me, his reaction to his father surprises me. Does he blame him for the death of his mother? Or does he keep him at arm’s length in case he leaves too? There goes my natural psychoanalysis again. The ins and outs of their relationship are none of my business.
