I’d been questioning my life a lot. The devil’s increasingly frequent appearance on my shoulder continued to berate me for one thing or another. If it wasn’t Rob, it was my lifestyle, or my shopping habits. Maybe I’d have to give that Calm app another go after all.
I tried to remind myself my dad died aged forty-nine, and although it was important to be grateful and to be aware we should do as much as we could to help other people, we also had a right to enjoy our own lives as well. In fairness, I worked hard for it.
We turned the corner of Grafton Street Green and John led me into a tiny pub with low ceilings and wooden beams. Pictures of Irish GAA sporting legends hung dusty on the walls alongside ceramic pottery ornaments that wouldn’t have looked out ofplace in my eighty-six-year-old granny’s house. I was fairly sure the barman didn’t stock Prosecco. I ordered a Bailey’s coffee to warm me and hopefully cheer me up.
It seemed to do the trick. By the time I’d started on my second, I’d forgotten what I was supposed to be feeling bad about.
Instead, I let myself fall a little more in love with John Kelly as he gave me a run-down of the Gaelic football memorabilia on the walls. I had no interest in the football, but I could listen to him talk all day.
‘This is my kind of pub, girl.’ He often called me girl. I liked it. It was said with such affection. If anyone else called me that, it might have sounded patronising, but from his lips, it sounded sensual.
‘It reminds me of somewhere my father would have brought me. In the early days, my dad would pick us up on a Saturday and drop us back to my mum’s on a Sunday. Shared care they call it now, the joys of the broken family. He used to bring us to pubs often with a beer garden so he could enjoy his pint and let us play in the sunshine. And in the winter, he’d bring us into a traditional pub like this, but there would usually be live music,’ I said.
‘Every Irish childhood involves eating Tayto in a pub while your parents got tipsy. And we’re all fine for it,’ John said.
‘My dad used to do karaoke. He was actually pretty good. Of course at the time I was mortified listening to it, like all kids tend to be embarrassed of their parents! I only wish I could hear him sing it again,’ I said.
‘Well, sweetheart, I’m not normally one to shatter people’s dreams, but you definitely did not take any of your father’s genes in the vocal department,’ he assured me.
‘What do you mean?’ I pretended to be shocked, holding my hand over my heart in mock offence.
‘Honey, I heard you singing in the shower last week and it sounded like a cat’s mating cry.’
‘Hmm. I was thinking of applying for X Factor this year I’ll have you know.’ My lips twitched.
‘I’ll save you the cost of a stamp. You have many talents, but singing is not one of them.’
‘Huh. Where are we going tonight?’ I changed the subject.
‘We’re going to a party,’ he said, taking a sip of his pint.
‘I love parties.’ A great excuse to put on a dress.
‘One of my best friends got engaged last week. They’re having drinks in The Shelbourne tonight,’ he said.
‘I can’t wait to meet your friends,’ I said, though I wasn’t entirely sure if that was true. I’d had a mixed reaction from John’s best friend, Owen, who was still being a little overprotective as I was “the married woman from England”. Even though my final divorce papers were hopefully only days away.
‘Julia was Jack’s lodger for four years. You couldn’t make it up,’ he began. ‘Then suddenly they had a row one night about a fucking plant or something, and he went into her bedroom to apologise, and as far as we know, he never came out since.’
‘That’s a lovely story. It’s funny though, isn’t it, how it happens so differently for everyone. Imagine they lived together for four whole years. It’s crazy,’ I said.
‘I keep telling you, honey, I have read the script to our story. You are moving West. It’s only a matter of time.’ It wasn’t the first time he’d said something to this effect.
Though I didn’t contradict him, I still couldn’t see it.
We made our way back to the Hilton Hotel we’d checked into the night before. We’d developed a soft spot for them after that first weekend in Bristol.
I drew the blackout blinds and climbed into the big, crisp-white bedsheets for an afternoon nap before the aforementioned evening events.
A smile crept onto my face as John’s hand slid round my waist from behind, inching inside the flimsy band of my carefully chosen underwear.
We made love slowly, tenderly this time, taking our time exploring each other and enjoying the build-up to our inevitable climax. Each time was different. I hadn’t thought it possible to top the first weekend, but as we got to know each other’s bodies better, we teased one another to the brink until one of us exploded.
Tired from the week at work and the travelling, I fell into a deep dreamless sleep with John’s knees tucked into the backs of mine, his arm under my pillow, the other round my waist.
The sound of voices echoing through the hotel corridor eventually woke me from my slumber. I crept out of bed quietly. John seriously loved his sleep. If it was even possible, he looked paler when he was tired, and he’d had a long week at home on the farm. One of the heifers had gotten into trouble delivering her first calf, and the vet had been called. Mother and baby were ok, but it was touch and go all week. It was so far removed from my week on the other side of the water, but it gave us plenty to talk about.
I filled the bathtub and immersed myself in delicious smelling bubbles. A few minutes later, I heard him approach and shuffled forward to make room in the tub.
