‘He should have won,’ said Niamh. ‘I demand a recount.’
Patrick was smiling broadly, but his eyes moved back to Rosie and for a moment they absorbed each other, taking everything in. And then it was over.
Rosie managed to turn to Grace. ‘Everything okay?’ she said, quietly.
Grace smiled back. ‘Grand. All good.’ She peered at Rosie. ‘Are you okay?’
‘I’m just going to… I’m just going to…’Run away, she thought.Down a bottle of vodka. Have a cold shower. Or scream on the top of my lungs.Something to calm her heart which was flapping inside her like a panicked and trapped bird. ‘Just sort something out. Back soon.’
And that was it. Rosie left the hotel, outside into the fading dusk, the birds roosting, the starlings flocking onto the elm trees, the solar lights illuminating her path as she hurried along. She could barely breathe. Him. Patrick. How on earth was she going to get through the next few days?
12
PATRICK
His heart was racing. What must Rosie think of him? The last time they’d seen each other was in Dublin Airport before he’d left for the States, harder of heart and even more determined to make it work over there. He had to focus on Seán and Niamh and get through the weekend.
It was evening now, the sky was slowly closing in. Patrick, Seán, Niamh and Kate sat on the terrace in the shade of large white parasols, cold beers and rosés, little bowls of olives and anchovies in front of them, looking out at the sea, chatting about the days ahead and all the wedding plans. More of Seán and Niamh’s friends had begun to arrive and there would be even more in the morning for some kind of beach barbecue.
He tried to focus on the wedding and joined in with the storytelling and his flight over, where one man had removed not only his shoes but also his socks and then dangled his bare feet out into the aisle. ‘He had these big, hairy toes and there was a distinct whiff of camembert. Everyone began whispering about it,’ Patrick said. ‘Who was going to say something. In the end, this very brave woman went up to him and tapped him with a biro. “Excuse me, would you mind putting your socks back on? Aer Lingus’s passenger comfort and safety charter states that socks shouldneverbe removed on a flight.” Of course he didn’t believe her, saying there was no such charter. She bent closer and said with the barely restrained menace of Liam Neeson, “Put your socks on or I will throw you and them out of the door of the plane.” He put them back on.’
‘Being a doctor you become immune to people’s bodies,’ said Kate. ‘The only time I notice someone’s body now is if they are particularly toned and have great definition. Then, I’m looking for tips. But hairy toes or weird knees or waggly ears, I’m oblivious to.’
‘Waggly ears?’ asked Patrick, laughing. He almost felt as though he was having an out-of-body experience, laughing and drinking on the terrace of Rosie’s hotel. If he had been sent an invitation, then what would he have done? Perhaps it was better this way, a quick shock, get on with the wedding, and leave again for Boston. The meeting with Rosie had taken him by surprise. Over the years, he had imagined running into her again but in these daydreams they’d always been alone and able to talk. To have felt her so close to him and yet neither of them acknowledging their past had been so strange. And yet he’d longed to look at her properly, to take in her face again, to hear her voice. And the touch of her hand… he could feel it still. And she had changed so little, really. Still beautiful.
‘Oh, they’re a thing all right,’ said Kate. ‘You don’t have them, you’re grand. But some people, they have very impressive auditory auricles.’
Niamh topped up his wine glass. ‘This is like being on holiday,’ she said. ‘The weather is gorgeous.’
‘Imagine if it was a normal Irish summer?’ Kate said. ‘I was at a wedding last year and it was raining so hard the marquee was leaking. We had to use the champagne buckets to catch the drips. The bride and groom had been taking dance lessons and were going to perform the big finale fromDirty Dancing. So, she ran up to him, he tried to lift her up and his brand-new shoes slipped on a puddle and the two of them went flying.’
‘Seán! How’s it going?’ A man had walked out of the hotel and onto the terrace. He was tall and broad, sandy hair, small nose and a rugby top with the collar turned up.
‘Lorenzo! Good to see you.’ Seán was on his feet, bro-hugging the man.
Lorenzo slapped Seán’s back with a hard thwack. ‘Can’t believe you’re tying the knot, now tell me which one of these beautiful girls is your Niamh?’
Niamh was now standing up, shaking Lorenzo’s hand. ‘Good to meet you, Lorenzo.’
The man guffawed. ‘You can call me Lorenzo if you wish, but it’s not my real name, merely one of the many names the lads call me. Larry. The Lalmeister. Lazarus. Lollypop. Lol.’
‘Lol?’ Kate laughed. ‘Really?’
‘Or Laurence Nightingale,’ he went on, ‘or Laz and the Plastic Population…’
Everyone looked confused now.
Laurence shrugged. ‘That one’s a bit obscure, but if you’re not into the whole nickname thing, you can call me Laurence.’
‘Laurence it is then,’ Niamh said. ‘And this is Kate, my best friend and matron of honour.’
‘Maid,’ corrected Kate. ‘Or bridesmaid-in-chief.’
‘And this is my brother and best man, Patrick,’ introduced Seán. ‘Patrick, Laurence and I go to the same gym.’
‘Our PT is a beast,’ said Laurence, crushing Patrick’s hand. ‘He says he doesn’t have favourites, but I just know he thinks my bench presses are better than old Seány’s here.’ He thwacked Seán again. ‘Anyway, you’re all welcome to Cliff Top. My wife’s family own it.’
Patrick looked up. Rosie was married? To him? Of course she would have been snapped up. But byhim? Laurence was nice enough… but for Rosie? He just didn’t seem her type. He was loud and overly confident and someone who thought that going to the gym was a competitive sport. It didn’t make sense.
