As I follow him and climb onto his green-and-yellow-painted cart, I notice the smirking faces of the other drivers.
‘All right, Paddy?’ one of them calls.
‘Yeah, you’re all right, lads,’ he calls back, waving them away.
I soon realise what the joke is.
Paddy’s horse is so old and slow that I could walk twice as fast. Paddy keeps waving vehicles past, sometimes right into the path of oncoming traffic, and I wince as a bus almost collides with a car. All the while, Paddy chats amiably, geeing his horse along every so often, prompting her to trot for about four seconds before she reverts to snail speed. Despite appearances, though, Paddy is as sharp as a stake.
When we finally make it into the park, he asks me if I’d like to take a boat ride out to the derelict abbey on Innisfallen Island. It sounds appealing and Paddy even says he can call ahead and have his friend waiting, but, having longingly counted seven other horses and carts happily trotting past us – all with smugly smirking drivers – I decide I’d better decline.
Back at the hotel, I don’t even have time for a shower, but the smell of horse manure is up my nose, and, just in case that scent has spread to the rest of me, I decide to have a quick one.
By the time I get to the pub, I’m fifteen minutes late and bricking it. I take a deep breath and walk into the crowded venue, scouring the room for anyone remotely resembling Dillon.
I can’t see him anywhere. Has he stood me up? Has he already walked out again?
My pulse is racing as I squeeze into a narrow space left by two bulky blokes in black-leather jackets at the bar. I still feel rough, so, much as I could do with some Dutch courage, I order a soft drink and then find a quiet corner of the pub. With one eye on the entrance, I wait, and, as I do so, a memory comes back to me...
We’d dropped in on Dillon’s parents, who lived in Dalkey, southeast of Dublin, on the coast. That weekend it was raining across the whole of Europe, but Ireland was in the midst of a rare heatwave. Dillon wanted to take me to the beach, so we parked in Killiney Hill Park and walked hand in hand down the cliff pathway. The blue of the sky melded into the blue of the ocean and the coast was bursting with wild-flowers. The view made me think of the French Riviera – it was outstandingly beautiful.
Down on the beach, the sand was grey and murky and the water so cold that it almost froze my toes off, but, somehow, Dillon managed to go swimming. I sat there and laughed at him, while behind us a train chugged back and forth – offering its passengers the most incredible views of the ocean. I remember thinking that I would be happy settling there, and, if I had to commute to work in Dublin, the coast train would be the way I’d want to travel.
I fell hard for Dillon that weekend, seeing him interacting with his parents, witnessing him at home in a happy, stable environment. I almost believed that one day we could have that, too.
But then we went back on the road again, back to the bars, back around drink, drugs and rock and roll – not to mention the girls – and I convinced myself it was a pipedream.
‘You are not leaving me,’ he said, and the look in his dark eyes still haunts me.
‘It’s already done. I’ve taken a job in London.’
‘Then I’ll come with you.’
‘No. You’d miss your band. You’re not ready to settle down. I’m not sureIam. Let’s quit while we’re ahead. Let me go before we end up hating each other.’
‘If you leave me now, I’ll hate you for the rest of my life!’
My thoughts return to the present. Half an hour passes. I don’t know if Dillon is coming, if he’s already been or if he’s simply getting back at me for dumping him.
But, luckily, his band are playing a gig a few doors down. Time to revert to Plan B.
I see him as soon as I walk into the bar. He’s right at the back at a table crowded with pretty girls and drunken band members.
Not much has changed, it seems.
They’re all laughing raucously and shouting and I watch as Tezza the fiddler pours whiskey into shot glasses and they all knock them back.
Dillon relaxes into his seat and casually drapes his arm around the shoulders of the girl next to him. His hair is chocolate-brown and messy and falls haphazardly off to one side, just like it used to.
The next thing I know, his dark eyes have locked with mine and his easy smile dies on his lips.
The girl in his arms turns to look at him with confusion – presumably because he’s gone rigid – then she follows the line of his sight until she’s staring at me, too.
I smile and shrug.Ta-da! Here I am!
I am completely faking my nonchalance. My heart is pounding ten to the dozen.
I casually jerk my head towards the bar.I’m getting a drink. You want to join me?
