Page 61 of One More Day
That’s Billy, was chatting to him earlier. Friendly guy.
This time Charlie doesn’t reply. He just taps his hand on his leg in time to the music as if I’m not here. His concentration on the tunes allows me a moment to study him more closely. I sit back in the booth, feeling George stir by my feet, and discreetly admire his profile.
He is a very handsome man, and though the pub was a very nice place before he arrived, it looks a lot nicer with him here.
His light stubble, which he rubs now with his fingers, has already turned my head more times than I care to admit to myself back at the cottage. I keep getting flashbacks of hissemi-naked body on the sofa this morning. I notice his nose, bent slightly in the middle as if it has been broken more than once, and the tattooed arms that look like they could hold you tight and take all your pain away.
Why am I thinking this way? It must be the wine loosening my imagination.
We have never had a full, proper conversation, yet his act of kindness last night is one I simply can’t ignore. In three years I haven’t deserved kindness, or at least that’s what I’ve always believed. In Dublin I’m living a big fat lie, so if someone is nice to me, it doesn’t ever sink in.
Back there I never let my mask slip. I’m Rose Quinn, digital marketing champion, colourful and bright. Being here is the closest I’ve felt to my real self in a very long time.
But even Charlie isn’t seeing the real me, nor do I know the real him. We are only skimming the surface of each other at face value, and maybe that’s a good thing. It’s like we are both a blank page, ready and able to start again with no judgement and no torrid past. How I wish life was as simple as that, where we could all press delete and refresh and start again.
He didn’t have to help me when I fell, yet he did. He didn’t have to make me dinner last night after I fell, yet he did.
But I don’t want to look at him in this admiring way either. I’m not meant to look at him this way. He’s a stranger. An accidental stranger, who I was never supposed to meet. Not to mention the fact that he has a girlfriend who he is clearly besotted with and who he calls to say goodnight.
I don’t have anyone to wish me goodnight.
How can I be envious of such a simple gesture? Imagine someone loving you so much that they call you just to say goodnight.
I shouldn’t be looking at him this way.
Still, it does no harm to admire from afar, as my mother used to say.
‘There’s nothing wrong with looking at the menu,’ she would coo when we were teenagers, and she was in a boisterous mood. ‘It doesn’t mean you have to order.’
She’d have me in stitches at weddings or on holidays and she’d spot a good-looking man when Dad was well out of earshot. Sarah would feign horror, but I’d stir it up and join in with Mum on her admiration of some unsuspecting passer-by.
Sarah would go into a strop, telling her that Dad was so much nicer and we’d both wind Sarah up more, but deep down I know Mum never had eyes for anyone else. She often spoke about how the stars aligned when she met my father on a rainy winter’s night here in Donegal. She spoke of how something clicked in that moment, and they never looked back.
It was like a fairy tale. It was magical. And it always got me thinking of how some people get so lucky, meeting the one they’ll spend the rest of their lives with. Although not perfect, they make it work and still claim to love each other no matter how much time goes by. How do some people find all of that, and yet others, like me, end up with heartache after heartache, again and again?
My phone bleeps once more.
Your wine is almost done. I need another pint. Can I get you one?
His words lift my heart and I quickly punch in a response.
I’ll have one for the road and then I’m leaving. Thank you.
I look up and find Charlie staring in my direction and our eyes lock for a second. He surely is a kind soul deep down as well as gorgeous. I also find it very funny that he is still sticking to his rules and texting. I know he’s doing it now more for the fun than to keep up the walls we’ve both built around each other.
He comes back with our drinks eventually, after a lot of squeezing past the gathered locals and holiday makers to get to the bar. When he sets my drink down on the table and takes his seat back on his stool again, I can’t resist joining in and texting one more time.
Cheers, I write.
Sláinte, he replies, and we both laugh a little as we deliberately avoid any other form of communication for the next half-hour while we enjoy the music, but in the corner of my eye I can still feel Billy’s gaze on me. I don’t find him creepy but he is keen, that’s for sure.
‘Great music,’ he says, leaning across again. I try a thumbs-up like I did with the older man earlier, but it doesn’t seem to satisfy him. ‘Are you from around here?’
I shuffle in my seat. I wish Charlie would look around. I don’t need to be rescued, but I do need an excuse to fend off Billy’s attention, even if he’s just being friendly.
‘No, I’m on holiday too. I hope you enjoy your stay,’ I reply, even though I don’t know if he can hear me. It seems to work as he nods his head and goes back to drumming his hands on the edge of the small round table next to him.
I should probably go. I’m feeling just a tiny bit of a glow from the wine, and the last thing I want to do is cross the line with alcohol when I’ve to walk home alone.
