Chapter 18
MELODY
‘What’s she like?’ Al asks about Prunella.
They’re standing at the high counter in the kitchen. She’s eating granola and yoghurt. He’s having porridge and blueberries.
‘She’s nice,’ Melody says, giving the standard response.
Everyone wants to know what Prunella Maguire is like in real life.
But this is not just another person. It’s Al, and she can’t seem to be anything but honest with him.
‘At least I thought she was. Until she tried to steal you away from me.’ She still can’t shake the irritation of Prunella calling Al’s office yesterday for an interview when they’d agreed it was Melody’s story.
‘I should give her the benefit of the doubt, maybe she was trying to help.’
‘Don’t,’ Al says to her surprise. ‘That’s what the old me would have done. And the old me got screwed. She’s competitive, don’t trust her.’
Melody sees the hurt in him, the crack of anger, the tightening of his jaw as he eats thinking about what happened to him. It transforms him. He puts the bowl down and makes coffee, shoulders up, tense. She gives him a moment to compose himself.
When he places the coffee before her, he’s more back to himself but she tries to help him along.
‘Do you know that people pee into kettles in hotel rooms? And they boil their dirty underwear in them.’
‘Let’s see if rental property kettles are the same.’ He sips his coffee and observes her over the rim. ‘Is this the type of chat you have on the podcast?’
‘Pretty much.’
She crunches, thinking about Prunella. ‘She is nice.’
‘Who? Are we back on Prunella again?’
‘We’ve never had a falling-out. Or shared a bad word. But I can’t figure her out. She’s so poised most of the time.’
‘That must bother you.’
‘Her being poised?’ She straightens her posture.
‘Not being able to figure her out. You like to read people.’
‘Yeah. I do,’ she says, realising. ‘I like people to be messy and complicated and normal, and when they’re not I wonder what’s wrong with them.’
‘Well you lucked out with me.’
‘You tick all the boxes. The heartbreak and bitterness is the real draw.’
He smiles and eats half his bowl in one mouthful.
He goes around the outside of the bowl, spooning up the oats in a circle, leaving the centre untouched, a sprinkle of blueberries on a porridge island.
His alarm woke them both, he didn’t have bad breath, he looked as delicious as last night, but even more so, like a worn, creased, loved teddy bear with the same sleepy eyes he’d had when they first met.
It hadn’t been awkward, but they were tired so he showered while she prepared breakfast. It felt normal considering they didn’t even know each other at this time yesterday.
‘What happens when I’m not bitter or heartbroken anymore?’
‘Well then my work here is done. I’ll move on to the next mansel’s bed, like the guardian angel I am.’
He laughs. ‘Have you always loved music?’
‘Always. From a young age I got into synth pop and then dance music. I loved mixing them both. It’s kind of like solving a puzzle; synching rhythms and beats, finding two things that absolutely shouldn’t go together but finding a way to transition one song into the next.
There was something about the absolute chaos of it that made me calm. ’
‘Were you not calm?’
She shakes her head. ‘I was not a restful teen.’
‘What about now?’
She shrugs. ‘It calms me now too. Performing it for people live is next level. Watching people living their best lives. You’re all just vibrating together on the same frequency.’
‘Nice,’ he nods along. ‘I had that with rowing.’
The sun is coming up and from the sixteenth floor she’s getting a good view of the city.
‘Do you like doing the podcast? It’s not music.’
‘Yes, but it’s different. This is kind of a trial contract. It’s for six months and then we’ll discuss continuing.’
‘When is the six months up?’
‘Soon.’
‘Ooh. Commitment. Your favourite.’
Her skin feels itchy at the thought. Does she want to sign up for longer?
‘The podcast is outside of my comfort zone. What I’d really like is a music podcast but maybe this is a stepping stone. That’s why the love locks gaining traction is a big deal for me. I’m kind of searching for validity that it’s for me.’
He nods, getting it. ‘Your love lock story is about a song.’ He digs into the blueberry island, attacks it from all sides. He thinks about everything. Comes at things from all angles, even his porridge.
She frowns.
‘One of the most famous love songs in the history of Irish music. “Grace”.’
Her eyes widen. Yes. ‘Grace’, a famous Irish love song sang at many a sing-song, was written by brothers Frank and Seán O’Meara, about Grace and Joseph Plunkett’s marriage in Kilmainham Gaol. She hadn’t connected the story with the song but her adrenaline starts pumping.
‘Technically you’d be sharing the story behind the song,’ Al says, rinsing out the cereal bowl and then placing it in the dishwasher. He really couldn’t be any more perfect.
‘Al, you’re a genius.’ Her head races as she now has new angles to approach this story for the podcast. Maybe she can turn it into what she has always wanted it to be.
A podcast with music at its core. Maybe this isn’t just about love locks, it’s about Grace and Joseph, it’s about their love story.
Maybe it’s their everlasting love, and not just the padlocks, that was the glue that held everyone together.
People tethered themselves and their love to their memory, and when it was clipped, so too was their love.
Love on the edge of loss. Love, loyalty and sacrifice.
Melody rushes to hug him. His back is to her, and she wraps her arms around him, her hands unable to meet at his chest, cheek to his back. He rubs his thumb against her hand.
‘Thank you,’ she says.
‘No problem. Thank you,’ he says softly, which makes her want to squeeze him tighter.
He turns around to face her, her arms still around his waist. They lock eyes and stare at each other for a comfortably long time.
‘I think you still have the locks,’ she says.
‘Do you now? Well I think you looked just about everywhere last night and couldn’t find them.’
She runs her hands over his body as though she’s frisking him.
A sneaky smile breaks out on his face. ‘I don’t have the locks but if I think of anything I can do to help you, I’ll let you know.’
‘But I slept with you and everything,’ she moans.
He laughs. ‘Three times. And you can keep trying if you like, it might eventually work.’ He kisses her. Luscious lips, even if he tastes of porridge.
He walks down the stairs with her, and doesn’t complain once.
They talk all the way, and when they get to the ground floor, Melody wishes there were more levels to go.
When they get outside, the two pizza boxes are outside the door on the pavement.
Melody laughs at the sight of them. She had been ravenous last night but it was worth not answering the door.
Al tuts and picks them up, as a neighbour exits the building at the same time.
‘Terrible. People leaving these lying around. Does anybody have any respect? Wasteful, throwaway society,’ he grumbles, while Melody laughs, and Al stuffs them into a nearby bin.
He forgoes the Luas and they walk to his work together. Melody wishes there were more blocks added to the journey. They say their goodbyes. No kisses, not in front of his office, and no promises to see each other again. She’s nervous about that part. Though he does have her number.
In fact he says, ‘Have a nice life,’ and brushes her chin gently with his thumb, before entering the revolving door which is still taped up from the previous morning. She laughs as she walks away, having to fix her silly grin when people catch her.
She has spent so much time with Al, walking by his side for hours yesterday evening and this morning, that when he is gone she feels an emptiness beside her. She really does need to snap out of it. But she can’t, she’s kind of floating, her skin humming with the memory of his touches and kisses.
After snoozing for a few hours, she turns on Prunella’s TV show New Day at noon.
A familiar man is sitting on the moss-green couch, looking awkward in a pin-striped suit. His head is a mess of curls, which is not the familiar part because that was covered by a woollen hat when he cycled by her yesterday evening and proceeded to wear the face off Al’s ex-fiancée. It’s Walter.
‘Walter Whelan is an ecologist at Bridgespan, the bridge management company that has been in the media this week for controversially, some would say, removing the love locks from the Grace Plunkett Bridge. Walter, you’re very welcome here with us on New Day.’
‘Thanks for having me, Prunella.’
He’s very softly spoken.
Melody stares at the TV in shock. ‘What. The …’