Prologue #2
William reappeared through the crowd, drying his hands on the sides of his jeans, and finished a third of his pint in one gulp, so he was either nervous or thirsty.
For the first time she had him sitting still at close quarters.
She could see the faint blue of a beard shadow breaking through and creases at the corners of his blue eyes that suggested being buffeted by Atlantic gales and canoeing down raging rivers, rather than age.
So, he was possibly a little younger than herself? No matter, she decided.
‘So, would this be your regular watering hole?’ he asked.
‘Just the odd time.’
No point in sounding like a total dipso, she thought. Instead of being her usual gregarious self, Ally found herself racking her brains for something relevant to say.
‘Sooo, what do you normally do at the weekends?’
It felt like a really boring question; however, at least it was showing interest. And as Rosemarie had read out to her from the Psychologies mag, once you’re curious, you’ll never be boring.
‘I’d head out with the lads a lot, hillwalking, canoeing, rock climbing and the like.’
‘Rock climbing . . . I’ve always wanted to do it,’ she spoofed. ‘Although, it sounds a bit freaky, I’d say I’d be terrified.’
‘Nah, you wouldn’t, you have to get used to it, keep your mind on one handhold after the other, what you’re going to do next. It’s all about focus. Then, of course, you’re just going vertical rather than horizontal.’
Which sounded like something that was way easier to talk about in a pub than to do in real life.
‘You know what, you’re right. It’s so important to challenge yourself. I hereby declare that in future I’m going to get over my nerves and try rock climbing.’
Oh God, what sort of rubbish was coming out of her mouth? She hadn’t the remotest intention of doing anything of the sort.
‘Cheers to that,’ he declared obligingly. ‘Apart from that, I go drinking with the lads up here in town.’
Okaay . . . pretty straightforward stuff, but the golden takeaway was that there was no mention of a girlfriend or wife.
They ordered another drink and then another, as the conversation meandered from movies on to football.
Normally, Ally wouldn’t have known one end of a soccer ball from the other, but on her third mini bottle of Sauvignon Blanc she found herself tapping into an undiscovered passion for Manchester City.
‘Ohmygod, it’s so skilful, the way they can do those backflips when they score a goal,’ she gushed, ‘but how come they were all called David?’
William looked baffled. ‘What? They weren’t all. There was David Silva. Then there was David Faupala as well, I suppose, though he only played for one season . . .’
She found herself gazing at his lips as they moved. ‘Nooo. You’re minimising them . . . There were . . . multiple Davids. My dad used to keep shouting David this, David that.’
She saw his lips curve into a smile.
‘Sure, David Silva was probably the greatest player they ever had, he got himself everywhere.’
‘Probabably. That was it.’
‘I think we should go . . .’
William seemed to be just slightly less pie-eyed than herself.
They blundered through the crowd of revellers who were shouting and swaying along to a spirited rendition of ‘The Rocky Road to Dublin’, whose bassline appeared to be carried by a heavily bearded man blowing sideways into a massive glass jar.
‘Gowan! Fair play to ye, lads!’ roared William as the musicians raised their hands in cheery acknowledgement. Clearly, Tipsy William was somewhat different to Office William.
Once outside the door of the pub, Ally realised she was pretty pissed and someone had definitely loosened the stabilisers on the pavement.
She could feel William’s arm steadying her, not that he seemed particularly steady himself.
Next, she found her back against the wall, with the weight of William’s body leaning against her, although it was possibly for support, and the vague sense of his mouth aiming for and more-or-less landing on hers . . .
At that moment she began to feel that suspicious feeling . . . Her stomach warned her: get out of there, and fast.
‘Sorry, I think I’m going to have to go— hommmm,’ she heard herself mumble, drawing back from the kiss.
‘OK,’ he said, looking a bit crestfallen. ‘Are you sure? I had a nice time.’
‘Me too. But . . . got to go . . . night night,’ she mumbled and clambered into a waiting taxi.
As it pulled away, she could see William fumbling with his bicycle chained to a road sign.
Oh my God. She’d just snogged William and then legged it without an arrangement to meet again.
She’d blown it. Her head spun as the taxi took a sharp turn left and buildings blurred as they passed.
Focus. Just hold it together till you get home – after that you can puke if you have to, and dream of William, though definitely not at the same time.
At last, she turned the key in the door, stumbled in and dropped her coat and bag on the floor in the hall with a groan of relief.
In the fresh air, the queasy feeling had abated and her head was starting to clear just a little.
Thankfully, she reminded herself to drink a pint of water to dilute the wine, before falling into bed.
The following morning, she was woken by a piercing beep that sounded like the herald of the apocalypse but turned out to be her alarm clock. It took a good thirty seconds for her scattered thoughts to work out what day it was, let alone to stop the bloody beeping.
She sat up gradually and put her feet gingerly on the floor, waiting for her head to catch up.
Oh God. She padded the short distance across the laminated floor and into the kitchen-diner, without making any sudden movements, and put on the kettle.
So far so good. Sipping a quiet mug of tea and munching an unchallenging triangle of toast, she wondered what had possessed her to go on the lash on a weekday night.
William.
The memory of his mouth on hers overtook her for a moment.
Oh no, she was going to have to face William with everyone in the coffee room.
How mortifying. Or maybe she wouldn’t see him at all – would that be worse?
They had each other’s numbers, but would he call?
Somebody should call somebody, but when?
She’d have done anything to crawl back into bed for the morning but that definitely wasn’t an option.
Get to work somehow, she urged herself, keep your head down and have a chicken-fillet roll for lunch. That’d get her through to the evening.