Chapter 10 #2
Al, wearing his headphones, is in one portion of the revolving door, she is in the other.
There’s a gap in his door which offers freedom but he’s too large to squeeze through it.
He turns around to face her and looks at her in surprise.
She’s sure her face is bright red, stuck in a frozen, embarrassed grin.
He lowers the headphones from his head to sit around his neck, only then noticing the alarm.
His eyes survey her, and she feels goosebumps rise on her skin under his gaze.
Finally he sees the problem. She tugs at the scooter.
‘Sorry,’ she says, feeling her cheeks turn pink. Her voice is small in the confined space.
He smiles and shrugs. ‘I didn’t want to go to work anyway.’
For a joke, she dramatically puts her hand to the glass.
They are so close yet so far. This is an unusual thing to do to a stranger, granted, but he doesn’t feel that strange.
He feels very familiar, very connected, very handsome.
And they are both stuck in a small confined area which makes Melody react in strange and needy ways.
He laughs, his voice warm, though sounding like it’s trapped in a tube.
This is a problem in more than one way for Melody because just as she does not like committed relationships and being alone at night, she also equally does not like confined spaces.
Despite the glass, which she is grateful she can see through, and the attractive man who is also trapped with her, she is in a very confined space, where even her voice feels too close to her.
A security guard puts his hand up to tell her to stop tugging, he will somehow fix this, but her panic gets the better of her.
What if she’s stuck here, all day? Indefinitely.
What if she needs to go to the toilet, as she very suddenly needs right now?
What if she runs out of air? What if she slowly dies, losing air and deflating like a wrinkled prune, while everyone watches her through the glass?
She can’t just stand here and do nothing.
She tugs again. She feels the scooter budge slightly and so pulls and twists it.
Al knocks on the glass behind her and she turns around.
‘Don’t pull it,’ he says.
The security guard presses the emergency panic button. The door budges for a brief moment then shudders to a halt.
At this failed attempt to free them, her heart starts pounding wildly. Her breaths are shallow and she’s feeling dizzy in the small space. Fight or flight has kicked in. She pulls the scooter and twists it again.
‘No, no, no!’ the security guard shouts at her. He doesn’t want her to smash the glass.
The scooter comes free and whacks against her shins, before hitting the glass between her and Al Collins.
It does some damage to her skin but she grits her teeth and keeps the pain to herself because the embarrassment is too great.
The glass panel between her and Al cracks, one long crack from the bottom corner halfway up.
She gasps.
Al looks down and sees it. He grins, then bites down on his noticeably juicy lip to stop himself from smiling.
The contained smile causes dimples to form on both cheeks, an absolutely adorable revelation.
She wants to poke her finger in those dimples.
The doors suddenly move again but Al’s not ready and it bumps him, almost spitting him out of the doors.
By the time she follows him out, he’s laughing, unstoppable laughter.
The security guard is grumbling at her, telling her she wasn’t supposed to move.
‘Sorry,’ Melody says, mortified. Everyone is staring at her as though she’s walking into a Western saloon, though the tinkly piano reception music keeps playing. ‘Sorry,’ she says to them all with a grin. ‘My bad.’ She folds the scooter up and carries it.
Seeing her do this, Al laughs even harder, quite hysterically. Between laughs he says, ‘You probably should have done that first.’
‘Yeah probably,’ she laughs, as everybody resumes their business, and the security guard inspects the damage to the window and the edge of the doorframe. ‘I was in a rush to follow you. I was hoping to catch you outside.’
‘Melody Yates,’ he says suddenly, to her absolute surprise. Her name from his voice. His deep delicious voice.
‘Yes! How did you know … you’re Al Collins?’
He looks just as surprised. ‘I recognise your voice, from the …’ he pauses. ‘From the radio. And I was at one of your gigs in Cyclone in Moate with a … friend who’s not a friend anymore.’ He frowns as though his words are going in a direction he doesn’t approve of.
‘Cyclone. Now there’s a bonkers place. I remember a guy getting into a fight with himself in the mirror. Took him fracturing the mirror and his fist to realise it was his own reflection that wouldn’t get out of the way. Friend of yours?’
Al doubles over laughing. ‘It didn’t happen the night I was there. It was for my thirtieth birthday, eight years ago.’
He’s the same age as her. How wonderfully coincidental.
Suddenly his beautifully lit-up face darkens, as if remembering something.
‘Whatever happened to Cyclone? I wonder why it closed down.’
‘It’s still open but they lost their drinks licence. They serve warm tap water all night.’
‘Nice.’
They smile and look at each other. He has a very strong jaw, and beautiful eyes with long lashes. His eyes are tired at this early hour, little bags beneath them that are cute, like he’s a little creature that has emerged from hibernation and is slowly waking up.
‘How can I help you?’
‘Oh yes, sorry.’ She’s startled from her pervy study of him. ‘So the reason I’m here …’
‘Is because of the Grace Plunkett Bridge.’
‘Yes! How did you know?’
‘Yesterday we were inundated with calls and emails from the media and the public asking about the love locks that Melody Yates had gone viral talking about. I’ve also received about a dozen letters from people asking for their love locks, telling me you instructed them to do so.’
‘Ah yes, that. I’m sorry about that. I didn’t expect it to spiral like that. It’s been a crazy twenty-four hours. I mentioned my theory on the podcast and it has exploded. I thought the letters would be a nice personal touch. Emails are so …’
‘Impersonal?’
‘Yes,’ she says with a grin. ‘I’m glad you agree. Could we talk about it?’
‘I would like to talk to you,’ he says slowly, as if considering his words carefully, as if he’s under oath.
‘I’m not recording you,’ she says. ‘You can pat me down and check for a wire.’ She tries to say it playfully but it comes out awkward and weird, because she would very much like him to pat her down and search all her crevices for a wire. With his tongue.
‘Right,’ he says, studying her, not sure what to make of her. ‘But I’m not really certain what I could do for you. I can’t go on your podcast. There’s a PR team that would be much more qualified than me.’
‘You were the spokesman. You’re the bridge guy who removed the love locks. It was your call.’
‘True. But I’m not going on your podcast.’
‘I wasn’t going to ask you on.’ Maybe she was. ‘Just a few minutes of your time. I have a few questions.’
‘Okay. Come up to my office.’
He’s so casual, she feels as if the cool boy has granted her access into his house to play video games. He hits the button for the lift.
‘What floor are you on?’ she asks.
‘Six.’
‘Okay. I’ll see you there,’ she says, heading in the direction of the stairs, because as well as not liking deep committed relationships, being home alone at night, or confined spaces, she doesn’t like lifts, which she supposes is the same thing as a confined space.
‘I don’t like lifts,’ she offers as an explanation.
She stops to catch her breath on five before reaching six, wishing she hadn’t carried her scooter up the stairs with her and what kind of idiot decision that had been. She considered abandoning it on level two but then she may never get it back.
On six, Al’s there, waiting for her, his bag still on his back, coat on, looking concerned. He pulls the door open for her, takes the scooter from her without a word, and leads the way to his office. It’s open-plan and bustling at this early hour.
‘Who knew bridges could be so cool,’ she says, looking around at the office space.
‘Bridges are very cool,’ he says with an amused smile, taking off his coat and hanging it on the coat rack in the corner of his office. He closes the door then reaches out to take her coat, trying to discreetly take her body in once her coat is off but she notices and is pleased.
‘Wow, great view,’ she says, walking to the window, feeling and liking his eyes on her. His gaze crawls up her back like fingers. She shudders a little. ‘I can see my apartment block.’
‘Where?’
He stands beside her. He smells good.
‘Spencer Dock. There,’ she points. ‘So this is kind of like the bridge watch tower. How many bridges are there over the River Liffey?’
‘Guess.’
She counts in her head. ‘Six, no seven.’
‘Twenty-four. From Chapelizod to the sea.’
‘What’s the oldest bridge in Dublin?’
‘Still standing, is located on the Griffeen River at Lucan. Built in 1200s.’
She whistles. ‘What’s the biggest?’
‘River Barrow Bridge also known as Rose Kennedy Fitzgerald Bridge. It’s the longest of its kind in the world. It’s an extradosed bridge, nine hundred metres long, has eight piers and three towers. Do you want some bridge stats?’
‘I think that’s enough foreplay for now.’
He laughs, showing his teeth. She’d like to run her tongue over them.
‘You know a lot about bridges.’
‘You ask a lot of questions.’
‘I’m a journalist. A music journalist actually but I’ve recently broken out into the bridge industry. Did you love bridges since you were a kid? Did you have a bridge calendar on your bedroom wall?’
‘When I was younger I wanted to be a bridge.’
It’s Melody’s turn to laugh.
‘So what do you do here?’ she asks, looking around his office. ‘Apart from remove love locks from bridges?’