Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
In certain places, Dublin reminded me of Edinburgh.
The narrow, cobbled streets extending like tiny branches from an old oak tree.
The gothic architecture and historic monuments seemed familiar, as did the carefully manicured gardens of St. Stephens Green.
They reminded me of Princes Street Gardens.
An all too familiar sight was the many tragic homeless people, camping out in ragged blankets, holding cardboard signs begging for enough change for a hot drink or a bite to eat.
It broke my heart to see them that way. I wanted to bring them home with me and cook them a good meal.
Instead, I handed over what little change I had and felt as guilty as sin for being as lucky as I was.
It rapidly put life into perspective as I clung to John’s arm.
‘What are you thinking?’ he asked.
‘Just how lucky we are.’ I tightened my grip on his arm again as we passed the eighth person lying in a rotten tattered sleeping bag with a starved, but loyal, mongrel by his side, huddling for warmth from the damp autumn chill.
The orange leaves littered the cold wet ground and dark thunder clouds hovered threatening from above. The weather matched my mood, despite being with my favourite person in the whole wide world.
‘I know. I often think the same.’ He clasped his hand over mine.
‘Whatever problems I’ve had this year are minor in comparison.’
‘You’ve a good heart, girl.’ His blue eyes bore into mine.
‘I doubt my ex-husband would agree with you there, but that’s another story.’ I’d intended it to be a joke but I couldn’t muster a smile.
‘Well, he should have appreciated you when he had the chance. The man’s a fool, thankfully.
Or you wouldn’t be here now. Now, Miss Morbid Pants, let’s go for a drink and try to enjoy the weekend.
We won’t solve the problems of the world today, let’s enjoy each other’s company while we can.
As wonderful as you look on FaceTime, I prefer you in the flesh. ’
‘You’re right. I’m sorry.’ I attempted to pull myself together, even though the lingering guilt of being so happy continued to tarnish my mood.
I’d been questioning my life a lot. The devil’s increasingly frequent appearance on my shoulder continued to berate me for one thing or another. If it wasn’t Rob, it was my lifestyle, or my shopping habits. Maybe I’d have to give that Calm app another go after all.
I tried to remind myself my dad died aged forty-nine, and although it was important to be grateful and to be aware we should do as much as we could to help other people, we also had a right to enjoy our own lives as well. In fairness, I worked hard for it.
We turned the corner of Grafton Street Green and John led me into a tiny pub with low ceilings and wooden beams. Pictures of Irish GAA sporting legends hung dusty on the walls alongside ceramic pottery ornaments that wouldn’t have looked out of place in my eighty-six-year-old granny’s house.
I was fairly sure the barman didn’t stock Prosecco.
I ordered a Bailey’s coffee to warm me and hopefully cheer me up.
It seemed to do the trick. By the time I’d started on my second, I’d forgotten what I was supposed to be feeling bad about.
Instead, I let myself fall a little more in love with John Kelly as he gave me a run-down of the Gaelic football memorabilia on the walls. I had no interest in the football, but I could listen to him talk all day.
‘This is my kind of pub, girl.’ He often called me girl. I liked it. It was said with such affection. If anyone else called me that, it might have sounded patronising, but from his lips, it sounded sensual.
‘It reminds me of somewhere my father would have brought me. In the early days, my dad would pick us up on a Saturday and drop us back to my mum’s on a Sunday.
Shared care they call it now, the joys of the broken family.
He used to bring us to pubs often with a beer garden so he could enjoy his pint and let us play in the sunshine.
And in the winter, he’d bring us into a traditional pub like this, but there would usually be live music,’ I said.
‘Every Irish childhood involves eating Tayto in a pub while your parents got tipsy. And we’re all fine for it,’ John said.
‘My dad used to do karaoke. He was actually pretty good. Of course at the time I was mortified listening to it, like all kids tend to be embarrassed of their parents! I only wish I could hear him sing it again,’ I said.
‘Well, sweetheart, I’m not normally one to shatter people’s dreams, but you definitely did not take any of your father’s genes in the vocal department,’ he assured me.
‘What do you mean?’ I pretended to be shocked, holding my hand over my heart in mock offence.
‘Honey, I heard you singing in the shower last week and it sounded like a cat’s mating cry.’
‘Hmm. I was thinking of applying for X Factor this year I’ll have you know.’ My lips twitched.
‘I’ll save you the cost of a stamp. You have many talents, but singing is not one of them.’
‘Huh. Where are we going tonight?’ I changed the subject.
‘We’re going to a party,’ he said, taking a sip of his pint.
‘I love parties.’ A great excuse to put on a dress.
‘One of my best friends got engaged last week. They’re having drinks in The Shelbourne tonight,’ he said.
‘I can’t wait to meet your friends,’ I said, though I wasn’t entirely sure if that was true.
I’d had a mixed reaction from John’s best friend, Owen, who was still being a little overprotective as I was “the married woman from England”.
Even though my final divorce papers were hopefully only days away.
‘Julia was Jack’s lodger for four years. You couldn’t make it up,’ he began. ‘Then suddenly they had a row one night about a fucking plant or something, and he went into her bedroom to apologise, and as far as we know, he never came out since.’
‘That’s a lovely story. It’s funny though, isn’t it, how it happens so differently for everyone. Imagine they lived together for four whole years. It’s crazy,’ I said.
‘I keep telling you, honey, I have read the script to our story. You are moving West. It’s only a matter of time.’ It wasn’t the first time he’d said something to this effect.
Though I didn’t contradict him, I still couldn’t see it.
We made our way back to the Hilton Hotel we’d checked into the night before. We’d developed a soft spot for them after that first weekend in Bristol.
I drew the blackout blinds and climbed into the big, crisp-white bedsheets for an afternoon nap before the aforementioned evening events.
A smile crept onto my face as John’s hand slid round my waist from behind, inching inside the flimsy band of my carefully chosen underwear.
We made love slowly, tenderly this time, taking our time exploring each other and enjoying the build-up to our inevitable climax.
Each time was different. I hadn’t thought it possible to top the first weekend, but as we got to know each other’s bodies better, we teased one another to the brink until one of us exploded.
Tired from the week at work and the travelling, I fell into a deep dreamless sleep with John’s knees tucked into the backs of mine, his arm under my pillow, the other round my waist.
The sound of voices echoing through the hotel corridor eventually woke me from my slumber.
I crept out of bed quietly. John seriously loved his sleep.
If it was even possible, he looked paler when he was tired, and he’d had a long week at home on the farm.
One of the heifers had gotten into trouble delivering her first calf, and the vet had been called.
Mother and baby were ok, but it was touch and go all week.
It was so far removed from my week on the other side of the water, but it gave us plenty to talk about.
I filled the bathtub and immersed myself in delicious smelling bubbles. A few minutes later, I heard him approach and shuffled forward to make room in the tub.
‘Hello, sleepy head.’ He slipped into the bath behind me.
‘Jeez, you’d tire a man out, girl. You’re insatiable.’ Yet it was him that was currently fondling my breasts, tenderly running his fingers over my nipples.
‘If you’re awfully tired, I suggest you stop that immediately,’ I warned him, feeling the deep stirring of arousal pooling in my core.
‘I suppose I did get a bit of rest there,’ he conceded, his hand stroking slowly down over my stomach, teasingly toward another part of me. He played with me, toying with me, running his fingers up and down until I felt like begging him to touch the most intimate parts of me.
‘You like that?’ he whispered into my ear from behind.
‘You know I do.’ I could barely think straight, silently pleading with him to give me my release. The man was a mind reader.
He stroked me repeatedly, until heat spread through my groin and down my thighs, my toes curling in anticipation. I was tense, ready to blow any second.
I loved watching his hands rubbing relentlessly over the most sensitive part of me, seeing him so confidently enjoying the power he had over me in that moment.
I couldn’t hold it any longer, my entire body shuddered to a powerful climax.
Though he was behind me, I felt his grin.
He loved what he did to me, how he could take me and turn me into a quivering wreck any time he felt like it.
I regained my composure, waiting for my heart to slow to a normal rate before turning round in the soapy water to straddle him.
He was more than ready, turned on from turning me on.
I placed his hands back onto my nipples, dominating him as I began to slide up and down the length of him, slowly at first, then increasing the pace, watching his face as he battled to prolong the experience.
It was my turn to smile, knowing without a shadow of a doubt that what we had was better than anything either of us had had before.