‘I think we like it because it’s not a fairy tale,’ I said. ‘It’s bittersweet. And it’s real.’
I watched him think this over for a few seconds.
‘I dunno,’ he said, finally. ‘Maybe I’m just a sucker for a happy ending,’ and something in the way he smiled at me made my heart beat a bit faster.
‘Happy endings are for cunts!’ announced Gary, as he emerged, wiping his face with the back of his hand and ruining a perfectly lovely moment. ‘Now come on, will yiz? I’m freezing me fucking balls off here.’
Gary had inherited a woolly jumper from one of the sheep – a nice lady from HR who gave up and went home after O’Neill’s – but he was still proudly sporting a nappy and a pair of bare legs. We followed him all the way to the Stag’s Head, where we realised we’d lost more than half our group; apparently Met Éireann had issued a weather warning and it was due to worsen over the next few hours. Anyone with any sense had headed home to avoid getting stranded in town, but Ciara was having none of it; by this point, she had literally let her hair down – the beard and crown stayed firmly in place, of course – and climbed up on a stool to give her version of the Saint Crispin’s Day speech, only with much more swearing and the odd hiccup. She referred to those who’d left as ‘turncoats’, ‘deserters’ and ‘a shower of bastards’, before praising the ‘surviving troops’ and, finally, promising a €200 ‘Christmas bonus’ to the last person standing. A bold tactic, to be sure, but it worked; the remaining team members cheered raucously before making their way to the bar, guzzling their eleventh drink of the day, and stumbling determinedly towards the twelfth and final pub. Or so they thought.
Despite the weather forecast, Dame Tavern was absolutely rammed – we literally couldn’t fit inside the door – but not to be dissuaded, our fearless leader bought shots for everyone and carried trays of them outside herself.
‘Never leave a man behind!’ she declared, handing out drinks to everyone. Then she counted us down from three to one and we threw back our shots in unison.
‘COPPERS!’ she roared out of nowhere, raising an imaginary sword in one hand.
Nobody wanted to go to Coppers, but go we did – not for the potential reward but for fear of being labelled a turncoat. Descending those sticky steps, I heard the opening bars of ‘Maniac 2000’ waft up towards me from the pungent pit of people below, and suddenly I regretted every decision that had led me to this.
Hordes of off-duty nurses, all dressed to the nines, jostled for space on a densely packed dance floor, while burly men in short-sleeved check shirts stared at them, mouths open and eyes glazed. The DJ, an unkempt man in his late forties, took to the mic to dedicate this one to ‘the four Gardaí from County Leitrim’ and a group of men down the back, presumably the famous four themselves, went wild.
‘What … is this place?’ shouted Theo over the thumping racket, and I realised the balance had shifted; I was no longer the one who needed protecting.
‘This,’ I shouted back, ‘is a hive of scum and villainy.’
He smiled.
‘Don’t touch the walls,’ I added, and his smile dropped. He looked around at the walls, which appeared to sweat, giving the impression one was inside some enormous porous beast. His eyes widened in horror and I couldn’t help but laugh.
‘Why on earth do people come here?’
‘To get “the shift”,’ I replied.
‘The what?’ he asked. I pointed out all the couples kissing in the corners. Although kissing is probably too generous a term; most of them looked like they were attempting to chew one another’s faces off. Theo was, quite rightly, appalled.
‘Would you like to add a third hand?’ I asked. He cupped one ear.
‘What?’
‘The third hand,’ I yelled.
‘No,’ he shouted back, his expression melting from horror to revulsion, ‘I don’t think I do.’
‘It’s an ancient Irish tradition,’ I said. ‘You can’t leave without doing it. Come on, I’ll show you!’
I grabbed him by the hand and led him towards the corner, all the while intensely aware of his hand in mine. I picked out a couple locked in a particularly busy embrace; she was up against a pillar, her frenzied hands feeling their way across the man’s back as though searching for lost valuables. I approached them and, maintaining eye contact with Theo, I added a hand to the mix, touching the man’s back in the same frantic fashion. Nobody noticed. They carried on regardless of the third hand.
Theo stared on, aghast. I stepped back and gestured for him to take his turn. He shook his head wildly but I folded my arms, indicating we would not be leaving until he had completed this rite of passage. He closed his eyes and sighed heavily, then he reached out and placed his hand on the man’s back. I waved my hand by way of demonstration and he reluctantly copied me, moving his hand around in a hilariously tender fashion. After ten seconds I nodded my approval and he bolted for the stairs.
Back above ground, we drank in fresh air, welcoming the cool, crisp night that came to rest on our clammy skin. Theo offered to walk me to the taxi rank by St Stephen’s Green and we ambled quietly in that direction, our reluctance to end the evening almost palpable in the silences between our idle chatter.
There were no cabs to be got, so we stood there a while, both unconvincingly feigning disappointment. I suggested we try the quays instead, and so we walked on borrowed time down Grafton Street, past the brightly lit displays in the Brown Thomas windows, where mechanical characters lurched soundlessly this way and that. Temple Bar was practically deserted, its cobbled streets now coated in white. We made our way down stone alleyways and under snow-laden arches to the Ha’penny Bridge, where the sight of the Liffey flanked in a blanket of snow caught me off guard.
‘She’s lookin’ well, all the same,’ I said, leaning against the cast-iron railing.
‘She is indeed,’ agreed Theo, and I turned just in time to catch him taking a photo of me.
‘It was a pretty picture!’ he explained.
On the other side we turned right and walked along the river, both so caught up in conversation that ten minutes passed before either of us noticed not a single car had driven by, let alone a taxi. The streets were ours. The city breathed softly all around us. And as we approached the Famine Memorial on Custom House Quay, we too fell silent, wandering in quiet reverence among the cluster of thin bronze statues, their features hollow and drawn, each one frozen in an endless journey towards some long-departed coffin ship.
‘I’ve been here almost a year and I’ve never seen this,’ said Theo, breaking the silence.
I just nodded.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, staring at the figure of a young man carrying a child across his shoulders, his thin legs buckling under the weight.
‘It wasn’t your fault,’ I said, smiling at the sheer magnitude of the apology.
‘But I thought the English were sort of to blame?’
‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Yeah, they definitely were. But it’s not your fault, you know, personally.’
Theo smiled, nodded, and then looked me earnestly in the eyes and said, ‘I would never deprive you of potatoes.’
I burst into laughter, suddenly aware how alien that happy sound must seem in this sad place. Without thinking, I took Theo’s hand and pulled him towards me. And there, on the banks of the River Liffey, amid a crowd of gaunt, metal ghosts, we kissed for the very first time.
The kiss was deep but delicate, and when it reached a natural conclusion, we pulled apart slightly and regarded one another’s faces at a distance only lovers know.
‘What are you thinking about?’ I asked, blinking up at him through falling snowflakes.
‘Honestly?’ he said.
‘Honestly,’ I smiled.
There was a brief pause before he smirked and said, ‘Margaret Thatcher addressing the House of Commons.’
I don’t know if I’d have stayed at Theo’s under different circumstances, but as it stood, I couldn�
��t get home and his apartment was only a ten-minute walk away. So I agreed, but I made it perfectly clear that there would be ‘no funny stuff’. Theo found this hilarious for some reason – maybe he hadn’t planned on anything happening – and he assured me I could have his bed and he would sleep on the sofa.
The first thing I noticed in his apartment were the three framed Star Wars posters, which I complimented him on.
‘Oh, those,’ he said. ‘They’re just temporary while I have my prequel posters cleaned.’
‘Funny,’ I said, as I perched on the edge of his bed, still visibly shaking from the cold.
‘Would the angel like a cup of tea?’ he asked.
‘She’d love one,’ I said, kicking off my shoes and climbing under the duvet.
‘How many sugars?’
‘Four please.’
‘You’re joking,’ he said.
‘Sadly, I’m not.’
Theo looked at me, half bewildered, half disgusted, then disappeared off to put the kettle on.
That’s the last thing I remember before waking up this morning, with a full cup of cold tea beside me on the nightstand. My hair reeked of cigarette smoke, and I could taste stale booze on my breath.
Theo was asleep on the sofa, as promised. I couldn’t bring myself to wake him up and, truth be told, I didn’t really want him to see me – or smell me – in that state, so I took his coat from the back of the door and left a note with my phone number and a message that said, ‘Thanks for the tea. And the coat.’
I took the DART home, snuggling up by the window and placing my feet on a heater underneath my seat. A cool winter sun was climbing in the sky, its pink light flashing quickly in the windows of houses as we passed. I hurried to catch glimpses of the lives inside those windows; here a woman making a bed, there a family sitting down to breakfast, and over here a couple getting ready for work. The images flickered like frames a film reel and were gone.
I looked out across Dublin City, a blank page of snow, and I found myself thinking of him. Without really meaning to, I began imagining a life with Theo in it; the places we might go, the adventures we might share, the kisses and the laughter and the countless cups of tea. I pictured the couple we might someday become. And in my mind, in that moment at least, they lived happily ever after.
Acknowledgements
This book is for all the Theos in my life. You have inadvertently been my greatest teachers, and a constant source of inspiration.
For my Mayas, without whom I would be very sad and a bit dehydrated. Thank you for the endless emotional support, the advice, the hugs and the tea. You sustain me in more ways than you know.
For the Darrens who support the Mayas who support me. The world needs more of you.
For the Ciaras who got my work out there and the Omars who made it better. And even for the Maureens, those talented cows.
For all the Jocelyns. Yours and mine. May they find peace.
For every Nadia I’ve had over the years, who helped me take down the scaffolding and rebuild anew.
For my family, who do their best, and can always find the funny side.
For Lena, wherever you may be.
And finally, this book is for my Angels, those past and future versions of myself who continue to love and to hope and to fall in spite of themselves. Keep falling please. I will always be there to pick you back up.
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