Page 26 of A Very Irish Christmas
This isn’t exactly how I’d planned to spend my vacation, but I realise it’s all worked out for the best. When I was alone in London, seeing the sights as a solitary tourist, that’s exactly how I felt – solitary. Deep down I yearned for company, for someone to talk to, for someone to see those sights with. I think that if the rest of my trip had followed the same route, I’d have flown home early with my tail between my legs and Nanna Nora’s nest egg wasted.
Since I arrived here, though, I’ve been swamped with company, and I’ve felt busy, engaged in both my own life and other people’s. It’s a good feeling, and I’m even relishing the aches and pains in my back and shoulders.
As I rest, my phone pings, and I see an excited message from June, asking for pictures of everything and everyone.
I send some of the ones I took earlier in the day, then look over at Ryan and ask: ‘Can I take a picture of you for my friend June?’
‘I don’t know about that. I’m not sure I’d like to be, what do you call it, objectified?’
He gives me a wink to show he’s joking, then flexes his arms so his muscles pop. I snap a pic, and quickly press send. It’s around midday back home, and I know she’ll be waiting. I laugh as her response lands.
‘What does she say?’ he asks.
‘She says you look like a ride!’
‘Fine taste, your friend June. If you’re needing any more poses, just let me know.’
Once I’m off the phone, he holds his Guinness can up, clears his throat, and says: ‘May the roof above us never fall in, and those gathered beneath it never fall out!’
I smile as I recognise the toast from Nanna Nora, and join him in finishing with a hearty: ‘Slainte!’
We pop open our drinks, wait until the first hiss has passed, and glug away. It’s an acquired taste, Guinness, but one I have already experienced many times.
He grins as I finish my first pull, and says: ‘I didn’t expect an American woman to be so fond of the black stuff there, Cassie!’
‘Ah, well, that’s because beneath the accent, I’m mainly Irish. My grandma was a Murphy, and my dad is an O’Hara. Guinness was one of the first drinks I ever took. My friend June and I stole a few cans of it from Nanna Nora’s stock, and guzzled it down in the neighbourhood park. We were fourteen at the time.’
‘And how did that end?’
‘About as well as you’d expect. Black puke, terrible hangovers, and a ferocious telling off from my dad.’
‘That sounds like fun. Be careful now, we don’t want a repeat performance.’
I assure him I am much better at drinking these days, and we sit in companionable enough silence for a while, listening to the music.
‘So,’ he says, after a few minutes, ‘what’s your story, Cassie O’Hara? Why are you here?’
‘Oh, I don’t have a story, Ryan. I’m just on vacation.’
‘For a month. On your own. Nah, there’s definitely a story there – I can see it in your eyes. I’d say you had a bad case of the heartbreak.’
I laugh, and reply: ‘Well, who doesn’t? And I’m not about to tell you my life story, I barely know you.’
‘Well now, that can only be fixed one way – how about we take a leaf out of Georgie’s book. One question each that we have to swear to answer truthfully, as God is our witness.’
I narrow my eyes at him, and answer: ‘Just one? And I get to ask anything?’
‘Anything at all. Cross my heart and hope to die. Come on – we’ve bonded over the smell of cleaning products, woman! And Eejit wants to know, too, so he does.’
The dog is curled up in a cosy ball between us. He lifts one eyebrow at the sound of his makeshift name, and lazily thumps his tail on the floor.
‘Okay,’ I say, smiling at how peaceful he looks right now, this yipping beast that had me corralled like a sheep the day before. ‘Only for Eejit though.’
I drink a little more, and take a deep breath. I rarely talk about my life to anybody outside it, and that is a very small circle – basically June and my family. I don’t really have work friends, and never did – my whole social circle revolved around Ted, and when he left me, I never quite had the confidence to build a new one. But why shouldn’t I tell him? I’ve felt ashamedand embarrassed about what happened for years, and maybe it’s time to stop. Maybe it’s time to try and make it an anecdote, and drain it of its power over me.
‘Well,’ I begin, feeling nervous but also a little exhilarated, ‘I guess it’s a story as old as time. Boy meets girl. Eighteen years old, and in love. Ted was his name, and we were together for a long time. All the way from college until we were thirty-four.’
I pause, and he says gently: ‘So, most of your adult life, then, was spent with this Ted fella?’
