Page 52 of A Very Irish Christmas
‘Gosh,’ I say, as he checks the little screen on his camera. ‘It’s almost like you’re a professional or something!’
He makes an amused snort, and carries on with what he’s doing, lost in the process.
‘Hey, it’s just occurred to me,’ I say, getting my phone from my pocket, ‘that I could google you now! Before, you were just Ryan Connolly. Now you’re Ryan Connolly, famous Cork-born photographer – maybe I’ll find some embarrassing pictures of you!’
He sees what I’m doing, and lunges towards me, letting the camera swing from his neck by the strap. He grabs hold of my hand, not hurting me but definitely using some strength. I lookup at him in shock, see him shaking his head at me, his face solemn, his blue eyes bruised.
‘Don’t,’ he says simply, slowly releasing his grip. ‘Don’t do that.’
‘Why not?’ I say quietly, knowing that he’s deadly serious but not understanding why. He sighs, and sits down next to me. He takes a deep breath, then says: ‘I’m sorry I grabbed you. Did I hurt you?’
‘No, I’m fine – but you’re clearly not. What’s going on?’
He rubs his face in the palms of his hands like he’s washing it clean. ‘If you google me, you’ll find stuff. And if you find stuff, you’ll see me differently – and I don’t want you to see me differently.’
‘Okay, I won’t, I promise.’
He seems to sag a little, leaning back against the cold stone wall, his long legs stretched out before him. I’ve never known him to be silent for more than a few seconds, and I’m worried. He opens his mouth a few times as though to talk, but each time whatever he wants to say remains unspoken.
‘Last time I was up here,’ I say, keeping my tone soft, ‘Charles told me about Vanessa, and what happened with her.’
‘Yeah? That’s unusual. He doesn’t like to talk about it, which I completely understand. It was awful.’
‘It sounded it. But I think maybe he felt a bit better afterwards – for getting it off his chest, you know?’
Ryan gives me a lopsided smile, and looks around the strange little tower.
‘Not winning any subtlety points there, Cassie… but I can see this place does have a touch of the confessionals about it, doesn’t it? You’re not a priest, mind, and I don’t have any sins to confess.’
‘I can’t imagine that’s true – you must have lots! But look – all I’m saying is that you want to talk, I’m here. Whatever it is, I won’t see you any differently.’
‘And how do you see me now, Cassie?’
‘As an eejit. As a friend. As a man who seems to be in pain right now.’
I do see him as all of those things, but as I sit close to him, our bodies touching and our clouded breath mingling in the frosted air, I wonder if I’m being entirely honest with myself – I wonder whether I see him as something more.
He nods and replies: ‘Well, the eejit bit’s true, for sure. Look, it’s a long, sad tale, so I’ll give you the shortened version. I used to be married. I had a four-year-old daughter called Mia. Then six years ago, they both died in a car accident. That’s that. As they say in those press conferences, I won’t be taking questions, all right? Now you can google me. And feel sorry for me, of course – let’s not forget that. Ryan Connolly, saddest man in the world.’
He sounds understandably bitter, and although I want to reach out and hold his hand, or pull him into a comforting hug, I sense that he will not welcome it. My heart breaks a little at both what he’s told me, and the way he is reacting – I can see him shutting down, retreating, losing himself in his shell of grief and anger and self-loathing.
‘I won’t google you,’ I say firmly. ‘Your life is your own. I can’t promise not to feel sorry for you, Ryan – of course I do, that’s a terrible thing to happen to anyone. But I can promise not to pity you. There is a difference, isn’t there?’
He nods, and stares out of the little porthole window. I suspect he’s seeing something entirely different.
‘There is, yeah. Thank you. Now come on, I’m freezing my arse off here.’
TWENTY-ONE
Ryan keeps his distance for the next few days, and I let him. I think he needs it, and I don’t want to push him away by trying to get too close, which makes no sense at all but somehow feels right.
I’m flat-out busy, all the time, with a million and one details skittering around my mind – things to do, things to order, things to check. But when I’m still and quiet, and lying with Eejit in my green bedroom beneath the arch of flowers that Ryan painted for me, my thoughts inevitably go to him.
I have stayed true to my word, and not googled him, but in my head I have visualised his wife and his daughter. The wife was, I’d bet good money, a stunner, and Mia – well, Mia would have been perfect. She’d have his dark hair and sparkling blue eyes, and even though she was only four, she’d already have been able to charm the birds from the sky. She almost feels real to me, this ghost-child of Ryan’s, and I can only imagine the inconsolable pain that he carries around with him.
Suddenly everything becomes far more clear: why he abandoned his career, why he moved here, why he is determined to live his simple life as a full-time handyman and part-time feckless playboy.
The night before the photo shoot, I am still thinking about it. Still drenched in second-hand sadness. I’m up late, and Eejit keeps looking at me balefully as I toss and turn, unable to drift off to sleep. I guess it’s a combination of Ryan’s story and the busy day ahead.
