Chapter 19
I’d forgotten how breathtaking the Ring of Kerry is. It’s almost taking my mind off my hangover.
It’s Saturday afternoon and I’ve been driving for two hours. I flew from Bristol, arriving in Cork at just after two o’clock. Because I’m not meeting Dillon until this evening at a pub in Killarney, I decided to take the scenic route via Kenmare, Moll’s Gap and the Killarney National Park. It doubles my driving time – from one and a half to almost three hours – but it’s worth it. It’s actually a pleasure to be behind the wheel of a normal hire car after wrestling with Hermie.
The first time I did this route was with Dillon when he was touring with his band. I remember being so blown away by the scenery that I couldn’t believe I hadn’t heard about it before. It felt like a big secret that the Irish had cunningly kept from the rest of us.
It’s a gorgeous sunny afternoon, and as I make my way along the gently winding roads with the window down, I breathe in the cool summer air and sigh with happiness. All around me are the most stunning rocky hills, cast with both light and shade from the sun and the cotton-wool clouds in the sky above. The grey of the rock blends with the green of the patchy grass, so that the colours come across as muted, like the palette of a painting by a centuries-old landscape artist. I look through the white trunks of birch trees to a lake that’s as still as glass and just as reflective. The ground is covered with a carpet of moss and fern and, on impulse, I pull over.
I get out of the car and climb carefully down the hill to the stony shore. Great slabs of smooth grey rock slope into the water’s edge and all around are big boulders of various shades of grey. I sit down on one and stare out at the water, taking a minute to appreciate the beauty around me.
Despite my pounding head, I smile every time I think about last night. I can’t believe we managed to get Charlie to do DJ Kool’s ‘Let Me Clear My Throat’. It was hilarious.
I giggle to myself, even as I sit there on my own. Ouch. I wish my head didn’t hurt so much.
Both Charlie and Adam ended up walking me home. We almost fell into the estuary with all the zigzagging that was going on. Adam kept teasing me about the three different men who’d tried to pick me up. I don’t know why I always pull guys on dance floors – I’m not even trying, and most of the time I’m not interested.
When we arrived at the hill at the bottom of the campsite, Adam let out the biggest groan and collapsed on the side of the road.
‘I can’t walk up there,’ he stated.
‘I’ll take it from here,’ I replied gallantly.
But, by God, that incline is steep. I swear I almost cartwheeled back down the hill. Charlie saw me struggling and came to my aid, pushing me up from behind. I’ve never laughed so much in my life.
Well, I probably have. But it was a very funny night.
I still can’t believe he rapped.
It’s five thirty by the time I make it into Killarney and check into my hotel. I have two and a half hours to kill, so I decide to go for a wander.
As soon as I’m outside on the street, I’m approached by a wily-looking chap offering a horse-and-cart ride down to the lake. He has a mouth full of crooked yellow teeth, gigantic ears and a brilliantly bushy moustache, and he’s wearing a sweater with ‘IRELAND’ embroidered on it underneath a green shamrock.
There are several other younger and less on-the-verge-of-death-looking horse-and-cart drivers standing in a group across the road, but none of them are touting for business. Quite frankly, I admire Paddy’s enthusiasm – and the fact that he’s fantastically called Paddy – so I find myself agreeing. I figure it’ll give me something else to write about.
As I follow him and climb onto his green-and-yellow-painted cart, I notice the smirking faces of the other drivers.
‘All right, Paddy?’ one of them calls.
‘Yeah, you’re all right, lads,’ he calls back, waving them away.
I soon realise what the joke is.
Paddy’s horse is so old and slow that I could walk twice as fast. Paddy keeps waving vehicles past, sometimes right into the path of oncoming traffic, and I wince as a bus almost collides with a car. All the while, Paddy chats amiably, geeing his horse along every so often, prompting her to trot for about four seconds before she reverts to snail speed. Despite appearances, though, Paddy is as sharp as a stake.
When we finally make it into the park, he asks me if I’d like to take a boat ride out to the derelict abbey on Innisfallen Island. It sounds appealing and Paddy even says he can call ahead and have his friend waiting, but, having longingly counted seven other horses and carts happily trotting past us – all with smugly smirking drivers – I decide I’d better decline.
Back at the hotel, I don’t even have time for a shower, but the smell of horse manure is up my nose, and, just in case that scent has spread to the rest of me, I decide to have a quick one.
By the time I get to the pub, I’m fifteen minutes late and bricking it. I take a deep breath and walk into the crowded venue, scouring the room for anyone remotely resembling Dillon.
I can’t see him anywhere. Has he stood me up? Has he already walked out again?
My pulse is racing as I squeeze into a narrow space left by two bulky blokes in black-leather jackets at the bar. I still feel rough, so, much as I could do with some Dutch courage, I order a soft drink and then find a quiet corner of the pub. With one eye on the entrance, I wait, and, as I do so, a memory comes back to me. . .
We’d dropped in on Dillon’s parents, who lived in Dalkey, southeast of Dublin, on the coast. That weekend it was raining across the whole of Europe, but Ireland was in the midst of a rare heatwave. Dillon wanted to take me to the beach, so we parked in Killiney Hill Park and walked hand in hand down the cliff pathway. The blue of the sky melded into the blue of the ocean and the coast was bursting with wild-flowers. The view made me think of the French Riviera – it was outstandingly beautiful.
Down on the beach, the sand was grey and murky and the water so cold that it almost froze my toes off, but, somehow, Dillon managed to go swimming. I sat there and laughed at him, while behind us a train chugged back and forth – offering its passengers the most incredible views of the ocean. I remember thinking that I would be happy settling there, and, if I had to commute to work in Dublin, the coast train would be the way I’d want to travel.
I fell hard for Dillon that weekend, seeing him interacting with his parents, witnessing him at home in a happy, stable environment. I almost believed that one day we could have that, too.
But then we went back on the road again, back to the bars, back around drink, drugs and rock and roll – not to mention the girls – and I convinced myself it was a pipedream.
‘You are not leaving me,’ he said, and the look in his dark eyes still haunts me.
‘It’s already done. I’ve taken a job in London.’
‘Then I’ll come with you.’
‘No. You’d miss your band. You’re not ready to settle down. I’m not sure I am. Let’s quit while we’re ahead. Let me go before we end up hating each other.’
‘If you leave me now, I’ll hate you for the rest of my life!’
My thoughts return to the present. Half an hour passes. I don’t know if Dillon is coming, if he’s already been or if he’s simply getting back at me for dumping him.
But, luckily, his band are playing a gig a few doors down. Time to revert to Plan B.
I see him as soon as I walk into the bar. He’s right at the back at a table crowded with pretty girls and drunken band members.
Not much has changed, it seems.
They’re all laughing raucously and shouting and I watch as Tezza the fiddler pours whiskey into shot glasses and they all knock them back.
Dillon relaxes into his seat and casually drapes his arm around the shoulders of the girl next to him. His hair is chocolate-brown and messy and falls haphazardly off to one side, just like it used to.
The next thing I know, his dark eyes have locked with mine and his easy smile dies on his lips.
The girl in his arms turns to look at him with confusion – presumably because he’s gone rigid – then she follows the line of his sight until she’s staring at me, too.
I smile and shrug. Ta-da! Here I am!
I am completely faking my nonchalance. My heart is pounding ten to the dozen.
I casually jerk my head towards the bar. I’m getting a drink. You want to join me?
As I turn away, I see him slide out past the girl.
He’s coming.
I feel, rather than see, him standing behind me.
‘Can I get a vodka, lemonade and lime please?’ I ask. So much for not wanting alcohol today. ‘Drink?’ I look over my shoulder at Dillon.
He shakes his head abruptly. He is still incredibly good-looking. He has lines around his eyes that weren’t there the last time we stood face to face, and salt-and-pepper strands of hair around his temples.
‘What are you doing here?’ he asks me in a low, heated voice.
‘You told me I was welcome to come,’ I point out with a calmness I don’t feel. I used to love hearing him talk in his lilting Irish accent. Even angry, he sounds sexy.
‘I was drunk when I wrote that email.’ He stares sullenly at the bottles lined up behind the bar.
‘Well, I’m here now. Are you sure I can’t buy you a drink?’ I raise one eyebrow.
Charlie’s question from last night is ringing around my head. ‘Why do you do it, then?’
‘Fine.’ I inwardly breathe a sigh of relief as he changes his mind. ‘Make it two,’ he tells the bartender.
Dillon meets my eyes again for a long, painful moment. It’s a struggle to not look away.
‘Is that your girlfriend?’ I ask gently, when the hardness in his expression finally begins to soften.
‘Just a girl,’ he replies quietly, nodding at the bartender as two vodkas appear in front of us. I hand over a tenner and pick up my glass.
‘Bottoms up,’ I say cheerfully.
He downs half of his drink in one.
‘Urgh.’ I pull a face, and I’ve had only one sip. ‘Got such a shitty hangover today,’ I reveal. ‘I don’t know why I ordered this.’
He places his glass back on the bar and leans against it, facing me.
‘Why are you here?’ he asks directly, folding his arms.
‘Don’t you know?’ I reply. Has he read my blog?
‘You think I will have looked you up?’ He sounds defensive.
I shrug and avert my gaze. ‘I thought you might’ve after getting my email.’
‘Maybe I did, maybe I didn’t.’
I grin at him.
‘What’s so funny?’
‘You sound like a little boy.’
‘Piss off, Bridget, I don’t need this.’
‘Dillon, chill the fuck out. You’re still so feisty.’ I keep my tone light and eventually his fury morphs into mild humour.
‘You’re still so. . .’ He screws up his face, thinking. ‘Annoying.’
‘Ha! Yes, I am still annoying. So come on, have you read my blog or not? Or do you just want to make this difficult for me?’
‘I definitely want to make this difficult for you,’ he says, but I can tell he’s not completely serious.
‘Okay.’ I take a deep breath. Honestly, five men down – I should be used to this spiel by now. ‘I’ve come to ask you for your piece of my heart back.’
I know instantly that he has read my blog. He knows exactly what I mean and precisely why I’m here. There’s not even a hint of surprise on his face.
‘I’m afraid that’s impossible,’ he says, downing the second half of his drink. ‘I don’t have it any more.’
‘What did you do with it?’ I demand to know, going along with him. He’s obviously thought about this.
‘I threw it away.’
‘For God’s sake, Dillon! How could you?’ I pretend to be angry with him.
‘You left me, I was hurt, I thought, Fuck you! So I threw it away,’ he says facetiously, a trace of a smile on his lips.
‘Where did you put it?’
‘I don’t know.’ He shrugs. ‘Some lake somewhere. It sank straight to the bottom. Hard and heavy as a stone, it was.’
I’m trying very hard to keep a straight face.
‘A heavy heartless heart,’ he adds and I can’t help it, I crack up laughing.
He does too.
‘Oh, Dillon,’ I say, tears of laughter spilling from my eyes. ‘I’ve missed you.’
He shakes his head, gathering himself together. ‘I’ve missed you, too,’ he replies, sobering. ‘Will you stay to watch the gig?’
‘I’d love to. Can I come and say hi to the lads?’
‘Come on, then.’
Later I find him to say goodbye. He’s had a load more drinks by that point, and I stiffen as he takes me in his arms and speaks in a low, gruff voice into my ear.
‘If you come to my room with me, I’ll tell you which lake I put it in.’
I keep my tone light as I withdraw to look at him. ‘I have a boyfriend who I love dearly. You know how I feel about cheating. And, anyway, I think we’ve been there, done that, don’t you?’
‘Worth a try,’ he says with a wry grin, letting me go.
‘Bye, Dillon.’ I give him a peck on his cheek and turn away, but he grabs my arm and pulls me back.
‘Are you sure you don’t want to know which lake it was?’
‘Was it on the N71 just past Muckross?’ I ask hopefully, giving him a winning smile. I try to ignore the intensity in his dark eyes as he stares at me for a long, torturous moment.
‘If you’re going to tell me, be kind and do it without strings,’ I plead, my tone growing serious.
‘Fine,’ he snaps. ‘Yeah. That’s the lake.’
I throw my arms around him and give him a quick, hard hug, our hearts beating together for the very last time.
‘Take care of yourself.’
‘You too.’
He looks torn as I turn and walk out of the bar.
I’m not sure that he ever threw his part of me away. I’m not even entirely sure that I wanted him to. But we can carry on pretending.
The next morning, I drive the fast route back to Cork. When I write up this chapter for my blog, I’ll say I did the journey in reverse, stopping along the way and walking down to the glassy water’s edge. I can imagine I found his piece of my heart there in among the stones.
As I say, we can carry on pretending.