‘Oh my goodness! You are so talented. I mean, this place is just the dream home. I can’t imagine living anywhere more incredible, and the location too!’ exclaimed Lucy.
‘You are too kind!’ said Rory, taking a miniature bow and laughing. ‘It’s really not that hard, when you know how!’
‘I’d love to know how to do this. I was completely obsessed withChanging Roomswhen I was younger and drove my parents crazy redesigning my bedroom. I can’t tell you how many different looks my childhood room has had over the years!’
‘Did you have any disastrous moments as a novice interior designer?’ asked Rory.
‘Oh my god too many to even mention,’ chuckled Lucy, rolling her eyes at the memory. ‘I think my parents really had a fit when I decided to streak my yellow silk curtains with fluorescent pink hair mascara. Turns out that isn’t such a good look.’
Rory laughed at the thought, telling her that she needed a tree house to experiment on far from her parents prying eyes, like the McCullan kids.
Looking at the clock and noticing that it was now half past two, Rory asked Lucy if she would like something to eat. Her stomach started to rumble at the very thought of food, and before she knew it he had thrown a whole packet of smoky, streaky bacon into a frying pan and started sizzling the rashers on the hob. Soon the room was full of the mouth-watering smell of bacon; Rufus suddenly perked up and looked pleadingly at Rory, almost begging not to be forgotten. Rory set Lucy the task of cutting wedges of fresh white bread, straight from the bakery that morning. She dropped them into the toaster and opened the fridge to see if she could find butter and tomato ketchup. She was relieved that he had both; a bacon sandwich was just not the same without ketchup. When the bacon was crispy enough, they set about making their sandwiches. Rory cracked open a bottle of chilled Sauvignon Blanc and poured them two enormous glasses, chinking Lucy’s glass with his. His bright blue eyes shone and his crow’s feet crinkled whenever he smiled at her; Lucy could barely take her eyes off his face.
As she sipped the wine, the soothing, sharp liquid ran down her throat, flooding her senses with that heady relaxation only alcohol could give. They sat at the table and ate their sandwiches, talking about their families and Rory’s eclectic collection of brothers and sisters. His mother was called Catriona and his father Padraig, but everyone called them Trina and Paddy. Then he had an older brother called Ronan, an older sister called Trish and a younger brother called Dermot. They were all scattered about Ireland: only Rory had moved to the UK when he had started studying architecture at UCL. He had met his wife, Abigail, at university, and stayed with her in London to be near her family when they got married several years later. He had stayed in London ever since. Lucy asked him if he missed living in Ireland.
‘I do miss it, yes. Everyone is so much friendlier and relaxed there. I miss the sense of community, and the lushness of the countryside. It really is the Emerald Isle. I’m not so sure about the rain though…’ he winked at Lucy, and they both laughed.
The conversation flowed as though they had known each other all their lives. Lucy felt so drawn to him; it was as if he were emitting some kind of magnetic pull. She wanted to get to know him on every level; he intrigued her as no man had ever done before. There was such a gentle side to him; she could sense a certain vulnerability that she imagined came from knowing such deep and harrowing loss. This was coupled with the most engaging sense of humour and a genuine interest in the world around him; it was an incredibly endearing combination. Rory told her the most wonderful tales about growing up as a young boy in rural Ireland, helping the farmers with the harvest, pinching apples from the neighbour’s orchard, getting into all sorts of mischief.
‘I once got into terrible trouble for burning down the hay barn next door!’ he laughed.
‘No way!’ said Lucy. ‘How did you manage that?’
‘It was an accident caused by a contraband match that I’d stolen from my father’s desk. I was a total pyromaniac and, unfortunately, a somewhat clumsy ten-year-old!’
‘Oh dear,’ said Lucy. ‘What happened?’
‘Unbeknownst to me, Trish was hiding up at the top of the haystacks…’
‘No!’ shrieked Lucy.
‘Yup! Don’t worry, as soon as I heard her squeals I clambered up the burning bales, grabbed her and deposited her safely on the ground. However, Trish was more concerned about her new pink gloves which remained where she had been sitting. She insisted I risk my life to rescue them, which I duly did!’ he laughed, shaking his head at the thought. His lilting Irish voice added extra charisma to his storytelling, and Lucy found she could picture him very clearly as a scruffy, dark-haired child. She loved the way his boyish charms had stayed with him until this day.
Her tongue loosened by the wine, Lucy told him about her own childhood growing up in Cornwall with Ollie. The scavenger hunts and rounders’ matches on the beach, the barbeques in the sand dunes and endless games of forty forty. He asked her so many questions, curious to know every detail about her, as though he were trying to piece together a puzzle to find out what had made her who she was today. He made her feel like she was the most fascinating person on earth; she basked in his attention as if soaking up the sun’s rays.
When the bottle of wine was empty, Lucy wondered whether Rory would want her to leave. It was becoming dark outside; the dull shades of dusk were lowering slowly over the city like thick fog. The log fire was so warm and cosy, the company so excellent, that Lucy couldn’t bear the thought of making her way home. Obviously having the same thoughts, Rory asked her if she had made plans for the evening or whether she would like to pop out to a local cocktail bar down the road for another drink. Relieved, and unwilling to part from his company quite yet, she said yes, though she suggested that it would depend on whether her clothes had finished drying. Rory went into the utility room to check, and, pausing the tumble dryer to open the door, declared them dry. He took them out, passing them to Lucy who retreated to the bathroom to change.
When she was ready, or at least as ready as she would ever be without her make-up bag to hand, Rory opened the front door, leaving Rufus munching contentedly on a huge bowl of dog biscuits, and they stepped out into the crisp, cool evening. The clouds had dissipated since their outpouring earlier that day, rolling back to reveal a clear sky. A huge moon hovered low above the rooftops, surrounded by a halo of orange light.
‘What a beautiful evening!’ cried Lucy. ‘Look at that moon… it’s enormous!’
‘Stunning. That’s another thing I miss about Ireland,’ said Rory. ‘The sky at night, you really can’t beat it. It looks almost heavy with stars, as though you could just reach up and pluck a handful.’
‘It’s such a shame we can’t see the stars properly in London. Too much light haze and smog,’ said Lucy.
‘I’ve always been fascinated by space… the planets and stars and so on,’ said Rory as they walked down the street towards the wine bar. ‘It’s just mind-boggling.’
‘I read that there are more stars in the universe than there are grains of sand on earth!’ Lucy told him. ‘Can you believe that?!’
‘I know! And apparently Earth can fit into the Sun one million times!’ he said. They both walked for a moment in silence, marvelling at the enormity of the universe above them, humbled by the reminder of their own insignificance.
As they rounded the corner, they came to the bar, Penhaligons. A crowd of smartly dressed people were clustered around the door, smoking and chatting. Rory and Lucy made their way through, squeezing into a space with two free barstools near the wall, which was papered with a decorative print. The bar was decked out in a speakeasy style, with twenties music playing from a crackling gramophone in the corner. Lucy loved the revival of prohibition era bars that had recently sprung up all over London; she perused the typewritten menu, scouring all the tantalizing cocktails on offer. She had asked her doctor whether it was safe to drink in the weeks between fertilization and implantation and she had reassured her that it was fine.
Rory ordered a Campari-based cocktail, the smell of which made Lucy want to retch but that he declared was delicious. Lucy ordered a mojito. As they sipped their drinks, they hypothesized on the personal histories of the people around them… one of Lucy’s favourite pastimes, and Rory’s, as it turned out. He explained how, in the years following Abigail’s death, he had spent an awful lot of time on his own. He had realized that he needed to get used to his own company and would come to restaurants or bars after work, often too tired and emotionally drained to cook, where he would people-watch to pass the time. He had found it very reassuring to muse over the lives of others, taking comfort in the knowledge that he was not alone and enjoying the happiness of those who were lucky enough to be with loved ones.
They finished their cocktails and ordered another round. As they perched on their barstools, their knees touched. Lucy felt acutely aware of how close she was to him, she wanted to reach out and rest her hand on the denim that covered his thighs. The dark grey jumper he was wearing stretched slightly over his broad chest; she could see how muscular his physique was underneath. His arms and shoulders looked so strong that she could imagine him picking her up and throwing her over his shoulder with ease. For an instant a crazy image of him doing just that before marching her back home to ravish her in his bedroom flashed into her mind. She blushed at the thought, thankful that he couldn’t see into her overactive imagination.
Realizing she was now hungry, she suggested that they might eat some dinner. They had only had a bacon sandwich for lunch and she was starving. Rory paid for their drinks and they left the little cocktail bar, turning left and walking further down the road past a row of shops and a bank before arriving at a little Italian place.
