Molly was reminded of Helen’s joke: How do you know an Irishman fancies you? He offers to buy you chips. Helen would be so-o disapproving if she knew Molly were seeing Fionn again. She’d been a little too enthusiastic about wading into him when he and Molly split up. Make that split asunder, it conveyed a more accurate impression of their parting. Anyway, Helen always had reservations about Fionn’s charms so she wasn’t an honest broker. Molly lifted her empty glass. Closer inspection revealed that, yes, it was still empty.
Fionn, meanwhile, was trying to attract the barman’s attention – easier said than done with a coachload of indecisive Swiss punters. Molly used the hiatus to contemplate what she’d learned about him. Fionn was single-ish, available and no less attractive or entertaining than he had been four years ago when she thought their destinies were interwoven. So why wasn’t she twining her arms around him saying, ‘You poor dear, how you’ve suffered,’ and offering to soothe his woes away? Was it rancour because he’d once measured her, computed the statistics and discarded her? Or perhaps she’d outgrown him …
Molly regarded his rear view as he leaned on the counter, conversing with the barman, who’d discovered he wasn’t among the Swiss party and all but fallen on his neck in gratitude. He was easy on the eye, easy on the ear too when he wasn’t hammering on about Helga. Available men weren’t that common; she shouldn’t be profligate about discarding one until she was certain whether she wanted him or not. He gave every indication of wanting her, which was balm enough at the moment. If in doubt, hang on to a man – that seemed a sensible maxim.
When Fionn returned to their bench, the decision was taken. Molly treated him to a dazzling smile, gave her head a shake so the curls spiralled in every direction and allowed her leg to rest ever so slightly against his.
‘Lunchtime’s been and gone.’ He was apologetic. ‘All they have left are the day-long breakfasts so I ordered us two of those. You haven’t turned vegetarian in the last couple of years, have you? I wondered if you might, on account of asking for pasta.’
‘Only aspirationally,’ she replied. ‘I like the notion of it. All my veggie friends are shaped like carrot batons, even the ones fixated on chocolate, but I never have the willpower to reject a rasher when I see it nestling beside a fried egg on my plate. It seems so fastidious. I’ve never thought my body was a temple; I’d be more inclined to call it a supermarket if I had to put the name of a building to it. Crammed with an interesting mish-mash, nothing hallowed.’
‘Helga, I mean Olga, was vegan,’ said Fionn. ‘She didn’t like seeing me eat meat. She took all the good out of it. You’d have a nice pink lump of steak on your fork, poised to chew and savour, and she’d embark on a lecture about food additives.’ He reached his arm around the back of the settle so it was draped behind Molly.
She was dubious. ‘But the one time I saw Helga she struck me as your standard issue warrior queen, all huge and healthy and looking as though she gnawed raw meat for breakfast.’
‘No, she ate muesli, not shop-bought but blended to her own specification. I had to have muesli too, to humour her.’ Injury sluiced from Fionn.
Molly guffawed; his suffering demeanour intensified. ‘I’m sorry,’ she spluttered, ‘it’s just the thought of you spooning in the muesli, when the only cereals you’d allow into the flat when we lived together were Coco Pops, for the colour they turned the milk. It can only have been love.’
‘Affection soon withers when it’s reciprocated on a tough-love basis: “I’m doing this for your own good, hon.” She wanted to take control of every aspect of my life: diet, wardrobe, hobbies, even my dental treatment. Can you believe this, Molly, she sent me to her orthodontist to have him service my teeth? She said they were a disgrace and she was ashamed to be seen in public with me.’
‘They always looked fine to me,’ said Molly.
‘They were fine. By Irish standards. But American requirements are more exacting. So I was obliged to spend a fortune getting my overbite fixed –’ he chomped enamel for the purposes of demonstration – ‘and she still pleaded with me to smile without baring my teeth. I looked like a hirsute Mona Lisa. Without the frock, naturally.’
‘Although you’d have been wearing one of those if Helga had decided trousers were symbolic of male superiority.’ Mischief gleamed from Molly’s face.
Fionn’s eyebrows met and bristled. ‘That woman had more testosterone than me. It’s only now that I’m free of her I realise how controlling she was.’ Even his eyelashes were bristling at this stage. ‘And talk about law-abiding – if I so much as tried to jaywalk she threw a wobbler. Result: I’ll only cross when the little red man flashes up now.’
How did we work our way back to the subject of Helga? wondered Molly. This was becoming monotonous. Someone should explain to the man that women turned restless when the subject was other women. Fortunately their mixed grills arrived so Fionn’s substandard overbite was diverted into decimating Clonakilty black pudding.
On their way home, driving against the commuter traffic streaming out of Dublin, Molly considered asking him into her apartment. The day hadn’t been a washout despite the weather and Fionn McCullagh still interested her. But as they passed the off-licence she found herself craning to check if Hercules was on duty. She could always parade in there with Fionn, demonstrate how other men wanted to spend time in her company even if he couldn’t be bothered exchanging pleasantries, but she rejected the idea as petty. Nevertheless Molly said goodbye to Fionn with considerably less regret than she felt at abandoning the possibility of showing Hercules she was a sought-after woman.
Fionn was disappointed she didn’t invite him in. ‘I promise not to outstay my welcome,’ he wheedled.
Arrogant streak. One of his less alluring characteristics.
Molly planted a kiss on his ear. ‘You can’t do that if you aren’t in the apartment to begin with. I have work to finish off tonight, Fionn. I’ll call you in a few days.’
In fact she wanted to ring her mother and then flop on the floor cradling the TV remote control but she wasn’t going to tell him that. He’d probably suggest they sit in together and watch Coronation Street. But he wasn’t Tweedledee to her Tweedledum. Fionn McCullagh could play house with her when she chose and not a minute sooner. However she’d no intention of slinging out the baby with the bath water. Valentine’s Day was on the horizon and she was looking into the maws of her first 14 February since the age of fifteen without a love token.
Molly wasn’t about to scuttle her best chance of a bunch of roses and a soppy card. Let’s be honest, her only chance.
Helen willed her phone into life but it remained obstinately mute. She tried out some of the positive thinking technique she’d been reading about to see if that made a difference, visualising her number being dialled, fingers pressing the digits and herself answering. Still Patrick didn’t call her. It was ironic, she grumped, preparing to channel excess nervous energy into vacuuming, she spent more than a week avoiding his calls and now she was pining for them. Maybe the phone was off the hook – she jiggled the receiver to ensure it was operating. In a fit of rage she dragged the vacuum cleaner out of the cupboard and plonked it in the middle of the living-room floor. She was disgusted at herself, behaving like a moonstruck teenager instead of a modern, capable woman.
The cleaner howled spitefully into life. But Helen had scarcely tackled the stairs before a realisation struck that made her switch off precipitately and return it to the cupboard: she wouldn’t be able to hear the phone above its drone. Even as she humped the machine back to its hidey-hole she berated herself for waiting around for Patrick to call. If she was a modern, capable woman why couldn’t she ring him herself? She ventured into the visualisation game again, this time with her taking the initiative, but when she reached the part where he said ‘Hello’ she caved in and admitted