was about to be interviewed. Conscious of Cahal’s ring on her finger, where she had never worn one before, she hid her right hand under her left.
They chatted about inconsequential things and then Ian leaned back in the low chair and folded his arms across his chest. ‘Is it true that you’re still seeing Cahal Mulvenna?’
She frowned crossly. It was impossible to keep anything private in the small uni community. ‘Yes. What about it?’
He looked at the floor and his features twisted into a grimace. ‘How long have we known each other, Sarah?’
‘All our lives?’
‘Almost. You were seven when we moved to Ballyfergus. I remember the first time I saw you.’ He unfolded his arms and leaned forward, his big hands dangling awkwardly between his long legs. ‘At first, I thought you were an angel.’
‘I’m no angel.’ She shifted uncomfortably in the chair, recalling Ian as a child – a bookish redhead with brown freckles splattered across the bridge of his nose. He’d annoyed her so much with his intense wide-eyed stare, that she’d stuck her tongue out at him.
He smiled. ‘I found that out later, didn’t I? The first time I saw you, you wore a pink dress and white ankle socks. I’d never met a girl with such blonde hair. Or such a stubborn character.’
‘Me? Stubborn?’
‘Oh yes. Don’t you remember how you refused to participate when Mrs Banks took Sunday school because you’d taken a dislike to her? You spent months sitting in the corner, staring at the wall.’
‘She was horrible. She told me I was vain and that vanity was a sin. She told me that, if I didn’t mend my ways, I’d burn in hell.’ Sarah pouted crossly. ‘I’ve never forgiven her for that.’
He laughed indulgently. ‘See what I mean?’
Sarah laughed too. In spite of getting off to a bad start, she and Ian had eventually become friends, more through circumstance than a natural affinity in character. Their fathers knew each other through their jobs in the police – as young men they’d served together in Ballymena – and the families often socialised together. She wondered what Cahal would’ve been like as a little boy. If they’d met, she was certain that they would’ve recognised kindred spirits in each other and become instant, inseparable friends, she thought with a smile.
When Ian’s laughter faded, she said carefully, ‘You know, Ian, that was a long time ago. I’ve grown up a lot since then.’
‘We’ve both grown up. But some things never change, Sarah.’ His eyes were bright and shining. ‘And some people never change.’
‘I have.’ It was a challenge and they both knew it. Their eyes locked.
He stared, unblinking. ‘I don’t know about that. I think that underneath you’re the same Sarah you always were. I know I’m the same.’
‘Yes,’ she said and it was simply an observation, meant as neither criticism nor praise. Ian had always seemed so certain of himself, even as a child. And now that he was an adult, he reminded her more and more of her father. Conservative. Steadfast. Staid.
He looked away. ‘About Cahal,’ he said, picking his words carefully. ‘Are you sure that he’s right for you?’
‘Really, Ian,’ she snapped, her patience worn thin, ‘I don’t mean to be unkind, but it’s none of your business.’
His face fell, and she felt mean for hurting him.
‘You know that I care for you, don’t you, Sarah?’
She swallowed and looked away. ‘Yes.’ She’d dated him the previous summer and it had been a mistake. She’d never seen a guy so happy, nor so heartbroken when, three months later, she’d finished the relationship. She’d given him hope and even now, when she was with someone else, he had not relinquished it.
‘Well, it’s just that since you started seeing him, you’ve become quite distant. I’m worried about you.’ He wasn’t worried; he was pissed because she was dating Cahal and not him.
She gave him a tolerant smile that belied the irritation she felt inside. ‘Well, you don’t need to be. I …’ She sought for the words that might accurately describe how being with Cahal made her feel – whole, complete, sated – and settled for, ‘I’ve never been happier in my entire life. I’m sorry that I haven’t had much time for our friendship lately.’
‘I feel like I’m losing you, Sarah,’ he said glumly.
She reached for the coffee cup and tried not to show her exasperation. He talked as if she was his to lose. She suspected that he’d followed her to uni. He’d got straight A’s. He could’ve gone anywhere, yet he turned down places at St Andrews and Durham to come to The University of Ulster at Coleraine, which filled a fair whack of its places through clearing. Sarah’s reasons for being here, on the other hand, had nothing to do with grades. She needed to be far enough away from home to achieve the independence she craved, yet close enough to keep an eye on her little sister, Becky.
‘I’ll always be your friend, Ian. You will always be able to count on me. But going to uni is all about growing and changing, not holding on to the familiar,’ she said, rather pointedly. Ian had surrounded himself with people who were almost carbon copies of his geeky friends at home.
His eyes flashed. ‘Well, I think it’s important to keep old friends and stay true to who you are.’
‘And I think it’s important to expand your horizons, to question who you are and what you’ve been brought up to believe.’ She took a sip of milky, lukewarm coffee. ‘We should be opening our minds to new experiences. Being a student isn’t just about getting grades, Ian. It’s about learning in the broadest sense.’
He looked at her as if she’d just spouted forth ancient Greek, then focused on her hands cradling the cup. His brows knitted together – he cocked his head to one side and squinted. And making no attempt to hide his dismay said, ‘Did he give you that ring?’
She set the cup down and twisted the ring between the finger and thumb of her left hand. A sudden burst of rain hit the glass wall of the building like peppercorns.
‘It’s just a ring, Ian,’ she said, trying to make light of it. Why did she say that? The ring meant everything to her. Cahal meant everything to her.
‘You really are going over to the dark side, aren’t you?’ he said, though there was no humour in his voice.
Sarah inched forward in her seat and lowered her voice. ‘Don’t be like that, Ian. You should be more open-minded. We only fear those who are different from us because we fear what we don’t understand.’
But she had never feared Cahal. She’d been inexorably drawn to him. She thought back to the first time she’d seen him all those months ago, playing the bodhran drum in The Anchor bar.
The sound came from a small room at the front of the bar. She fought her way through the crowd blocking the doorway and stood there, transfixed by the scene in the smoke-filled room. Musicians sat on the wooden benches on either side of the fire dancing in the grate, the air filled with such music – the moving cadence of the fiddle, the high, sweet tones of the flute
