yellow ring. He’d waited until she’d taken a bite of her almond slice before telling her; she couldn’t smell almonds now, even in hand-cream, without her innards convulsing. Her eyes had been drawn to his left hand as he’d spoken and the proof had glinted at her. Molly had never seen a colder metal.
His wife was a Scandinavian-born American citizen and as far as Molly knew Fionn was living in Seattle, probably drinking better coffee than he’d been accustomed to in Ireland. Now he was obviously back on holiday and strapped for company, she decided, even as they meandered through the social niceties whereby former lovers pretend they’re great friends when one or both of them would much prefer the other to slide off the face of the planet.
Fionn. Taller than average but otherwise your standard Irishman. Medium face, medium voice, medium frame, medium fellow – at first glance. To Molly he was anything but medium. She’d never been able to establish to her own satisfaction how or why it was he colonised her affections, and seemingly effortlessly. There were other men around with fairer hair and bluer eyes but none of them looked at her in quite the way Fionn did. He’d fractured her heart, although she’d patched it up eventually, because you never knew when you might need your heart again.
‘So will we meet in Bewley’s for old times’ sake, Molly? I’ll buy you an almond slice.’
That doused her in reality; the sense of betrayal writhed inside her again.
‘Grand, tomorrow it is then. It’s about time you introduced Helga to that staple Dublin tradition, coffee and cake in Bewley’s.’
‘Olga –’ he emphasised the name – ‘is in Seattle. I’m home on my own, Molly. For good.’
Which meant the whirlwind romance had blown itself out. Which meant Fionn was on the market again. Which meant her heart could be broken again … or maybe not. She was four years older, four years wiser, four years better armoured against Fionn McCullagh. Anyway, chances were he was only being friendly; she shouldn’t read too much into coffee. It was hardly a declaration of passion. For all Molly knew he hadn’t thought of her once during his blissful years in blissful Seattle.
‘Molly.’ Fionn’s voice dipped to a whisper. ‘You’re my one regret in life.’
The connection was severed.
Molly had contemplated (a) a day at one of those health farms where they guarantee chip-pans of fat reduction or, preferably, (b) a body transplant before meeting Fionn, but there wasn’t time for either. Instead she bought a new shampoo – an inadequate substitute but then life can be an inadequate substitute, for that matter. She also purchased a breath freshener and had almost used up the spray before she walked into Bewley’s, eyes searching for an ordinary-looking man of thirty-three who wouldn’t stand out in a crowd. Not half.
As soon as he smiled at her everyone else evaporated into obscurity. She was pathetic; she’d swear someone was playing a violin. Snap out of it, it’s not as though this is a date with Hercules. It’s coffee with an ex. A former lover who’s now exactly the right age to be crucified. Which he deserved to be for his treatment of her. Maybe that was extreme; a simple crowning with thorns might suffice.
After a few minutes in his company Fionn seemed maybe not her saviour but definitely not her tormentor. The familiarity was the deceptive part as they sat opposite one another, catching up on four years’ worth of news. It lulled her into a false sense of security; she had to keep reminding herself this man had chipped at the corners of her heart. If that organ was lopsided now it was because of him.
But Molly was charmed, all the same, to discover they still shared the same sense of humour as they automatically began sparring with each other. There was also something intriguingly different about him. She assessed Fionn as he chatted: the trademark arrogance appeared dented, but he was changed in other ways too, she was uncertain specifically how.
Molly didn’t mention his wife, waiting for him to bite the bullet, but he showed remarkably little interest in grasping nettles or seizing bulls by the horns or … For God’s sake, woman, repeat after me: bullets, nettles and bulls’ horns have nothing to do with this date. Meeting. Old friends meeting. It wasn’t a date.
She decided she’d have to raise the subject of his wife herself. She’d do it discreetly, lend him the opportunity to disclose as much or as little of the marriage collapse as he chose.
‘So, Fionn, Helga turned wise to your wicked ways and dumped you. Was it your pathological aversion to washing or did she read the psychiatric report?’
‘I think it was the phone call from the Vatican telling her she was giving shelter to a defrocked priest that did the trick.’
‘I didn’t think you could defrock priests; I thought the Catholic Church was stuck with them for life,’ objected Molly.
‘You’re right, I’m not a defrocked priest. I’m still entitled to practise all the sacraments including hearing confession. So if there’s anything you feel the need to get off your chest, my child …’
‘Your confession would be streets ahead of mine in terms of audience ratings. However, if you’re too ashamed to admit your life is a failure and the most important relationship you embarked on went belly up, who am I to compel you? Confession is only good for the soul if you have a soul. Obviously that rules you out, McCullagh.’
He laughed, caught her eye and reached out to cover her hand with his.
‘You’re wrong, you know.’ Fionn pitched his voice so low she had to lean across the table to catch his words.
‘You’re claiming to have a soul after all?’
‘No, Helga, I mean Olga, wasn’t the most important relationship I had. That was the time I spent with you.’
It was one of those freeze-frame moments. Molly’s hand curled around his, she opened her mouth to speak – and then she saw him. Hercules. Reflected in the mirror at a table just along from them. She turned her head, checked down the row for confirmation and sure enough, it was her Greek. Except he appeared to be someone else’s Greek judging from the proprietorial way a sultry young woman was rearranging his jacket collar.
Fionn followed her line of vision. ‘Someone you know?’
‘Yes. No. Sort of.’
‘That’s as clear as mud. Would you like to join them?’
‘No, they look fairly content in each other’s company. I don’t care to intrude.’ Her eyes lingered on Hercules, engaged in such an intense conversation with the woman he appeared to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders. Of course that would make him Atlas, not Hercules.
‘Penny for them.’ Fionn interrupted her meandering brainwaves.
With an effort Molly refocused her attention, steeling herself not to watch Hercules in the mirror. ‘You have been away a long time; a penny wouldn’t buy you much. Whereas in the days when you lived here you could have snapped up a house in Dublin 4 for that.’
‘Even Cromwell couldn’t have snapped up a house in D4 for a penny, Molly.’
‘True. He’d have taken it for free. No
