I crack up laughing. He looks ridiculous. ‘What have you done?’
‘Stolen a gondola. Don’t laugh. This is harder than it looks.’
The gondola gently hits the bank and Dillon holds out his hand to help me on.
‘You stole it?’
‘Borrowed without permission.’
I step on board. ‘How sturdy is it?’ I start to rock the boat under me. Water splashes in the sides, wetting my bare feet. ‘Not very.’
‘Sit down, ya madwoman,’ Dillon orders me, pointing to a cosy-looking area at the bow of the boat with cushions and a blanket. ‘Yer going to sink us.’
I grin and settle into the cushions. ‘I can’t believe you stole a gondola.’
‘It’s for special occasions. And what could be more special than this?’ Dillon eases us away from the bank.
I scoff at his sentiment. ‘You’re really laying it on, aren’t you? You do realise I’m already in my underwear?’ It’s chilly so I pull the blanket over me.
‘I do,’ he says. ‘And I’m quite miffed ya just blocked my view.’
‘My face isn’t enough for you?’
‘Your face is the prettiest on this earthly world, Lemon Ice. You’ll have me down on one knee if I’m not careful.’
And I know that he’s probably said that to fifty million girls, in fifty million settings, but it doesn’t matter at all. Dillon’s standing there in his spotty underwear, declaring that his desire for me is so noble and wonderful that he wants to share it with the world. I couldn’t ask for more.
‘You better look away then. I don’t think you can punt a boat from your knees.’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ he says. Then he starts whistling as he pushes us through the water.
I lie back and close my eyes, listening to Dillon whistle above the gentle lap of the water against the hull. The city is purring and my heart swells. As if he feels it, Dillon relaxes and starts singing the tune he’s been whistling. His voice is throaty, deep, not at all self-conscious. It’s obvious he’s happy when he sings.
The moment is so earnest and beautiful I want to wrap myself up in it. Right now I understand that sentiment, ‘If I died right now I’d be happy’. I don’t want to die of course. I want to kiss Dillon. Okay, probably more than just kiss him. But the sentiment, the idea, the thought of being singularly happy—it makes sense right now.
‘What song was that?’ I ask as he finishes.
‘“Maggie”. It’s an old Irish folk song.’
‘It was beautiful. Thank you.’
He continues to punt us along in silence for a while. Then suddenly he speaks. ‘I’m glad ya want this to be just about us.’
‘Yeah?’
‘It’s good to forget about all that other stuff,’ he says. ‘Family, friends, expectations …’
‘Just who we are here and now,’ I say. It’s a very freeing concept. I like it so much, I sit up and clap my hands. ‘Let’s be anonymous! We won’t talk about our lives at home, our families …’ The fact we’re invisible …
‘Brilliant. I don’t have to tell you about my wife and six kids …’
I chuck a pillow at him and it lands in the water.
‘Ice!’ he scolds, as he stoops to fish it out. Dillon drops the pillow in the boat, dripping wet. ‘I’ve had enough of this punting business. Too much hard work.’ He gives the pole one last push so we skim through the water and the gondola wedges itself into the rushes growing by the bank. Dillon stows the pole and moves towards me. ‘Give me some of that blanket.’
‘Are you cold?’ He’s not. His face is flushed from pushing the boat.
‘No. Take pity on me,’ he says, crawling in under the blanket. ‘I’m too warm.’
We laugh and he puts his arm around me and we stare up at the sky. ‘Cracking night,’ he says.
‘Beautiful,’ I agree, but my mind is on his thumb, which is tracing circles on my throat. It’s an unconscious gesture, I doubt he even realises he’s doing it, but it’s making me melt. My body could liquefy and slip straight through the planks of this damn gondola, and he’d still be sitting here staring at the sky.
‘It’s getting late,’ I say to take my mind off his touch, but my voice is stuck and deep so Dillon turns to investigate. He runs his thumb down the side of my throat, then up again, watching my reaction. My skin goosebumps under his touch, and he smiles knowingly.
I swallow, trying to hide my desire.
‘Should we leave?’ he says. He is such a tease.
‘Not until you …’
But I don’t need to finish my thought, he’s already against me. His lips are on mine—too hot—his body is against me—too warm, too heavy. I’m crushed. He’s taking everything. I’m almost out of breath but he’s not giving up. He’s everywhere. Everything. It’s … It’s …
Wonderful.
I push him away. Gasp.
Dillon pulls back rasping in his own lungful of air. ‘Christ.’
‘What?’
‘Ya know what.’
I do but I want to hear him say it. ‘That was good?’
Dillon cracks up. He rolls onto his back and laughs like a goddamn lunatic.
‘What?’
‘I just kissed the freaking devil, that’s what.’ He pulls the blanket back over us. ‘It was kind of scary how much I wanted to eat ya.’
I laugh. Run my fingers down his chest. ‘I’d give you indigestion.’
‘No doubt.’ He looks at me and his eyes dive deep down into mine. Quickly he turns away. ‘We should go,’ he says. ‘Get some clothes on, eat something. Be normal first date people.’
‘That sounds boring.’
‘Aye. But I reckon we need it. Calm down whatever the hell this is.’
But I like being the devil. ‘Well, I am hungry,’ I say, tracing his shoulderblade.
Dillon lets out a long breath. ‘I can tell. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, I can tell.’
‘Could you be more Irish?’
‘No potato jokes, I beg ya.’ Dillon gets up and helps me ashore. We pull the gondola higher up the bank then go to find our clothes.
‘Far more respectable,’ Dillon says, when he’s fully dressed. He looks so different covered up; dark jeans, dark shirt, dark jacket. He’s handsome in clothes. But nicer without.
I move my fingers to the buttons on his shirt. ‘You missed one.’
He grabs my hands. ‘Leave it.’
‘Why?’
He shrugs away. ‘I don’t want to take it off.’
What an odd creature. ‘You don’t have to take it off, just …’ I start to unbutton his shirt but he pulls my hands away.
‘Leave it, all right?’
‘What’s the problem?’
He pulls his ear. He’s blushing. ‘It’s bad luck.’
He’s serious! It’s extremely cute to see him anxious about something so ridiculous. He’s nothing like the bad-boy criminal I thought he was in Vietnam.
‘Now. What are you hungry for?’ he says, still frowning.
And I really shouldn’t say it, but I do. ‘Potatoes?’
‘Jesus, woman, you’re insatiable.’ Dillon rolls his eyes and grabs my hand. He tugs me through the park and down into the nearest subway station.
Dillon laughs when I leap over the turnstile and follows me, doing the same. We ride the subway to the East Village, standing. Dillon leans on a pole and holds me. We don’t say a word, just rock together with the movement of the train. I concentrate on the feeling of his hipbones against my belly. The smell of the skin at his throat. I slide my hands into the back pockets of his jeans. I’m just a girl with a boy. It feels so good I could burn up and expire like a star.
As if he senses the intensity of my feelings, Dillon holds me tighter, buries his face into my neck. ‘Lord have mercy on me,’ he mumbles and my knees almost give out.
At the front door of his building, Dillon stops and faces me. ‘You can come up if you promise I’ll see you tomorrow.’
I
don’t know if he’s serious or if it’s just a line. I don’t even want to think about it. So I raise my eyebrows. ‘Sweet words from a non-boyfriend.’
‘Oh, sod it.’ He opens the door and pulls me inside.
CHAPTER
18
When I wake Dillon is gone. I sit up, swearing, pulling on my clothes as fast as I can. I understand no relationship, but no goodbye?
Then I hear that chuckle. ‘What are ya doing, ya mad thing?’
Dillon’s sitting outside on the fire escape in his underwear, watching me, smoking a cigarette.
‘Nothing. Getting dressed.’
‘You’re leaving?’
‘It’s morning,’ I say as if this explains everything. ‘You’re not a relationship guy.’
‘Doesn’t mean I’m not a breakfast guy.’
‘What? You want me to cook you pancakes?’
‘Aye. Would you?’
He looks so happy I’m almost reluctant to retort, ‘No!’
He takes a final drag from his cigarette and flicks it over the railing.
‘Nice. I see why they need fire escapes here.’
‘Your granny,’ Dillon ducks through the window into the room and settles his arms around my waist, ‘feeds ya too much nettle soup.’
I growl at him. God he makes me angsty. He could be everything or nothing. I don’t know what to do.
‘Ya gotta relax, love. Smile.’
I want to smile, especially after last night. But I won’t be told how to act. So I just glare at him.
‘I know how to fix this,’ he says, nodding his head like he’s some wise sage.
‘You do, do you?’
‘No doubt.’ He leans in and kisses me. It tastes bitter like smoke and somehow his lips have become cracked and chapped—probably from last night—but I fold hopelessly into him until he stops.
His eyes twinkle. ‘Better?’
‘Maybe.’ I push him away. ‘But you stink.’
‘Sorry,’ he says, but he isn’t.
‘So this morning …’ he starts to say, stepping closer again and taking a piece of my hair between his fingers.
I break him off before he says something that will mess with my heart. ‘I know and it’s fine. I’ve got plans anyway.’
‘Plans?’
‘Yes.’
He lets my hair fall. His lip juts out as he studies me through his massive protruding eyebrows. ‘So, can ya meet me for lunch?’
‘Lunch?’ I’m startled. Has he changed his mind? Does he want more?
The words ‘true love’ thrum their way from my subconscious into my conscious mind. Is Dillon my guy?
‘Yes. Lunch. Real food this time.’ His eyes dance about with humour. ‘Not just my sweat, as delectable as it is …’
‘You’re disgusting.’
He jerks his chin up. ‘And ya love it.’
It makes me blush thinking about last night. Jane Austen would be ashamed of me. There was less than fifty seconds of ‘will they or won’t they’. We were decided the moment we saw each other.
He’s studying me. ‘Have ya got a boyfriend? Is that what yer worried about?’
I slap him in the chest. ‘I wouldn’t be here if I had a boyfriend!’
‘Steady on,’ he says, holding up his beautiful hands. I want to take them and press them against my lips. I’m feeling the danger. I don’t want unrequited love to become my thing. I’m pitiful enough.
‘You’re thinking too hard about this.’ Dillon turns and strides across the room, grabs his shirt off the floor and pulls it on. ‘It’s not a big deal. I’m here until tomorrow. So if you want to hang out today that’s great but if—’
‘Why?’
‘Why what?’
‘Why do you want to hang out?’
‘Because I like ya, woman. But all right. I get it. You just wanted … last night.’ He walks to the door and holds it open. ‘That’s fine. Yer not obliged to … whatever.’
Oh my god. He thinks I’m rejecting him when I’m just trying to protect myself.
I look at the tattoo along his inner forearm. I see it clearly as he holds the door open for me to leave. I read it again last night, as his hands were in my hair. Now I go to him, and smooth my fingers along it. ‘Why “play on”?’
He presses his lips together. Turns his head. ‘I like it.’
‘Is it because you’re still a child? You like to play?’
‘Yes. But that’s not it.’
‘You’re a playa.’
‘If you think so.’
‘Then what?’
His lips are pressed so tight they’re white.
‘Dillon, tell me. Why have you got “play on” tattooed on your arm?’
The words burst out. ‘It’s Shakespeare, okay? I know it’s daft.’
It is Shakespeare! Maybe Dillon is my guy.
‘Meet me at three o’clock,’ I tell him. ‘The carousel at Central Park.’ Then I run out the door.
Muirgheal doesn’t give me grief about not coming home last night.
‘It’s your life. I had moved across the world with a newborn babe when I was your age. I’m sure you can handle yourself.’
‘This boy. He can see me,’ I say.
Muirgheal is unsettled. It’s the first time I’ve spoken about the curse since that first day. She seemed so ruined with guilt, I hadn’t had the heart to. She pulls out a chair. ‘You wet the tea, Alanna. I need to sit down.’
‘Are you okay?’
‘I’ll be fine. It’s you I’m worried for.’
‘What do you think it means?’ I ask her, turning on the kettle. ‘You know about Tom. I can’t have two true loves, can I?’
‘Why in heaven’s name not?’ she says. ‘Do we all have to live by one set of fairytale rules?’
I scratch my head. ‘I guess not.’
‘Do you like this young man?’
‘So much,’ I say, thinking of how good it felt being close to Dillon. ‘I want to crawl inside him and live there.’
‘Oh to be young,’ Muirgheal declares, her eyes flicking to the ceiling. ‘So, what’s the dilemma?’
‘Well, he might be a criminal …’ Oops. I shouldn’t have said that. I start to backtrack. ‘Look, no. He’s probably not. I have no evidence to support it.’
‘What does your heart say?’
‘That he’s damaged but not evil.’
Muirgheal makes a tut-tut sound. ‘You’re not helping your old granny feel good about you gallivanting around the city with this fella.’
‘But he’s Irish—so that’s good. Right?’
‘Do I look like the type who wants their granddaughter tied to a lad by her apron straps?’
‘Apron straps? Muirgheal, what year do you think this is?’
Muirgheal sighs. ‘I know Irish boys, my darling. They’re sweet as pie. Delectable even. But once they’ve locked you in, they play up. They can’t help it, it’s the leprechaun in them, and they already own your heart, so you can’t leave them. There’s none more loyal than an Irish wife.’
‘You can’t generalise about a whole nation like that,’ I say, pouring the tea.
‘There’ll be exceptions, I grant you. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.’
There is a moment of silence where I’m sure we’re both thinking the same thing—of her sweetheart, Derry Nial McDonagh, my grandfather. Who stole her heart like the tinker he was.
‘What does he do, for an occupation like?’ Muirgheal asks, when I bring the cups to the table.
‘I don’t know,’ I reply before I realise it will upset her. She won’t understand our pledge to be anonymous. ‘He’s just travelling around at the moment,’ I add.
Muirgheal’s fingers shake so that the cup rattles against the saucer. Irish gypsies, or tinkers, are actually called Travellers. I should have thought of that.
‘But he’s not …’ I start to say. ‘He’s not …’ I continue, even though I have no idea what he is.
‘
You be careful, Alanna.’ She takes a sip of her tea. ‘Be smarter than I was. Make sure he wears a—’
‘Muirgheal! Okay!’ I’m mortified by the direction this discussion has taken.
‘Not that I regret having your Ma. Light of my life, she was. I’m just sorry she had to live … like you.’
Again a long silence hangs between us.
‘You’d love Dillon,’ I say. ‘Honestly.’
‘Ah, yes, but the problem is, my darling, history has shown us my judgement is as poor as the night is black.’ There is a buzz at the front door. ‘That’ll be Gene.’ She gets to her feet. ‘I’ll be right down,’ she says into the intercom. ‘Do you mind?’ she asks, turning back in my direction. ‘I feel the need for a walk today.’
‘Of course not,’ I say.
I watch as she puts on a cardigan and a deep green felt hat with ostrich feathers.
‘I’m seeing Dillon again this afternoon,’ I tell her. ‘He leaves tomorrow.’
She turns to look at me but I can’t quite read her expression, concern probably, but maybe, just maybe, it’s wistful, and she’s happy for me. ‘Use your time wisely, Olive,’ she says, opening the door. ‘And be safe.’
‘Yes, Muirgheal.’
I’m not sure what to do until three o’clock. It seems like an achingly long time to wait. I have another tea, read one of Muirgheal’s trashy mags, then have a long soak in the tub. When I get out I FaceTime Jordan in India.
‘Olive!’
‘Hey Pins.’ Jordan is in a dark room. Ugly fluorescent light hits one side of her face and the wall behind her is faded blue, with stains. Gruesome ones. ‘Where are you? Is that blood on the wall behind you?’
Jordan turns to check like it’s a real possibility.
‘Mosquito blood maybe?’ She shrugs. ‘This hostel is a bit grim.’
‘I bet you miss me now,’ I say with satisfaction.
‘Yeah, I do. I keep smelling these foul smells and think, hey, Olive’s back. But then I realise Simon’s just farted.’
‘You’re calling me a fart?’ I laugh and Jordan laughs too. ‘I can’t believe his royal highness actually farts.’
‘He calls it a whoopsie.’
I choke up laughing again. ‘How is it possible that you actually choose to be with him? Has he got something on you? You know, I’d be the perfect hit-woman if you need me.’
The Implausible Story of Olive Far Far Away Page 12