Mile High Guy (9 page)

‘Hey, would you believe I’m just around the corner from there? You don’t fancy meeting up now instead of later, do you?’

No I don’t. God, no.

‘Oh okay, sure.’ Oh Jesus, what the hell am I saying? Too late. ‘Sure,’ I repeat myself as I begin to feel my head spin.

I press the red button on the bus to let the driver know I’m getting out and then make my way downstairs, push past the crammed, irritable commuters and get off the bus. Right. I’m now on Baggot Street and have to hail a taxi to get me back into town to meet Adam. Don’t call me a walkover or anything. I mean I
know
how to play hard to get; I just don’t have time to play right now.

I stand like an idiot at Baggot Street Bridge with my hand outstretched. God, when is there a
bloody taxi when you need one? Thankfully one stops eventually. I look at my watch and wonder what I’m going to tell Adam. I know, I’ll tell him I snagged my tights and just popped out to buy a new pair. Then I remember I’m wearing jeans and swiftly change my mind. I’ll tell him nothing, I decide. Men like mysterious women. I read
that somewhere. From now on I’m going to be mysterious.

Right. The taxi is pulling up outside Ba Mizu. I sneak a quick look in my portable mirror. I look okay, I think, but it’s dark so I’m not sure. I take a deep breath, pay Mr Taxi man and get out of the
taxi.

‘Good luck,’ the taxi driver shouts.

Is he trying to tell me something?

I arrive in Ba Mizu but there’s no sign of Adam. Phew! That was close. Well thank God for that. A few people look up as they always do when a lone woman walks into a bar. I glare back and they look away. People who stare are just so rude.

I sit at the bar counter so that Adam will have no problem spotting me when he arrives in. I wonder will I recognise him straight away. Will anyone else recognise him? After all, I don’t really want the paparazzi after us, haha. Maybe I should be wearing dark sunglasses!

I order myself a glass of wine.

‘Anything else?’ asks the girl behind the bar.

‘Er . . . no thanks.’

There’s no point ordering for Adam, is there? I mean I don’t know what he drinks. I wonder is he a Guinness man? It’s hard to tell, isn’t it? I pay for my drink and hope the girl behind the bar isn’t feeling sorry for me. I mean it’s not like I’ve been stood
up or anything. Not yet, haha. Actually that’s not a very comforting thought. Not nice at all. Being stood up is never great. It happened to me once. But only just the once, thank God.

I think I’ve time to tell you very quickly. A friend of mine threw a party for me a few years ago. She did it as an excuse to meet my new man. All my friends had been complaining about my mysterious man whom they had never met. Jack,
you see, was a private man.
Very
private indeed. I had never been to his house as he lived in Kildare, so it wasn’t really convenient. Especially since he lived with his wheelchair-bound sister who wasn’t used to visitors – apparently. Because of her, Jack could never stay the full night with me either. I was sharing a flat with friends in town at the time. But Jack’s sister worried about him so much. I never actually spoke to her of course, because Jack never got around to giving me his home number. And besides, it never occurred to me to ask for it.

Anyway my friends all thought my relationship with Jack was all very suspicious. I mean, he didn’t even turn up to the annual cabin crew ball and I was forced to go alone. Jack’s sister had supposedly
come down with the ’flu on top of everything else. I was more upset than angry. After all, how could I get angry with somebody who was so kind and considerate? He was one in a million and the only sibling in his family willing to look after his poor
sister. The rest of them were selfish gits. So he told me anyway. I remember once asking him if he’d consider getting in a carer, but he’d looked at me like it was the most outrageous suggestion he’d ever heard. I felt terrible afterwards and never again
complained. Or hassled him to come out with me again on a Saturday night.

Then one night, friends of mine threw a party and invited Jack and myself. At this stage I think they were beginning to question his existence. Not that I blamed them; sometimes I used to question it myself.

Jack and I were great together in the physical
sense. He was an expert lover and even had me doing strange things, like spending more on lingerie than I would on a coat. Up until then I’d been a real Marks ‘n’ Sparks kind of woman. I loved fancy underwear but never saw the point in breaking the bank to deck myself out in frills and lace. If nobody was going to see my expensive undies, then what was the point?

He used to take me to quiet little pubs off the beaten track and loved weekends away. Especially weekends abroad. The further away the better in fact. But he was never keen on meeting me in Dublin for dinner. Or going to a club with myself and my friends. He was definitely more of a take-away,
video and then straight-to-bed kind of man, although he always got out of the bed in the middle of the night to drive home to check on his sister, which I privately found intensely annoying.

But something bothered me about Jack. I mean, one minute he’d be all over me, telling me I turned him on like no other woman, but the minute I
showed any real affection or casually tried to mention the future, he completely clammed up.

Now I’m not a lovey dovey freak, but I would have liked
some
reassurance that I was more than simply a convenient bed partner. So one day I just
put my foot down, giving him an ultimatum. I said he was either going to meet my friends, or I was breaking it off. It was just an idle threat really, as I’d no intention of dumping Jack, but surprisingly he took it all very seriously and agreed.

I was so delighted. In fact I was proud of myself for taking a stand. If only more women would ask for what they wanted instead of pussyfooting around, life would be a lot less complicated, I told myself smugly.

Of course Jack never showed up. The party
started at eight and by half ten everyone was sozzled; a few people had started to dance and party poppers were going off everywhere as I skulked around the kitchen looking for the biggest knife. Well not quite, but I was terribly depressed. Firstly,
I felt let down by Jack and then humiliated because I was sure everyone at the party was feeling sorry for me. Poor old Katie and her imagination, eh?

I gave him until eleven and then went upstairs with my mobile phone in one hand and a full bottle of
wine in the other. Recipe for disaster or what?

I slowly pressed the digits on my mobile, hoping against hope that there might be some sort of reasonable explanation for his behaviour. Maybe he’d been involved in a terrible accident. Perhaps
his sister had fallen ill or he had lost his mobile phone? Pathetic, I know, but I was clutching at anything!

The phone rang out and then I redialled. Please let him answer, I silently begged.

Someone answered. It wasn’t him.

It was a little girl’s voice.

‘Hello?’ came the soft baby voice.

Oh shit, I thought. I must have the wrong number.

‘Hello?’

‘I’ve the wrong number sweetie. Don’t worry about it. Bye-bye.’

I put down the phone. Poor kid. Must have thought I was mad.

I rang Jack’s mobile again.

‘Hello?’

Same baby voice. Funny that. And then the penny dropped.

‘Is er . . . your daddy there?’ I asked tentatively, my heart racing faster than the speed of light.

‘One moment,’ the little girl answered as I dropped the phone in shock.

I never quite got over it. And I never found out whether the wheelchair-bound sister was in fact his wife. Or whether he even had a sister at all. Or any more children. Because I never heard from Jack again.

‘Can I get you anything else?’ the girl behind the bar asks. I’m about to shake my head when I realise that I’ve drunk all my wine. God, I must stop daydreaming. For a moment there I nearly forgot where I was.

The bar seems to be filling up pretty quickly with an after-work crowd. I don’t fancy sitting here with no glass in front of me so I order the same again. I have a horrible, passing thought that Adam might
not show up. But I banish it quickly. Not all men are like Jack, I tell myself as the bar girl hands me another glass.

Mind you, it’s all very strange. I’m wondering if I’m in the right bar. After all, it’s at least twenty minutes since Adam said he was on his way. Maybe he got waylaid on the street. Perhaps he was accosted by autograph hunters or was being trailed by the paparazzi. My imagination is hurtling towards overdrive when my mobile suddenly rings.

‘Hey, where are you?’

It’s Adam. Oh thank you God. Thank you so much for not letting me be stood up again. I just couldn’t have dealt with that twice in a lifetime.

‘I’m in Ba Mizu. Sitting at the bar. You can’t miss me. I’m the stunning blonde, although you probably won’t recognise me out of uniform.’ I laugh at
my feeble attempt at a joke.

And then I see him. A vision in a crowd of faces that all look the same. He looks like a star. Then again, he
is
a star. I keep forgetting. And then I notice the heads turn. Men look vaguely ill at ease, women in power suits stare openly. And I’m beginning to realise I’m probably the envy of every person
in the room. Adam Kirrane is here. And he’s here to see me.

‘Hey,’ he gives my cheek a quick peck and I hope he doesn’t burn his lips because I’m sure my face is red hot. I certainly feel hot anyway. But hot and happy and . . . well, a little tipsy. I haven’t had anything to eat all day.

‘Hey,’ I answer back because I honestly can’t think of anything else to say. I feel I have fallen in love for the second time in my life. I’m like a teenager on a first date. Not knowing what to say but realising I’ve got to say something.

‘Are you well?’ I ask awkwardly, aware that people are staring over and feeling a bit self-conscious because I’m really not used to this kind of attention. I keep thinking my knickers are showing or something.

‘I’m great. A little tired but apart from that I’m flying,’ he laughs revealing snow-white teeth. I wonder if they’re capped.

‘It’s good to see you again. Would you like another wine?’ he asks and I nod before I’ve time to ask myself if I really need another glass on an empty stomach.

I glance around but nobody’s looking over any more. Irish people don’t like to be caught staring. We’re all very important in this town you see. We have VIPs and VVIPs and then of course people like myself who never get in anywhere. At least not into any members’ bars to hobnob with all the ‘important’ people. But I do get to see a lot of
famous people on my flights, which is great really. I’ve seen U2 and the President and some supermodels, and basically every famous Irish person. Most of them are very nice. But the funny thing is, the bigger the star, the more likely they are to be polite
and friendly. It’s only vaguely famous people that are likely to cause trouble. But anyway I’m rambling again and I know you probably just want me to get back to my date with Adam.

Okay, we’re getting on well and I’m not going to tell you word for word what we’re saying because it’s kind of awkward and the conversation is peppered with the usual first date trivia questions like ‘so how many brothers and sisters do you have?’

My stomach is beginning to rumble and suddenly I realise I’m starving. But I don’t like to say this to Adam in case he thinks I’m just looking for a fancy meal. As if that was the only reason I showed up.

Out of nowhere, Adam’s hand rests on my lap
and he says, ‘Let’s go grab something to eat. I’m starving.’

Oh my God, he is my soulmate. He
must
be. Our minds think alike. It’s a sign. And he’s got really amazing green eyes and I’ve never gone out with anybody with green eyes. Maybe that’s another sign?

I stand up (rather unsteadily, I have to admit),
and Adam holds my coat open. Hmm. I never remember Tim ever holding my coat open for me. Oh God, I promised I wouldn’t talk about Tim. Or even think about him.

We leave Ba Mizu and walk to Adam’s car. It’s a Mercedes SLK and as Adam holds the passenger door open I slide into the leather seat and think what a lucky girl I am. Not that I’m shallow or anything. But I’m getting just a bit sick of Tim’s second-hand Nissan Micra. We drive to Browne’s on Stephen’s Green and I’m more than impressed. Browne’s has the reputation for being one of the best restaurants in Dublin. When we arrive, the staff greet Adam like an old friend. I’m wondering how often he comes here. And wonder who else has accompanied him on a date. Maybe the girls’ names change every week. Once again Adam takes my coat and then orders a bottle of champagne.

‘When’s your next flight?’ he reaches over and gives my hand a squeeze. The touch of his skin on mine is electrifying.

‘Tomorrow morning. I’m going to Boston.’

‘Boston? Oh yes, I forgot. I love that city.’

‘Me too, but unfortunately we don’t stay there very long. Just a night. Pity.’