He watched Roisin turn and walk back to Harry. She called Bernadette and spoke into her ear. Bernadette smiled and walked towards Cormac.

‘Bernadette, this is Cormac and he would like to ask you to dance.’

Harry kicked him. It didn’t hurt.

‘Wouldn’t you, Cormac?

She was waiting for him to speak. Her arms were folded. She was standing on one leg with the other tucked in behind. Her hair hung down over her left eye and was tucked behind her right ear.

‘Yes.’

She took his hand and they walked to the dance floor. They arrived just as the intro was ending:

‘A love struck Romeo sings a streetsuss serenade

Layin’ everybody low with a love song that he made

Finds a convenient streetlight steps out of the shade

Says something like you and me babe how about it?’

She put her arms around his neck and held on tight, like she never wanted to let him go.

Harry was right. He was Romeo, after all. He had just needed a little help from Mercutio.

Even through the grime of the shop window, he could tell the years had not missed their mark on him. There had been too many late lunches and late nights; a chronic lack of interest in his wardrobe; too much interest in fried food. They had all left him suddenly aware of the paleness and slackness of his face, the uncomfortable tightness of his belt and the ridiculousness of Harry’s recently ruined jacket. He resembled a prematurely aged, chubby schoolboy, wearing his older brother’s hand me downs a year before he was ready for them. His nerve, which had deserted him, began to make its way back to him, when he reminded himself of last night. Hadn’t she seen him slumped on a bar stool after four pints of Guinness? Hadn’t she watched him threaten her husband? Hadn’t she told him in no uncertain terms that she was not going to come? Yet come she had. And not only that, she was early! Why would she be here? He felt his confidence return in a flood. There was only one reason: she wanted to see him!

Free of his momentary stage fright, he made his way onto the quaint old bridge. Any second now, she would look up from the gently flowing water. Her eyes would meet his, like they had a long time ago, and they would tell him all he needed to know. She didn’t notice him until he was nearly touching her. She lifted her head and turned, but not to face him. He saw her take the cardboard cup from the outstretched patched elbow of a tweed jacket. His ear began to throb, his arm ached and his foot hurt more than ever.

20

‘Ah! If it isn’t the brawling barrister himself! Or should that be the mauling minister?’

The tweed sleeve stretched out towards him. The torn jacket responded.