One Night 82

Thank you for reading this story. It's a little shorter than my latest stories but I hope there is still enough to it for your enjoyment. It's not exactly a Covid-19 tale, although there is a little tip of the hat to it in here, and I guess the lockdown meant I had time to write it...

Please leave a comment if you'd like to, as I really appreciate those of you who take the time to write them.

Everyone in this story is most definitely over the age of 18.

+

The instant I step foot inside, it's as if I'd never left this city. The years of deliberate exile slip away in the wash of flat vowels, brassy hair and shrieking laughter. The pub hadn't looked as busy from outside, but I make my way to the bar anyway. It'll be nice to sit here by myself for a while, to come down from the day, and there look to be a couple of free tables towards the back.

"What can I get for you, love?"

"Just a tonic water, please."

"Can't interest you in one of our boutique cocktails? Happy hour's still on for another forty minutes. It'd be a shame not to take advantage, there's so little else out there what's a bargain, if you know what I mean?"

I stare at her orange lipstick, mesmerised by the almost nonsensical burble of words streaming forth from her mouth. I just give her a smile, and a shake of the head, and she turns away to pour my miserly tonic water. She does it with a smile, though.

Someone slots themselves into the space next to me at the bar; a drift of cigarette smoke, fabric softener and sweet warmth to my left.

"Paddy, love! Same again?"

Orange Lipstick leans forward, her blouse cracking open over her plump cleavage, her teeth shiny and big under the metallic lights. Flirting. It brings a smile to my lips and memories of past, younger, Thursday nights full of promise. Setting my glass down in front of me is performed like the afterthought it's obviously become now, all her attention focused on the stranger to my left. He orders four pints, one Guinness and three Yorkshire Golds, in a voice rich with west coast Irish.

Our eyes catch as I turn from the bar. His are blue, probably, and kind. He smiles and I smile back because what's the harm? I'm old enough to be his mother, afterall. Nevertheless, I imagine his gaze on my back as I carry my drink and bags to a table. When it's his turn to do the same, I follow his path to a larger table not so far from my own, a collection of empty pint glasses already gathered in the centre, surrounded by a handful of people who look well-settled in a post-work drink and chat.

I pluck my phone out of my bag. Sitting in a pub on my own isn't a habit, but I hadn't felt like a night all alone in my hotel room and neither had I wanted to spend any more time with my fellow academics. Conference chat only interests me so far. And once the drinks start flowing, that's when my interest fades fast. A quiet drink here before venturing forth to find some dinner feels like a better plan for me. Although it's so long since I've been here, I've no idea where to go, besides the bland chain restaurants that fill the city centre these days.

His table bursts into raucous laughter. When I look up over my glasses, the joke seems to be on him, and I watch him fighting his mirth to return the insult, half out of his seat to gesticulate at the bloke sitting opposite. Our eyes catch. I drop my gaze fast, mortified he should imagine it was deliberate on my part. Feeling ridiculous and hot - stupidly, irritatingly hot - I stare at the mediocre article I was struggling to concentrate on and wonder for the hundredth time if I should talk to my GP about the hot flushes yet.

Despite myself, I must have managed to get into the article because his voice startles me when it breaks over my table from close quarters.

"Are ye interested in another one a those," with a tip of his chin at my miserable tonic water, "or what would you like?"

A shiver courses through me, whether from his beautiful vowels or the way he's standing in front of my table looking so confident and - well, how can I put it? - so much more masculine than any of the men I've spent the last two days with. Or, indeed, most of my days. I press my lips together. He pulls one side of his mouth up in such a way as to look amused.

"I was just about to go get some dinner, actually," I lie, and immediately regret it. Did it sound like a come-on? Or a rejection? And is that actually disappointment streaking filling my lungs?

The corner of his mouth ticks up higher as he surveys my table. I follow his gaze over my phone, the open notebook and pen I must've got out at some point, the conference badge, my glasses case... hardly the signs of an imminent departure.

"The food here's not much cop, actually, being mostly crisps, nuts or a pickled onion, and that's your lot," he shrugs, eyes full of amusement he doesn't bother to hide, his challenge to my untruth made plain.

I sit back, repressing the urge to smile. "No?"

He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, something that's also unaccountably sexy. "Listen, it's just an offer, you know? No harm meant, but I'd like to buy you a drink all the same."

And well, when it's said as nicely as that, and with those blue eyes, who am I to say no?

I allow myself to watch his progress over to the bar, leaning in to get Orange Lipstick's attention, one boot set up on the foot rail. It looks like one of those steel-capped boots builders wear, although his clothes are clean. Almost smart, actually. Dark jeans, dark shirt. Almost as dark as his hair, an oily black in this lighting.

I suck my teeth. Where are these notions coming from? To say it's been a while would be a sad understatement. Dropping my eyes to my phone once again, I remind myself of the obvious age gap and - well - and a thousand other objections. Not least the silliness of the idea he's doing anything other than being, well, nice to me? Just as I'm beginning to make myself feel a bit sick at the idea he could be playing a horrible sort of joke, he taps the drink down in front of me.

"Can you stand to chat to me for a minute or two?"

"Oh." This time, the flush is deeper and longer and hotter. "Yes. Yes, alright." But - really?

"Ok, I'll be back," dipping his chin to the various glasses and bottles he's clutching in his hands. "Don't be leaving, or anything," and with an actual wink, he's manoeuvring his way over to his table.

A wink!

God. Fear and excitement fill me anew, and I'm glad for the roar in my ears since it means I can't hear the ribbing he's getting from his mates. And he's definitely getting the treatment. Voices raised, grins widened. God - again. I'm cringing so much I might get cramp. But he appears mostly unaffected, his gait as he walks back to my table as easy as before.

"Budge up," he grins with another wink and I scramble with no elegance whatsoever to slide over on the bench seat so he can sit down next to me.

Which I hadn't expected and I think it's strange he didn't sit opposite.

"Slainte."

We toast and clink our glasses, me feeling desperately self-conscious, even as the rest of the pub carries on around us in a soundscape of self-absorbed chatter, glass on wood and laughter.

"So, you're here for a conference, are you?"

There it is, that fascinating, rolling accent. 'Oure ye.'

"Yes. What gave me away?"

He taps the badge, face-up on the table. I roll my eyes back and he laughs. A short, low sort of laugh, with more than a hint of satisfaction in it.

"Is it the one over at St George's Centre?"

"Yes, how did -?"

"We're working on the church. Saw youse all milling around today at lunchtime. What's it about?"

"Oh. Uh - epidemiology."

"Oh aye?" his eyes light up. "How diseases spread, is it?"

"That's right."

"And that's what you are, like? An epidemiologist?"

I nod, which is when I realise he's turned a little to see me. Another flush of warmth rushes through me, all the way to my bones, the smells of smoke and fabric softener stronger the longer we're sitting so close to each other.

"Yes. We epidemiologists love a good conference, and talk up a storm between us, but it's more difficult to get governments to take us as seriously as they ought."

"No one wants to commit to the research or to buying the drugs or what not?"

I angle my body to see him more fully. "That's right. Too much built-in redundancy for the capitalists to stomach."

"So you're one a those, what d'ya call 'em, 'preppers', are ye?

I laugh. "No, not exactly. I'm only obsessive over tracing how viruses can jump from species to species. Filling my cupboards with tinned food and drugs, not so much."

He laughs back, as if pleased. I fight with the self-conscious, censorious voices inside. The ones pointing out that this is just a game. A dance. And that he's almost finished his pint, whereas I've hardly sipped my tonic, and he'll be gone soon, perhaps with some jab at my age or, worse, at my dignity, for responding to his interest. I grab the glass and gulp a mouthful of sharp bubbles.

"So what are you, then? What do you do?" Which is the most British of all questions. Our method of identifying social class. Even though it's not always an exact science, we still like to try.

"I'm an engineer."

I have to confess to being surprised, and it must show on my face, because he raises his eyebrows with another hitch to his mouth.

"Rebuilding old churches?"

"We call it conserving, but yeah. Churches and any old buildings that need structural work." He swallows down the last couple of inches of his pint. "Surprised, like?"

I shrug, a little bit mesmerised with his lips, still wet with beer.

His eyes flicker all over my face. I want to know what he's thinking, because it looks like something.

In the end, my words come out in a gabble. "I had no idea. All I do know is you're a lot younger than me, so -"

"Too young?"

Again, I'm trapped between the strength of my attraction to him and the need to maintain at least some of that rapidly diminishing dignity.

He leans in, almost fully facing me. "Well look at that." He spins the glass in his hand absent-mindedly. A bar trick. "I like getting under your cool, academic skin, Ms -" and glances down at the badge, "Hm. Doctor, is it now. Dr Moss?"

"Y- yes," and it's been years since I stuttered over that word.

"A doctor of medicine, or the academic type?"

"Both." Because yes, I'm one of those over-achievers, driven by parental expectations and the need to outshine my older, brighter brother. "Surprised, are you?"

He likes that. The tease. I see it in that lift to his mouth.

"How about that dinner?"

I open my mouth to - what? Object? Prevaricate? But he gets there before me.

"C'mon. Have dinner with this young pup here. What else are ye gonna do? Nando's? Room service? There's a great Italian not far from here."

I'm frozen with indecision. And wanting. And shame at the wanting.

He winks again. Slowly this time, but with just enough cheek and humility for it to be compelling rather than insincere. "C'mon, Doctor Moss. It can just be dinner. Where's the harm?"

He rolls my name and title around his mouth as if it's the most delicious steak, his diphthongs stuffing it with more syllables than it's ever had.

"Why don't you phone a mate, let them know where y'are? Whatever's gonna make you comfortable, like."

I slump until my shoulders hit the back of the bench we're sharing, acceptance more than ready, just waiting for my mouth to work. Until then, I can only nod. It's almost as though I feel a surge of energy in his body next to me, and I hope his confidence doesn't spoil into something too aggressive.

"Sure?"

I dare a direct look at him and catch the flash of hope in his face.

It dissolves all remaining resistance. "Yes. Ok."

It may not be the most resounding of acceptances, but he takes it, jerking his chin towards his mates. "Grand. I'll get me coat, then, and we'll go when you're ready?"

"Ok," I repeat.

A wave of cheering and jeering rises up from his table, which mutes significantly as he leans in and delivers some kind of statement to them which I can't hear, but the tone brooks no argument. I do my best not to listen, afraid to overhear their opinions of me and my age, or whatever they think is happening here. He plucks a dark coat off the back of a chair and crouches to wrestle a backpack from the jumble of bags piled under the table, slinging it over one shoulder before returning to me.

I snap my mouth shut. Because - oh God - I think I'm actually going to do this.

+

It's unpleasantly cold and dank outside, and I shudder. I don't miss this northern weather. London isn't the Riviera, but it's not this miserable, all-pervasively damp climate either. He walks alongside me, shifting his bag to the other side so it doesn't bump me. He's a lot taller than I am, his legs long and limber. I suppose he could be described as rangy. I smile to myself as I grope for vocabulary I haven't used in years. When was the last time a man interested me enough to beg description?

We don't walk far, or talk, although that doesn't feel uncomfortable, until he draws up in front of a place with small windows and old-fashioned red curtains.

"This alright?"

Again I pause. Hesitating without wanting to.

"Listen, I know the owners and they'd slap me upside the head for any bad behaviour, like, so you'll be ok. And text your mate you'll be at 'Napoli'."

'Upside the heed.' That accent is going to be the death of me. "I know. I used to come here, back in the day."

"Is that right? I wondered if you were from here originally."

"Was it my vowels that gave me away? I haven't quite managed to straighten them all out, and then they sneak back in whenever I spend any time here."

"Not keen on being back?"

"Let's just say I'm still happy I left as soon as I could and have never looked back."

He opens the door for me and I let him. I let him hand my coat to the waiter, too.

The place looks exactly the same. Paper tablecloths, cheap cutlery. The huge and not very well-painted but well-meant mural of the bay of Naples on the back wall.

I shake my head. "I didn't think this place would still be here."

"Aye. I'm not sure how much longer it'll be here, to be honest, what with the way business rates are rocketing around here. It's insane."

He's got his head stuck into the menu in his hands. A strong sense of liking for this man fills my chest. Not just wanting his body because, God help me, but I so do. It's more than that. I like his voice and his humour, and his confidence that's just this side of cockiness.

We order. He gets himself one more beer. I decide on a glass of wine. He turns his head, looking around us. It's busy, but not full. Helium birthday balloons float above one family group filling the longest table along the wall opposite, but the rest of the tables are couples, like us. My brain drags over that idea of us, snapping me right back to my earlier discomfort.

"What's the story? You alright over there, are ye?"

I sit up straighter. "Yes. Sorry. Zoned out a bit, that's all."

"Long day?"

"Mm, yes. And I didn't sleep all that well last night. Nerves before presenting my paper this morning."

His eyebrows lift but he pauses whatever he might have been about to ask because that's when the waiter returns with our drinks. He raises his bottle upwards.

"So, Doctor Moss, what's the toast?"

"L'Chayim," I offer and tip my glass to his bottle.

We drink and, again, I'm distracted by the bob of his Adam's apple. What on earth is happening to me?

"Do you have any other names aside from Doctor and Moss, or are you keeping it formal with me?"

I breathe out. 'Wit me.' Since when has an Irish accent been an aphrodisiac? "I'm Arella. Arella Moss."

"Arella." His tongue shapes and smoothes my name into a soft scoop of ice cream. "That's a cracking name. What is it?"

"It's Hebrew. It means a messenger from God. What about you? I'm going to make a wild guess your name isn't actually Paddy." I take another sip of wine, wondering if it's already responsible for my light-headedness.

He grimaces, showing the first sign of distaste all evening. "Aye, to some I'll always just be a Paddy, re-fucking-gardless of whatever me oul wan baptised me, you know?"

"Your what?"

"Me mam." His mouth bends into an almost-smile. "Sean. Which means God's gracious gift, or summat. Sean Kirwan." He holds his hand out across the table, and grins when I shake it. "It's very good to meet ye, Doctor Arella Moss."

I roll my eyes at him. Which he seems to enjoy. His fingers tighten around my hand for a few more seconds then release them as the waiter produces bread and olive oil, quickly followed by our plates of food. It's all as delicious and comforting as I remember and we're too absorbed with eating to talk much for a few minutes.

Pausing for another sip of wine, I double back on his name. "Are you a gracious gift from God, then, Sean Kirwan?"

He lifts his eyes from his plate, not speaking until he's finished his mouthful of food. "Are you flirting with me, are ye, Arella Moss?"

I drink more wine.

"Because if ye are, that'd be grand."

I duck my face to hide my daft blush. His fork clatters to his plate. "Ah now, don't go hiding. Not now we're just getting to know each other."

His words have the peculiar effect of making me feel seventeen again. That trickle of realisation - cold and hot all at once - that you have your own sexual identity; one that can be kept to yourself or shared as you see fit. No parental ambitions or examination boards to satisfy. That had been a real thrill for a girl like me growing up in a loving but claustrophobic family. Something all of my own. Sitting opposite him now, the trickle is more like a rush. I shiver.

After another bite of food, I ask him where in Ireland he's from, and the conversation ebbs and flows between us in an easy rhythm. I learn he's from Galway on the west coast, born on a farm, the seventh child but the first boy. Which was how he'd earned his name. His father had been understandably shocked and delighted by his appearance, and copious quantities of drink may have been involved in both wetting the baby's head and choosing the name. Not that he's the youngest. No, Sean was sweetly concerned that I know he isn't the baby of the family. There'd been one more child after him. Another boy who, profuse thanks to the sweet baby Jesus, had turned out to be a hundred percent more interested in taking over the farm than Sean had. He'd been able to go to Dublin to study engineering with a clear conscience. Since then, he's worked in Glasgow ('too much like the oul country for my liking'), Newcastle ('mad place, great rides') and now here ('small city, big attitudes').

"Working your way south then?" I'd asked.

He'd shrugged, then asked me about myself, which wasn't so much fun to recount as it'd been to listen to his guileless account.

A dutiful (mostly, anyway) daughter growing up in a small Jewish family within a tight-knit Jewish community. Not orthodox, no, but - traditional. And ambitious. Goodness, if we - my brother and I - weren't top of the class then we felt our father's disappointment like a hot clamp over our hearts. Is my brother as successful as me? I laugh, because there was no way I was ever going to be able to beat him. Being the chief executive of one of the world's largest banks, living in New York in a penthouse with views over the Hudson, an affectionate wife and three lively, smart children? No beating that. And when my father had died, the synagogue had overflowed with mourners, headline news in our community for one of its most revered doctors. But that was a long time ago. I'd barely finished my own medical degree, and still feel lucky now that my mother had been healthy and independent enough to lead a widow's life without needing me nearby. 'Finish your studies,' she'd urged me, even as we'd stood outside the entrance to Intensive Care, holding onto each other through the shock of dad's death.