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The poster in the window caught Moira’s eyes and she came to a standstill. Standing in the shop frontage, huddled inside her coat she was oblivious to the corporate clad women who nearly walked into her. The woman sidestepped her at the last minute with a muttered, ‘for feck’s sake,’ barely faltering in her frantic pace.
Moira was on her way home from work, in no great hurry to get there either given it was a Tuesday and nothing much happened at home on a Tuesday. Aisling was likely to while away her evening distracting Quinn in the kitchen of his bistro and it was her least favourite night on the television. She was too broke to suggest an impromptu night out to see a film or have a meal with Andrea. It would be a waste of time, anyway. Andrea was devoted to her soaps, Moira loved hers too but preferred to curl up on the sofa of a weekend, snacks to hand, to watch the omnibus on offer. At the very least it would take a Brad Pitt film to drag Andrea away from her viewing and, so far as Moira knew, he wasn’t starring in anything at the Savoy this week.
So, there she was standing on the pavement outside the Baggot Street, Boots staring at the image of Elizabeth Hurley on display. The glossy poster was marketing at its best she mused, wrestling with the should she or shouldn’t she question. Liz, all ethereal and lovely, boasted of a serum containing the latest miracle properties—it was packaged in a simple, sleek silver bottle. Her Visa card, with which she had a love- hate relationship, burned a hole in her pocket.
Serum, the word whispered to her, and Moira decided she liked the way it sounded. It wasn’t quite on a par with conniption but it did sound exotic and full of promise. What the poster didn’t mention though was what the undoubtedly eye-watering price for the magical properties contained in the silver cannister was. But sure, what price did you put on a miracle? She asked herself torn between a magical serum or the bottle of Allure—the new Chanel fragrance she’d had a spray of the last time she’d been in the chemist. She was nearly out of perfume. What to do, what to do? She was too busy wrestling with her dilemma to realise someone was standing alongside her until they cleared their throat.
‘Moira, hi. I like your shoes.’
She hoped she didn’t look like a total eejit as her mouth fell open and she wished she wasn’t standing in front of such an enormous photo of Elizabeth Hurley as she gawped up at Michael Daniels. No woman could compete with Liz when she was doing provocative, and why oh why wasn’t she in her heels all glamorous instead of her runners? She looked like Minnie Mouse. She gathered herself quickly as her heart began to hammer and her stomach danced to a fluttering beat. ‘Ah well, now, Mr Daniels, I can’t very well be trotting home in my stilettos now can? How’re you settling in at Mason Price?’
He grinned and his smile lit his eyes. He had lovely teeth she thought randomly as she reminded herself to blink.
‘Very sensible of you. The shoes I mean, although you do realise I’m going to have to start calling you Minnie Mouse.’
What was he she thought, a mind reader?
‘And I am settling in thanks even if the weather has been awful since we arrived. But please don’t call me Mr Daniels it makes me feel like my father! It’s Michael, Moira. So, are you contemplating a spot of shopping or are you on your way home?’
We, she realised her heart plummeting, he’d used we. ‘Both, and I probably shouldn’t be contemplating the shopping. I should be saving for a deposit.’
He raised an eyebrow.
‘For a flat, I live just across from the Green, in O’Mara’s Guesthouse with my sister.’
‘A guesthouse, that sounds interesting.’
Moira shrugged, she’d gotten used to people’s curiosity when they realised she lived on the top floor of a busy, established old guesthouse. It wasn’t the norm, but it was her norm. ‘It’s home. Well kind of, our mammy moved out recently and it's just me and my sister rattling around there these days. Aisling, that’s my sister manages the place. We rub along alright so long as she doesn’t tell me what I should be doing, but I’d still like my own place. It’s not on the cards for a while though, not with rents being sky high and flats being so hard to come by.’ She hoped she wasn’t babbling. She was unused to the effect being in his presence was having on her, she was the girl who always played it cool.
‘Supply and demand.’ He gave her a rueful grin and her knees threatened to give way. She realised she’d zoned out the hordes of people buzzing past them when a man apologised for knocking Michael’s shoulder.
‘Well, it’s a miserable evening and I’m sure you don’t want to spend it standing around on the street talking to me! I’d better let you get on home. It was good seeing you, Moira.’
‘Oh, I’m not in a hurry.’ The short sentence popped forth unbidden, a bold invitation to talk longer.
That smile again and a slight hesitation. Moira looked at Michael expectantly. For his part, his expression was one of surprise but then he smiled again and rubbed his jawline; she could see the beginnings of a five o’clock shadow. ‘Well, if you’re not in a rush, then it would be great to get the low-down on my new hometown from a local. You know where to go, where not to go, that sort of thing. We could grab a drink, have a bite to eat? My treat.’
‘Don’t you have to get home?’ She regretted the words as soon as she’d said them but she’d definitely heard that we.
It was like the sun went in behind the clouds. ‘No, I’m not in a rush either but I didn’t mean to put you on the spot so, if you’d rather not—’
Moira jumped in, ‘You didn’t. There’s a pub not far from here, The Iron Bridge, they do a deadly Boxty if you’re keen to try something traditional. We could call in there if you like?’
‘I’d like that.’
They smiled at each other, pleased with the arrangement, and merged in with the tide of people walking up the street. ‘Deadly Boxty?’ he said a beat later, keeping pace with her. ‘It sounds like some sort of mushroom. Should I be worried?’
Moira laughed. ‘Boxty’s an Irish staple, they’re potato pancakes and where I’m taking you, they’re served with a lemon and chive mayonnaise.’ Under normal circumstances, Moira’s mouth would have watered at the thought of the crispy, golden pancakes but this situation was anything but normal. She was too aware of Michael’s proximity, hypersensitive to the brush of his arm against hers.
She spied Quinn’s Bistro ahead and quickened her pace, casting a sideways glance as they passed by the cheery red door with its welcoming brass nameplate above it. Inside, she knew would be warm and inviting. The roaring open fire set back in the wall of exposed bricks would beckon people to sit down and take a load off. The low timber-beamed ceiling added to the cosiness and the atmosphere would be convivial and bustling. This would have been a great spot to introduce Michael to. Quinn’s had a bar, live music, the food was great and so was the craic, but she wasn’t risking bumping into Aisling. She didn’t want her sister giving Michael the third degree as to who he was and what his intentions were. The odds of her sister being there at this time of the evening were slim but Moira’s luck had never been great and even if she wasn’t there, Alasdair the maître d’ would be sure to pass on the news he’d seen Moira with a mystery man.
The thing was, she wasn’t sure how she’d explain Michael if she were to bump into anybody she knew. It wasn’t as if they were colleagues. They worked for the same firm, yes, but he held a senior position and ne’er the twain do mix. It was a sort of unwritten rule. Her step faltered, what was she doing? She was ninety per cent sure Michael was married and a man who was spoken for shouldn’t be going for a drink with the receptionist at the law firm he worked at.
Her mammy’s face flashed before her, with the same expression she’d had picking up Moira from school the day she’d gotten caught smoking in the girls’ toilets. Oh, go away, Mammy, she gave her a mental shove and eyed Michael from under her lashes. There was still a ten per cent chance he was single. She was prepared to take a gamble even if the odds weren’t good. Besides, she wasn’t doing anything wrong. A drink, that’s all it was. They were going for a drink not hotfooting it into the nearest hotel and asking for a room. As they reached the lights, the wind gusted down the road nearly cutting her in half, the sudden chill a welcome distraction from her thoughts.
‘That’s straight off the polar circle,’ Michael muttered, shoving his hands deeper into his coat pockets. Moira nodded her agreement, shivering inside her coat as she wondered why, if it was all so innocent, she was so busy trying to justify her actions.