When he put it so invitingly, Jo couldn’t see any reason to refuse, so she led Lorcan Gallagher into The Blackbird bar and bistro and handed him the cocktail menu. ‘Choose your poison!’ she said.
And he did.
By the time night was falling, Jo and Lorcan had chosen several poisons and were merrily making their way home: Lorcan to his grandfather’s house, close to Ivy Lane, and Jo to her own home, which was about a ten-minute walk on a good night.
Jo could feel her lips tingle – that little hint of numbness that comes from having consumed just a little too much alcohol on an empty stomach. But she felt light and free and she had laughed more that day than she had done in weeks before. She had barely thought about her need for a new home, or whether or not she would ever make it as a writer. She had just lived in the moment and she had loved it.
To her surprise, rather than being a self-involved arse, Lorcan was good company. He not only brought out the silly, fun side of her but also listened when she talked about more serious things. When she laughed, he laughed too and it was definitely with her and not at her. They had so much in common, and not just their love for Derry Girls. Both of them felt at a crossroads in their lives and it was nice to spend time with someone of a similar age who didn’t seem to have it all figured out.
When their chat had become a little more flirty several drinks in, she tried not to overthink it and just enjoy it. He told her he loved her accent, and the colour of her hair. ‘You look just like Maureen O’Hara in The Quiet Man. I remember watching that with my grandparents when I visited. I know it’s really uncool of me to admit it, but I always loved it.’
Jo had smiled. ‘It’s a classic. Funny and romantic and cheesy all at once.’
‘That’s my recipe for a good movie,’ Lorcan had said. ‘I thought Maureen O’Hara was beautiful.’
He’d looked at her and she was sure she saw something a little more behind his eyes. Was it a connection or one too many cocktails – she couldn’t tell, but she was enjoying whatever it was.
They walked together in the balmy late-April air, as red streaks crossed the sky and the ground below her feet felt slightly springy – cushioned by alcohol.
She felt warm and fuzzy when he stepped to the outside of the footpath. ‘Grandad always told me to walk on the outside when walking with a lady. It’s the gentlemanly thing to do, or something.’
‘How’s that?’ Jo asked.
‘I think it’s in case a car comes hurtling at us and mounts the pavement. I shall gallantly lay down my life to protect you because that’s what gentlemen do.’
‘Really?’ Jo asked, intrigued by this ages-old etiquette.
‘I think so,’ Lorcan said. ‘Or it might be in case a car drives through a puddle. In which case, I’ll be the one soaked and covered in mud, and you’ll be grand. It’s not quite as dramatic, but a gallant act all the same.’
Jo laughed. ‘Indeed. Thank you for your impeccable manners. Harry would be proud.’
Lorcan coloured a little and Jo felt a little spark of something in the pit of her stomach. It was a connection she had totally not expected, but it felt just right. She didn’t think anything of it when, as they walked, she found her hand in Lorcan’s. Bizarrely, it felt perfectly natural, and more than that, it just felt nice. Jo wondered how long it had been since she had held someone’s hand? Someone who wasn’t Clara.
When they reached the bottom of her street, she stopped and looked up at him. He was head and shoulders taller than her and even though she was a proud, independent woman, just as Beyoncé had taught her, in that moment she enjoyed feeling doll-like beside him.
‘If you ever feel like throwing any of your belongings out of your bag again just to attract my attention, that might be cool,’ Lorcan said.
Jo narrowed her gaze. ‘As if! I bet you secretly unzipped my bag when I wasn’t looking.’
‘You got me,’ he laughed, with his hands up in a surrender pose. ‘I never could resist the allure of free tampons and MAC lipstick.’
‘I thought as much,’ Jo said, and she laughed – all embarrassment at the earlier incident now setting the scene for a moment – a blink-and-you’d-miss-it moment – of something more than hand-holding and friendship.
‘Take my number,’ Lorcan said. His voice was soft and low. The jokey, laddish tone was all but gone.
Jo looked up, and damn it, it might have been the sunset, or the four cocktails on an empty stomach, but she swore his eyes actually twinkled.
Having forced a breath into her lungs, Jo reached for her phone and handed it to him. ‘Here! Add it in there.’
He tapped in his details and handed the phone back to her. ‘I’ll check you out on social media too. What do you use? Twitter? Facebook? Is Insta your addiction? Let me think… you’re a TikTok girl?’
‘You’ll find me on Facebook. I’m not trendy enough to deal with Instagram or TikTok and Twitter scares me.’
‘I’ll send you a friend request,’ he said as he opened Facebook on his phone and found her name.
The notification pinged on her phone and she instantly clicked into the app to accept his request. She couldn’t help but notice the little email icon in the top corner of her phone screen letting her know she had a new message.
‘There! I’ve got you,’ she said, doing her best to ignore it and focus on the moment she was in.
She looked up at Lorcan and he smiled, before he pulled her into a quick hug and said his goodbyes, leaving her surprised to feel disappointed that a hug was all he offered.
Doing her best to ignore the very strange feelings that she was experiencing towards Lorcan, Jo focused instead on the mysterious email. It was time to see what it was, and who it was from.
She felt the colour drain from her face and she sobered up immediately. There, in her Gmail, was a message from Ewan McLachlan. Subject: ‘Your work’.
12
Men in Black
Jo stared at the email and reread the subject line at least twenty times. Each time she tried to interpret what those two words could mean. There was no exclamation mark, so maybe he wasn’t enthused. But there was no sad face emoji here. Your work, she read and then repeated it. Your work. Your work. Your work?!!??
If her life was an episode of a sitcom, this was where it would cut to a dreamlike sequence, replete with canned laughter as a devilishly handsome, cravat-wearing author raised a perfectly preened eyebrow and either told her that her words had ignited a flame deep within him and he’d love to get to know her better… much better, or he shook his head and cried in an overly dramatic Frazier Crane-style voice that her work was ‘a travesty and an insult’. In the sitcom, she would either rush round to find Ewan at her door and fall into his arms, or in the second scenario, she would gather with her friends and they would talk about making voodoo dolls or similar.
But this was real life and her nerves at what he might say were very, very real. If someone had told her a week before that she would be receiving an email from Ewan McLachlan she would have laughed but opened the message without hesitation. But this wasn’t just any email from Ewan McLachlan. This was a message about her work and that was a very different kettle of fish altogether.
She knew that, just like ripping off a plaster, her best approach would be to just do it really fast. Open the email, read the words, deal with the aftermath. But, she’d had such a nice day – a day free from responsibility and self-doubt – she wasn’t sure that she wanted to risk anything detracting from it. She’d discovered that Lorcan was not the self-entitled spoiled little shit she had always taken him to be and she had definitely felt something more than just a burgeoning friendship between them. She thought of his lips, smooth, soft – just full enough. Jo realised she was smiling.
She took another deep breath and walked on home. She’d face whatever the email held soon, but just not quite yet.
‘Where have you been all day?’ her mother asked as they sat together enjoying a cup of tea before be
d. ‘I called in to see Noah about talking to Clara and he said he hadn’t seen you. I know you’re taking some time off, but you normally still call by to see Paddy if nothing else.’
‘I know I normally do. And actually I was planning to call in, but I bumped into someone and we ended up spending the day together. What did Noah say about Clara?’ Jo asked, trying to deflect attention away from the ‘someone’ she’d bumped into.
But she should have known her mother wasn’t easily knocked off track. ‘Woah there,’ her mother said. ‘No changing the subject. Noah will talk to Clara and it will all be fine, but that aside – who was this someone you bumped into? I know Erin was working, because I saw her at the pub…’ Jo’s mother would have made a great interrogator in a different life and she stared at her daughter, determined to get an answer.
Jo felt a hint of a blush creep up her neck. ‘It wasn’t someone you know. More of an acquaintance than a friend, to be honest.’
Maureen Campbell raised an eyebrow inquisitively. Jo should have known her mother’s radar for gossip would detect there was more to this story. ‘Does this acquaintance have a name or is it a state secret?’
‘He does,’ Jo said, and noticed the slight change in her mother’s expression at the use of the word ‘he’. Damn it! She knew she had given away too much, but now it was done she knew there was no way she was getting away without revealing much more.
‘It was Lorcan Gallagher. Harry’s grandson. I think I told you he was over here for a few weeks – staying with his grandad. Well, I met him on the quay and we got talking. He wanted to see the Derry Girls mural, so I offered to take him, and then we did one of the walking tours. I’m so embarrassed by how little I knew about my own city. Lorcan wanted to know about where his dad grew up, and it was nice day, and I wasn’t working, so I offered to take him.’ Jo knew she was rambling, but she figured if she kept talking, then she denied her mother the chance to ask more probing questions. She didn’t want to have to try and put a definition on anything to do with Lorcan other than they had met, as two people at a loose end, and had spent some time together.
Her mother appraised her carefully. ‘Well, it sounds like you had a nice day and I’m glad of it. You didn’t seem like yourself yesterday, and Dad told me you spoke to him earlier. He worries about you, you know.’
‘I’m fine, honest. Today did me the power of good,’ she smiled.
‘Did you see Libby?’ her mother asked. ‘I saw her and all she could do was rave about that book of yours. Do you think you might let me read it at some stage?’
Jo shifted in her seat. ‘Hmm. At some stage. Yes.’ Perhaps, she thought, when she moved away to a different continent – preferably somewhere without WIFI – where she couldn’t see or hear her mother’s reaction.
‘I look forward to it. I’ve always known you’d a talent for writing. All those wee stories you cobbled together when you were younger. All those notebooks you have. You had the spark then. Maybe we should’ve encouraged it more…’
Jo reached out and gave her mum’s hand a squeeze. ‘You’ve always encouraged me, Mum. You and Dad both. In everything I’ve done. You didn’t even bat an eyelid when I cleared off to Spain to work, or when I came home again looking as if I had been on a two-year bender.’
‘Which you kind of had been…’ her mum said with a soft smile.
‘So no guilt about encouraging me or not. I think I only just realised how much I wanted this, and that I wanted to really go for it properly recently. Like really recently. And, on that note.’ She paused, and took a deep breath before speaking – aware that once she said it, it would all feel real. ‘I’ve received an email from Ewan McLachlan.’
‘You have?’ Her mother sat forward, her hands on her knees, her voice giddy with excitement. ‘Well, what did it say?’
Jo shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I haven’t read it yet.’
‘Why the hell not?’ her mother asked, clearly baffled.
‘Because today has been a good day and I don’t want an email telling me I’m a talentless wonder to take the shine off it,’ Jo admitted.
‘It’s not going to say that, Jo. C’mon!’ her mother said.
‘It might, Mum and I don’t want to ruin today with bad news.’
‘It could round it off to perfect if it’s good news?’ her mother suggested hopefully.
‘I’m not sure I want to take that chance,’ Jo replied. ‘I’m going to try and be very chill about it and not rush to read it.’
‘You’re a stronger woman than me,’ her mum said. ‘I can’t say I fully understand it, but I respect the hell out of you.’
At 12.03 a.m., Jo decided she’d had enough of being chill. Fumbling in the dark of her room, she switched her phone on and silently cursed as it seemed to take longer than ever before to start up.
Eventually it came to life, Jo opened Gmail and the email stared at her, willing her to hit the screen to open it. What could it say? She felt as if she was taking her life in her hands as she closed her eyes and swiped at the screen. She even considered waking her mum and asking her to hold her hand while she read it but decided she had to be mature, brave and just get on with it.
When she dared open her eyes, she saw that Ewan McLachlan had, quite disappointingly, sent a rather dry message.
I’ve had the chance to read the start of your book, sent to me by Libby Quinn at Once Upon A Book. As you will be aware, I will be visiting Derry on Thursday, and would appreciate having some of your time to discuss your work. Perhaps we could meet at the bookshop half an hour before the event?
Jo stared at the email as she processed all the feelings welling up inside of her.
She’d hoped to at least get a hint of how he felt about her work, but he had given her nothing to go on. But he did want to meet her, and she wouldn’t have long to wait. So while she did feel disappointed that he hadn’t given her any feedback in his message – and that she had spent hours trying to be chill about an email which neither confirmed or refuted her ability as a writer – she also knew she was lucky. This was happening. Ewan McLachlan wanted to meet her to talk about her book. In less than forty-eight hours.
She was just about to switch her phone off and try, probably in vain, to go back to sleep, when another message notification pinged.
It was a WhatsApp from Lorcan.
Had fun today. What other touristy treats can you show me? I promise not to steal from your bag again.
Jo was very surprised to find that when she lay back down, determined not to answer any message in the wee small hours, lest it give the wrong impression, that she had a smile on her face.
13
Tomorrow Never Dies
When Jo woke again, it was eight in the morning and she could hear Clara stomping down the stairs to get her breakfast. She looked, bleary-eyed, at her phone – the hazy memory returning of both her email from Ewan and her message from Lorcan. One made her feel nauseous and the other made her feel jittery. Excitement mixed with trepidation and just a little dash of growing bravery.
However, as realisation dawned on her that there really was just one day until Ewan McLachlan visited Once Upon A Book and talked to her about her book, it was clear the nausea was going to win this particular battle.
She sat up and sipped from the now warm glass of water on her bedside table and tried to figure out a way to pull herself together enough to act like a strong and confident author in just thirty-six hours.
She was distracted from her impending nervous breakdown by the sound of tiny hands hammering on her bedroom door. ‘Come in!’ she called, and watched as the handle turned and Clara, dressed in her school uniform of joggers and a logoed sweatshirt, walked in brandishing a hairbrush and a green scrunchie.
‘I’ve had my breakfast and brushed my teeth and can you please brush my hair today and put it in a ponytail?’
Clara climbed up on the bed in front of Jo and waited for her to start brushing.
‘Of course I’ll do
that, Clara. Did you have nice dreams last night?’ Jo asked.
‘I don’t remember,’ Clara said, sitting as still as a statue while Jo brushed her hair. ‘Is today a work day or school day or home day for you?’ Clara asked.
‘It’s a home day. I’m taking some time off from the bar to work on writing some stories.’
Clara’s eyes widened. ‘Writing stories? Like I do in school? But you’re a grown-up.’
‘Grown-ups write stories,’ she said. ‘Lots of them. We make things up and tell stories and then we share our stories with people.’
‘Will you share your stories with me?’ Clara asked, her eyes wide with wonder. ‘You could come to my school and read them to the class. We had a lady come in who read us a story and did all the voices and everything.’
Jo thought of her rather dark crime novel, and just how traumatic it might for a class of six-year-olds to hear her do the voices of some very bad people. ‘Hmmm, the kind of stories I write aren’t really for children. They’re scary stories.’
Clara pulled a face, which made Jo laugh out loud. It was somewhere between horrified and disgusted. ‘No, don’t read scary stories. We don’t like those. I get scary dreams sometimes. Maybe you could come and read Guess How Much I Love You, or one of my Peppa Pig books? Or that book Granny got me, about the Little Mermaid?’
‘I’m sure I could do that someday if your school would like it,’ she said, and Clara nodded enthusiastically.
‘We have mammy helpers and daddy helpers come in all the time to help us read or play or draw. Maybe big sister helpers would be allowed too.’ She looked so excited that Jo felt as if her heart would burst. She pulled Clara into a giant hug and told her she was the best girl in the entire world before giving her a kiss and promising to read her two stories at bedtime.
In Pursuit of Happiness Page 8
