Love Comes Tumbling

Transcript - Chapter 1

A bird has just flown into my car – a moving car, a moving bird, heading in different directions yet somehow magically intersecting. I thought, at first, that it had simply flown close to my open window, passing by on its way somewhere else, but a manic flapping behind my head has made me realise otherwise.

‘It’s a blackbird,’ says Fint, beside me.

‘I don’t care what it is, just get rid of it.’ If he hadn’t been smoking, we wouldn’t be in this mess. I put on my hazard lights and swerve my VW Beetle on to the hard shoulder. We hop out, Fint leaving his door wide open. It’s the first time I’ve regretted driving a two-door. Fint runs to the back and bangs at the window. The bird flies up front, and out. In a blur, it’s free.

‘Now that’s what I call spooky,’ he says.

‘I know. Weird.’

We stand looking at each other.

‘An omen,’ says Fint, eyes wide in an effort to look menacing.

I laugh. Fint is about as menacing as a sandwich.

We get back in. He looks over his seat. ‘By the way, he shat on your upholstery.’

‘Thanks, Fint.’

He smiles, pulls out his laptop and opens it up. I start the engine. We’re off again. And late. I’m keeping just under the speed limit in the fast lane, when I realize we have company. At my bumper is a black Mercedes Sports Convertible. I’m wondering what kind of idiot drives with his top down on a bleak March day in Dublin when said idiot swerves to overtake me on the inside. He didn’t even give me time to pull in.

‘Unbelievable,’ I say.

‘What?’ asks Fint, looking up from the laptop.

‘People like that cause accidents.’

‘People like what?’

I nod to the culprit up ahead. ‘That guy just passed on the inside.’

‘Oh,’ he says, and goes back to work.

‘Is that it? “Oh!” Fintan he could kill someone the way he’s driving.’

Fint’s head turns slowly in my direction, his eyes suddenly knowing. ‘Stop looking at me like that,’ I snap.

‘Like what?’

‘Like you know what’s going on in my head. Like you think I’m overreacting because of what happened to Brendan. Like you pity me.’

He looks like he’s thinking before speaking. ‘I don’t pity you, Lucy. I just feel that you shouldn’t let every careless driver you see remind you of what happened. It’s been eighteen months.’ He pauses. Then slowly says, ‘Maybe it’s time to let Brendan go.’

My head swivels in his direction. ‘Brendan was my life, my future…’

‘You still have a future, Lucy. Just a different one.’

‘I don’t want a different one…. We’d be married. I might even be pregnant….’ I feel tears on the way.

‘Lucy, stop.’

‘Did a dangerous driver cheat you out of your future?’

He looks guilty.

‘Well, then, you don’t know what you’re talking about.’

He sighs and looks out his window. ‘You’re right, I don’t. I’m sorry.’

He’d have been thirty today, Fint. Thirty.’ Fint reaches across and puts a hand on my shoulder.

then pull up at lights. I glance to my left. ‘Ha! Didn’t get far, did he, for all his rushing?’

Fint looks across at him.

‘Roll down the window,’ I say.

‘What? Why?’

‘Someone should tell people like him….’

‘Lucy, you are not a vigilante. You don’t know him. This is how road rage incidents start.’

I roll it down myself. Stretch over. ‘Excuse me?’ I call.

He glances over. Good looking guy, around the forty mark. Tight hair cut, almost shaven. Dark eyes. Black cashmere sweater with soft collar. He turns down his radio.

‘Are you planning on killing someone today?’ I ask.

His eyes widen. I prepare for anger. He studies me a moment, then smiles. ‘It wasn’t on my agenda, no.’ He pauses, then adds, ‘Wine gum?’

‘I’m sorry?’

He holds out a packet of sweets.

I shake an irritated head. ‘I suppose it never occurred to you that driving like that could cause an accident?’

His smile only widens. ‘I’m touched by your concern,’ he says, his tone is flirtatious. Which makes me angrier than ever.

‘Yes, well if you continue to drive like that, you’ll be touched by something with a lot more impact.’

‘Lucy,’ says Fint, under his breath.

‘Anyone ever tell you, you look lovely when you’re angry?’ he calls across.

‘That old chestnut!’ I roll up the window and glance straight ahead. ‘Gobshite,’ I mutter.

‘Cute gobshite,’ corrects Fint.

‘Fintan, do you have to look on every man as a potential conquest?’

‘Potential conquest. My dear, you underestimate me.’

I shake my head. The lights go green and we move off. The Merc stays level with us, like a shadow. ‘Oh, great,’ I groan. ‘Now, look what I’ve started. Shouldn’t have opened my bloody mouth.’

Fint looks across at him. ‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that,’ he says. ‘This is just beginning to get interesting.’

Deciding to lose him, I speed up.

So does he.

‘Jesus, what are you doing?’ Fint’s pinned to the back of his seat.

The Merc catches us but has to slow again behind a tangerine Nissan Micra doing, I don’t know, thirty?

I slap the steering wheel. ‘Ha! We got him!’

‘Lucy, what’s got into you?’

‘Nothing.’ My voice is light, innocent. I check the rear view mirror. He’s passed the Micra, and is behind us again. He whips into the inside lane. I accelerate. As does he. Neck and neck, I peer across. He’s like an ad for tooth whitener. I raise an eyebrow, turn back to the road.

‘You’re taking on a Mercedes, Lucy. D’you think that’s wise?’

Almost by way of an answer, it eases ahead of us, heading for the horizon.

‘Show off,’ I say.

We round a bend. There he is, up ahead, stuck behind a slow car in the fast lane. There is a line of traffic inside him, so no lane hopping this time. I join the end of the line. And look dead ahead as we overtake him.

‘You absolute hypocrite!’ says Fint. ‘Overtaking on the inside.’

That wakes me up. I slow down, wonder at myself.

Fint looks across at me. ‘What was that about?’

I’ve no idea.

‘That was so not like you, babe...’

What was I doing? I just told the guy he was driving dangerously only to race him and do the same myself. How could I do that – forget Brendan and how he died? Disloyal. Stupid. I indicate and turn off for the industrial estate where the client we are on our way to see is based. Within minutes we pull up outside the offices of Copperplate Press, one of Ireland’s leading publishers, located way out here, on the fringes of Dublin city because they are also, unfortunately, a book wholesaler and require enormous premises. One meeting takes up a half day by the time you get there and back. Still, I shouldn’t complain. They’re not a bad crowd, dynamic by industry standards, with good titles. And I love the work we do for them: designing their book jackets and promotional material. 

Fint and I run a graphic design firm, Get Smart Designs, named after the comic secret agent, Maxwell Smart of 70’s fame, who Fint has always resembled, even as a boy. It was my father who drew attention to the likeness, the show being before our time. When we checked it out on the Internet, the similarity was uncanny. And hilarious. We’re both twenty-nine and have been in business five years, having cut our teeth with some of the bigger firms. Eventually, we teamed up to do it our way. Things have gone well. A staff of six, besides ourselves, might sound small but is pretty respectable as design houses go. I’m the creative one, Fint the business brain.

We met at art college. Though I was doing Fine Art and he Graphics, we shared one important thing: college was the first place either of us had fitted in – Fint because his sexuality had always made him feel different, me because I consistently fell short of my mother’s expectations. We became inseparable and have stayed that way. Fint seeks my advice on his (complicated) relationships and I try to avoid him interfering in mine – at the moment, that involves convincing him I don’t want another. Currently, Fint is seeing a dentist he met on an Internet dating site called Gaydar.

He leans forward in his seat now, ‘Isn’t that…?’

There is a black Mercedes Sports Convertible parked at the front door, its hood coming up. It’s him.

‘Don’t look over,’ I say, pulling up the handbrake. ‘Wait till he goes in.’

Fint jumps out. Legs it over to the car. The driver emerges. He’s tallish, though I’ve never been great on height. Fit. I’m surprised to see denims and wonder what he’s doing here. He and Fint talk for a minute or two, then look in my direction. They begin to walk towards me. Before I can decide on the best course of action, they’re on the path in front of my car. Fint’s new friend stoops suddenly to peer through my windscreen. I pretend I’ve dropped something.

‘Michael Schumacher not coming out?’ he calls to Fint.

‘I think she’s shy,’ offers my business partner. Helpful as ever.

Right. That’s it. I step out, chin high. ‘Ready, Fintan? Or are you just going to stand around chatting all day.’

‘Oooh.’

I walk through them, heading for the door.

‘Hello,’ he says with that smile. 

I nod, keep going.

He runs ahead of me. Holds the door. Joins us in the lobby. 

Exhilarating,’ he says.

‘Sorry?’

‘The race. Exhilarating!’

 I raise an eyebrow. ‘I’d have described it as dangerous.’

He doesn’t blink. ‘So why d’you do it, then? If it was so dangerous?’

He’s got me there.

Fint heads for reception leaving me alone with him.

‘Better tell them you’re here,’ I say, nodding to the desk, arms folded.

‘Time enough,’ he replies, not budging.

I shrug. Walk away. Over to the black leather couch.

He follows. Sits at the other end. Unfortunately it’s a two-seater.

I pick up a paper.

‘Look,’ he says, ‘I’m sorry if my driving offended or annoyed you or whatever the problem is.’

‘There’s no problem.’ Now just go away.

‘It’s just the way you took off back there…I thought you were challenging me. No. To tell you the truth, I thought you were flirting.’

'Well, you were wrong. I was definitely not flirting.’ The nerve of the guy.

‘Sorry…My mistake. It’s the car, you see. People are always trying to race…’

‘Not me.’

‘You know,’ he says, leaning forward for a close-up. ‘you have a remarkable face.’

Look. That might work for…’

I’m interrupted by Matt O’Hagan, MD of Copperplate Press, who’s practically sprinting across reception, shouting, ‘Greg, Greg’ at the top of his already loud voice. Matt: small man with the presence of a low flying aircraft. Think Danny DeVito. ‘Greg’ stands. Matt reaches him, extends his hand. They shake. I’m waiting for my ‘hello’. But it doesn’t come. I’m invisible. Greg is gushed over by Matt who, I realise, was aware that he’d arrived without his presence even being announced. If you knew Matt, you’d appreciate how unusual that is.

‘You found us easy enough?’ asks Matt. ‘We’d have sent a car…’

I’ve never known Matt to send a car anywhere for anyone. Tight ship, Copperplate Press.

‘Actually, I enjoyed the drive.’ This is directed at me.

I look ahead.

‘I was just introducing myself to…’

Matt finally realises I’m not a mannequin. ‘Oh, Lucy, Lucy, hello, hello.’

‘Hello, Matt.’ I stand, smile, shake his meaty hand. ‘We’re here for a meeting with Orla. There’s Fintan behind you…’

‘I see, I see.’ He doesn’t look around. ‘So, you’ve met Greg Millar, then…’

Greg Millar. Greg Millar? Not Greg Millar, the international bestselling author? I knew he looked familiar. It’s the hair. So short. It threw me. Makes him younger. I call to mind my mental impression of his jacket photograph and give it a haircut. Inside, I groan. It is him. And knowing my luck, Copperplate has probably just signed him or something.

‘…Lucy, here,’ Matt bangs me on the back, ‘designs our book jackets, does a bloody good job too, don’t you, Luce?’

He has never, until now, called me Luce.

I produce a smile from somewhere. ‘Well, I’d better get going, meeting at two. Nice to meet you…’ I’ve a problem saying his name.

‘Greg.’ He holds out his hand.

‘Greg,’ I confirm, shaking it, trying to ignore the look of amusement that’s spreading across his face. 

I can’t get away fast enough.