Every Time a Bell Rings. Carmel Harrington

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       Prologue

       Blessed is the season which engages the whole world in a conspiracy of love.

      Hamilton Wright Mabie

      Christmas Eve, 2005

      ‘Happiness is …’ I exhale a long, deep, satisfied sigh, and the cold breath of winter floats out of my mouth up into the air.

      ‘This is the best Christmas street lighting yet.’

      I know I say the same thing every year, in this very same spot, at this very same time. I’ll probably say it again next year too.

      In this moment, I’ve never seen anything more perfect. The Victorian-inspired decorations are from a bygone era that shine with goodwill to all men. I know, I know, that sounds all cheese on toast, but when it comes to Christmas, that’s allowed. With extra parmesan on top, as far as I’m concerned.

      My city, my beloved Dublin, is sparkling in a festive glow. And its inhabitants are collectively holding their breaths, because Christmas is almost here.

      And this year, I’ve been delivered an early Christmas present. The fact that it’s the same one I received when I was eight years old isn’t lost on me. Coincidence, fate, magic, I don’t know what forces are at play to make this happen, but I’m grateful.

      Just two weeks ago, I was single, happily so too, living my best life, teaching kids in St Colmcille’s. I honest to goodness didn’t wake up each day lamenting the lack of love in my life. Because I had a good life, boyfriends coming and going. I figured that one day I would meet Mr Right. But now that he is here, I cannot believe that I ever got through each day without him by my side.

      Here I am, at the foot of Grafton Street with Jim Looney of all people. If you would have suggested such a thing to me a mere few weeks ago, the words ‘look up’ and ‘flying pigs’ would have been uttered.

      Jim Looney.

      I sigh again as I take him in, standing beside the statue of Molly Malone, laughing at the tinsel that someone has draped over her cleavage.

      An image of Jim strutting down a runway pops into my head and I giggle at the thought. He could give any male model a run for their money, but I think he’d rather pull his nails out one by one than do that.

      I grab my phone and take a photo of him. I’ve already taken at least a dozen this evening. He could be modelling a new line in men’s winter clothing, he looks so good. I mean, not many could get away with that multi-coloured Dr Who-inspired scarf wrapped around his neck over and over. But on him it looks quirky and cool.

      And, this is the bit that I still can’t quite believe.

      He’s my boyfriend. All mine.

       Don’t go getting too used to this, Belle. It never lasts.

      I quickly banish the little voice inside my head. Go away nasty mean voice.

      I know full well that I’m punching above my weight. I mean, for goodness sake, he’s even got a chiselled jawline. Seriously, I’m telling you, he’s fecking gorgeous. I can’t find ways to describe him to you without sounding like a big sap. But trust me when I say this. He’s, as we are want to say in Dublin about a good-looking man, a ‘ride’.

      When I look into his big blue eyes, I’m done for. I keep forgetting what I’m about to say when he directs those baby blues at me.

      And don’t get me started on his hair. That’s always been my Achilles heel. It makes me feel all protective and full of love. You see, it has this habit of just flopping over his right eye. I’m sure most would say it’s red or ginger, maybe even auburn. But I like to call it foxy.

      Jim McFoxy Looney.

      When it does that flopping thing, it’s as if my hands have a mind of their own and they involuntarily reach up to brush it back off his forehead. But there again, I’m not complaining about that, because I don’t need any excuse to touch Jim. And I’ve realised that when I do touch him, it seems to have a delicious knock-on effect. One minute I’m lightly touching his forearm, then the next we’re kissing.

      A shiver ripples through me as I remember what happened only this morning when I brushed past him on my way into the bathroom.

      Twice.

      Who would have thought that Jim Looney had that in him? I’m telling you, it’s ridiculous how sexy he is.

      He is, no other word for it, but a fecking ride.

      You’ll notice that I’ll find any excuse to say that.

      Jim Looney, the big ride, my boyfriend.

      I feel a bit giddy with it all, to be honest. It’s like it’s five o’clock all the time and I’m half drunk. The mad thing is, I’ve not had much to drink in weeks. Jim’s not a big drinker and that in itself is charming, because all the guys I’ve dated recently seem to be more in love with a pint of lager than me. Kind of refreshing to be with a guy who gets that there are more things to do in life than prop up a bar.

      ‘What are you thinking about?’ Jim asks, with a raised eyebrow.

      ‘Ah, that would be telling,’ I say with a grin.

      Thank goodness he can’t read thoughts. If I tell him what I’ve just been thinking, we’ll be in a taxi and on our way back to my apartment before the words are out of my mouth. And as tempting as that thought is, it will have to wait.

      Because it’s Christmas Eve and we’re on Grafton Street, where its festive delights await us.

      ‘So, tell me about this tradition of yours, the one you do every Christmas Eve?’ Jim asks.

      ‘This is my tenth year. Started because of Joyce O’Connor,’ I say.

      ‘Why do I get the feeling there’s a story there?’ Jim remarks.

      ‘Oh yes, there’s a story alright. She asked me to go into the city with her one Christmas Eve, when I was fifteen,’ I say.

      I wonder what Joyce is up to now. We lost touch a long time ago. But she’s wrapped up in this particular tradition and standing here usually sparks a memory of her.

      She СКАЧАТЬ