Bridge of Hope (23 page)

Chapter Thirty

The first week without Mallory dragged by at such a bloody snail’s pace, I expected everyone to be walking in slow motion when I went outside. And every time someone spoke to me, I anticipated that ridiculous, slurry, deep voice that you get when you reduce the speed of a film. But of course everyone else’s lives were going on as normal. It was just
me
that was as miserable as fucking sin. Not that anyone really noticed. I’m guessing that this was how they viewed me anyway.

It was Saturday night and Stella had finally told me to bugger off home, seeing as my miserable face was putting the customers off and turning the beer sour too, and so I grabbed Rhiannon and jumped in the Landy. There was a place in Oban that held an open mic night every so often and I had nothing better to do, so I thought I’d take my guitar and maybe consider getting up to sing if the mood struck me.

When I arrived the place was buzzing. I grabbed a pint of Coke and sat down at a small table in the middle of the room. There was a young lad on stage performing a ballad at a keyboard. He had a good voice but the song was dull as shit. When he finished and only a few people clapped, I felt a bit sorry for him. Most probably hadn’t even realised he was even there.

The next act was a girl with long, dark, wavy hair. I couldn’t see the colour of her eyes, but if I squinted
my
eyes so they were a little out of focus and peered up at her, it could’ve been Mallory. Okay, so I was missing her more than I really cared to acknowledge. So much so that there I was sitting in the middle of a dark pub, scrunching my face up at the poor woman onstage like some complete and utter fucking weirdo.

And it was true that every time I saw a girl with long, dark hair I had to check to see if it was Mallory like the desperate man does in the movies where he’s running down the street, searching for the love of his life and grabbing every similar-looking woman he sees. Bloody stupid, considering I had her dog at my house and
she
was in Canada.

The girl sang “Stay With me Till Dawn” by Judy Tzuke and shivers travelled down my spine. She sang with such feeling that it was as if she really meant
every single word
. It’s such a beautiful song, and when applause rang out around the room and I caught myself wiping at my eyes, I realised a few tears had escaped. Okay, so for some reason the lyrics affected me deeply, I admit it. And I also admit that I was turning soft. I slammed my palms together with force and even stuck my fingers in my mouth to whistle. I wasn’t alone. The crowd loved her and it didn’t surprise me in the slightest.

After watching the response she got, I decided I’d put my name down and do a number. I was feeling more confident these days. My performances had been going well at the pub back home and singing was a great method of distraction. Much healthier than whiskey, that’s for sure. When it was my turn to get up I took my seat on the small stage and looked out at the crowd. I could only make out fuzzy shapes due to the bright spotlight shining down on me but most of the people I
could
make out were chatting amongst themselves. Some, however, seemed to be waiting to hear what I was about to deliver.

“Um… good evening folks. My name is Greg McBradden and I stay up by the bridge over the Atlantic. Anyways I thought I’d play a song for you tonight that I happen to love. It’s quite an old one by a band called Chicago and it’s called “Hard Habit to Break.” The room fell into silent anticipation as I started to strum my guitar with the opening chords of my own unique version of the 1980s classic love song.

As I sang the words with my eyes closed, I replayed some of the moments I’d shared with Mallory since I’d met her. I realised that this song was in no way the distraction I’d hoped for. Quite the opposite in fact. Images of the sweet Yorkshire lass floated through my mind. The way her face lit up at her party as she stared over at me where I leaned against the door, watching her being engulfed in a group hug. How her hair fluttered across her face when we sat out on
Little Blue
and she gazed out at the mountains that led up and away from the water. Her sad eyes as she pulled away from me the day she left for Canada. I wish I’d known what she was thinking. What she felt.

All of a sudden it became difficult for me to sing due to the lump in my tightened throat. What the hell was
wrong
with me? I shouldn’t be feeling this way. What was the point? She would never allow herself to feel the same, even if she wanted to. Her pain from losing Sam was still so raw, like an open, bleeding wound.

Thankfully I made it to the end of the song. And the place erupted. I opened my eyes and gulped down a knot of emotion as I peered out at the crowd, many of whom were on their feet applauding. I spotted a couple of women dabbing their eyes and once again realised my own face was damp. So much for escaping. Maybe whiskey was the right distraction after all.

Fuck, I’ve got it bad. Very, very bad
.

Sitting back at the table I’d left earlier, I watched and listened as act after act performed to the revved-up crowd. Later on I got back on stage and sang the classic Proclaimers song “I’m Gonna Be (500 Miles)” and the whole place sang along at the chorus. Although I hated that under normal circumstances, the majority of the audience were performers in their own right and so it didn’t sound half bad. I had no reason to complain. Well… not much anyway.

As the night unfolded I began to relax more as I chatted to some of the other musicians. One of the guys told me about an agency, Class Act Talent, which was looking for acts to represent. It sounded interesting and he seemed to think that I would be right up their street. Being a full-time performer was an idea that never had really occurred to me, but talking about it made it seem like a possibility.

At the end of the night I set off home, and for the first half an hour I fought with the music on my car stereo. Every song seemed hell-bent on making me think about Mallory. Even songs that weren’t bloody love songs. There was something in everything I listened to that brought her to mind. Or rather she was there already and apparently had no intention of shifting. I eventually gave up and drove the rest of the journey in silence.

The buzz of the night had subsided, and I arrived home in the wee hours feeling shattered. As I walked through the front door I was struck with how empty the house felt. I’d felt that after Mairi died, but it had left my mind for a while until I stood there with the words to John Waite’s “Missing You” spinning around my head. I was turning into a fucking pussy. Some teenage spotty kid with a crush on someone he shouldn’t be crushing on.

There was definitely only one thing for it.

Whiskey.

Chapter Thirty-One

After I’d survived three weeks of being virtually alone, it was the day Mallory was due to arrive home. I’d spent time working out, walking, jogging, and working. Anything to try and free my mind from all things to do with the Yorkshire lass. But now she was due home, I was a nervous wreck. I was eager to see her but dreading it at the same time. Could I do it? Could I be her friend? I hoped so. I would just have to squash the feelings I was having and put them down to something pathetic like loneliness. I stood at the kitchen window. Rain spattered on the glass, making everything beyond blurry and obscured. I loved rain. But of course I began to think about the awkward conversation I’d had with Mallory when we were out with the dogs. I must’ve looked like a drowned rat that day, with my hair slicked back and droplets hanging from my nose end. Not a pretty picture.

I’d been meaning to fix an oil leak on the car for a few days, but the weather hadn’t been ideal for mechanics, and so I’d put it off and put it off. Glancing at the clock, I realised there were a couple of hours before Mallory would be home and then she probably wouldn’t come around for Ruby straightaway. No time like the present, then. I changed into some work clothes and grabbed the tools I needed.

Aside from Angus and Rhiannon, my Landy was my pride and joy. It had done me proud for many years and I always made sure I looked after it. Funny how it was an
it
, and my guitar was a female with a name. I’m quirky, alright? Sue me! Actually, don’t bother. I’m pretty skint.

Anyway, I digress. The hood of the car shielded my head from the rain for the most part, but the rest of me was soaked. After half an hour I was covered in oil too.
Great.
And as they say oil and water… Do. Not. Mix!

I was just finishing up when something touched my shoulder and I nearly fucking jumped out of my skin. I reared up and smacked my head on the hood. I winced and inhaled sharply as a throbbing pain registered in my nerves. But as I dizzily turned around, trying my best not to swear but blinking rapidly in the hope that the pain would recede quickly, there she was. As beautiful as ever.

Mallory
.

“You’re actually home.” Brilliant, wasn’t I? I wiped my oily hands down my already grimy shirt. “Come in, I’ll make us a coffee.”

She followed me toward the house. My heart was making its best attempt to burst through my chest by that point, and I opened the door with shaking hands.

Ruby came scuttling up making a yipping noise. She was clearly excited to see her human home. I glanced over as I filled the kettle. Mallory was kneeling down and cuddling the dog. Her gorgeous round arse in the air. I swallowed and gave myself an internal talking to.

She turned to face me and I realised I’d been staring. At her arse. My cheeks increased in temperature by what must have been a few hundred degrees and I turned away.

“So, where’s Trina?” she asked.
What the fuck?
How do I answer that?
Do
I answer that?

Running my dirty hands through my hair, I mumbled something deliberately incoherent. She must have sensed my discomfort as she held up her hands in surrender. “Sorry, it’s none of my business, rude of me to ask.”

My eyes widened. I didn’t want her to feel bad for asking. “Na’, it’s okay. We just weren’t compatible, let’s say.”

“Oh. Right.”

“Truth be told, she was ready for moving in permanently and getting engaged. I mean, for fuck’s sake, I’d only known her a few days.” Remembering what a sight I must look, and realising it would be a good excuse to avoid having this particular conversation right now, I glanced down at my oil-spattered clothes and cringed. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

I took the stairs two at a time, leaving her standing in my kitchen—probably wondering why I’d just bolted. I entered the bathroom and closed the door behind me. Standing before the mirror, I rolled my eyes at my reflection which confirmed that I was indeed wearing an oil stripe across my nose and under both eyes a la Adam Ant from the eighties. I emptied half a tub of face wash into my hand and scrubbed at the oil marks, turning my face pink in the process. Once I’d dried my face, I hurried into the bedroom, hopping around on one leg to remove the soggy jeans that were plastered in place. I quickly ran the towel around my thighs so that getting dry jeans on would be easier and grabbed a clean T-shirt from the drawer. I made my way back down the stairs, rubbing at my hair as I walked.

“So, good time?” I asked her as I pulled my shirt on.

“Brilliant,” she replied.

“Make any new friends out there?”
Translation: Meet any men out there who you fancied?

“Yes, quite a few, actually. I even got asked out.” Her cheeks turned pink and she looked embarrassed. My heart jumped in my chest liked a bloody excited puppy. Of course other men found her attractive. Who wouldn’t?

I watched as she fiddled with her fingernails. “Why do you sound surprised?”

Her brow creased. “Oh, I don’t know. It was nice. I’d forgotten what it was like to be asked out.”

“So, did you go?” I didn’t really want to know the answer and realised my frown was mirroring hers. I turned and walked back through to the kitchen to re-boil the kettle.

“No, he wasn’t my type.”

I turned to face her again. “Oh, right. Do you have a type, then?” Now this answer was one I
did
want to hear.

She shrugged and tucked her hair behind her ear. “I didn’t think so. But anyway, he wasn’t it, that’s for sure. Too… oh, I don’t know. I just didn’t fancy him.”

I shook my head.
So that’s how to avoid giving a real answer, eh?
I decided to change the subject. “I’ve something to ask you, anyways.” I poured boiling water into the mugs in front of me and added milk, handing one to her.

“Oh yeah? What’s that, then?” She took a sip and yelped.

“Too eager! I made it with hot water and everything, you know.” I couldn’t help teasing.

She rolled her eyes. “Ha-ha.”

“Anyway. It’s my birthday next weekend and I thought we could maybe have that beach barbie we’d talked about for your birthday.”
Please say yes
. “I know that was just a ruse to get you to cheer up whilst I was planning your
actual
birthday, but I do quite fancy it.”