I’m there, ‘The one thing I love in a relationship is honesty.’ ‘So,’ she goes, ‘how long have you been a doctor?’
HE’S THE BEST-LOOKING bird in the pub – by, like, a mile. JP thinks she might be a Leinster fan, except I know better. “If she was a Leinster fan,” I go, “she’d have a pair of sunnies on her head.”
He’s like, “I suppose.”
I’m there, “There’s no suppose about it. She’s, like, Welsh.”
Oisinn arrives over with the pints. The dude might be bankrupt, but he’s not afraid to get his round in – fair focks would be my basic attitude. “She’s a ringer for Pippa Middleton,” it’s he who goes – and, see, that’s exactly what I was thinking?
There’s, like, a serious buzz in the bor. People’s eyes are out on stalks looking at the girl but no one’s plucked up the courage to make an actual move. There’s, like, 200 Leinster fans looking to me like they looked to Johnny Sexton in the second half today. All thinking the same thing. There’s only one man for the job.
I smile and just shake my head. See, this is the cross I have to carry. The weight of an entire province’s expectations. I tip over to her. “Hey,” I go, laying it down like a Fiddy track. “The name’s Ross.” She smiles. She does actually look like Pippa Middleton, except with wonky Taylor Keith. “I’m Blodwyn,” she goes.
I burst out laughing. “Sorry,” I go, “that’s a new one on me. And I’ve known a lot of girls my time. In fact, you should have seen the job that my soon-to-be-ex-wife and I had trying to come up with a name for our daughter. It couldn’t be the name of a girl I’d been with in the past, see. Sorcha’s a bit funny like that. Anyway, we ended up having to go through five books of baby names.”
She laughs. “You’re funny,” she goes, except she pronounces it “funnay”. It’s not that unlike the Wicklow accent?
“Blodwyn was my grandmother’s name, see. It means white flower.”
“Well,” I go, “it’s a pleasure to meet you – White Flower.” She’s, like, putty in the lámh after that. I give her half an hour of full eye contact and some of my best lines and, before anyone knows what’s what, I’ve invited her back to the BB. She heads off to say goodnight to her friends and I do the same.
Like everyone else in the pub, they’ve been watching my performance literally mesmerised. I’m not making this up – there are Leinster fans actually high-fiving each other. They’re obviously thinking, cometh the hour and blahdy-blahdy blah-blah. I suppose you could say that’s been very much the theme of the day.
I look at Fionn. “Remember the rule,” I go, “if you hear the bed rockin, don’t come knockin,” which I know is going to seriously piss him off. He was the one who said we should all get a room each – he knows from experience that doubling with me usually means walking the streets till dawn.
Except he’s grinning at me like a shot fox. So are Oisinn and JP. It’s obvious that something’s up.
“What’s that on her ankle,” it’s JP who goes.
I follow his line of, I suppose, vision. “It’s, like, an ankle bracelet,” I go. “Yeah, no, Sorcha was saying the other day that chunky jewellery was, like, in this year? Or was it out? I don’t know – I never listen.” That’s when Fionn goes, “It’s an electronic tag, Ross,” delighted to have something over me for once in his life.
I’m like, “A what?” and it’s suddenly obvious why every Leinster fan in the place is laughing like it’s 6.40pm again.
“The girl’s a crim,” it’s JP who goes.
Suddenly, roysh, she’s stood in front of me, going, “Are we leaving then?” and you can hear practically everyone in the pub thinking the exact same thing – how’s the Rossmeister General going to play this one? But then I think, hey, I’ve just pulled the best-looking girl in the place tonight – as long as she’s not Cardiff’s equivalent of one of the Scissors Sisters, what’s the biggie? On the walk back to the BB, though, the curiosity gets the better of me and I end up having to ask. I’m like, “That thing on your ankle . . .”
“It’s an electronic tag,” she goes, straight out with it.
I’m there, “Good. The one thing I love in a relationship is honesty.”
“So,” she goes, “how long have you been a doctor?”
“Let’s just pork that question for a minute, Blodwyn. Do you mind me asking why you’re wearing an electronic tag? And should you even be out tonight?”
She rolls her eyes. “You’re worse than my bleddy probation officer, you. No, I shouldn’t be out tonight. But I were gasping for a drink. Satisfied?”
I’m not, of course. Even when we’re back in my room, preparing for combat, there’s one question that keeps troubling me. I eventually ask it. “How do I know the cops aren’t going to suddenly burst in?”
She laughs. “The cops? How would they know I was here?”
I nod at her ankle. “Er, that thing?”
She laughs – even horder this time? “They can’t use it to track me. Jesus – is that why you kept looking up into the sky on the way here? You were looking for a helicopter, weren’t you?”
I don’t deny it. “I’ve possibly watched too many Jason Bourne movies.”
“They can’t use it to track me. It’s linked to a base station in my house – they just know when I’ve gone out. Broken the terms of my parole . . . Stop looking so worried, will you? I nick things, that’s all. I’m a shoplifter.”
I make a conscience effort to relax after that. Now, you know me, I’ve never been one to kiss and tell – one of the things I think I definitely am is a gentleman. But this I will say. Blodwyn makes love like she owns the focking patent on it. I don’t exactly disgrace myself either. And afterwards we both drift off into a blissful sleep.
Eight, maybe 10 hours later, I wake up. It’s pure instinct, roysh, but I make an immediate grab for my wallet. It’s still there. Blodwyn is in the bathroom, getting dressed.
“Morning,” she shouts out to me. “Do you fancy some breakfast?”
I love the accent – I’m going to admit it. I’m like, “Er – might take a raincheck on that one, Blod. Yeah, no, I usually meet up with the goys the day after a big game. We always have breakfast and I give my analysis. It’s, like, a tradition?”
She’s not a happy bunny when she hears that. “You’re not treating me like some bleddy hooker,” she practically roars out at me. “If you can spend the night with me, then you can spend the bleddy morning with me as well. And that’s the end of it.”
What else was I going to do? I did what every male in the exact same situation would automatically do. I reached for the phone and rang the number of the BB. And then – as quietly as I could – I went, “Can you ring, like, 999 for me?”
rossocarrollkelly.ie, twittter.com/rossock
