Freckles(54)

I’d seen the way he’d looked at that bread knife. He’s lost his bravado of earlier and seems shaken up by what could have happened, what he could have done.

Thanks, Freckles, he says. I mean it.

I take the coffee, still hot and untouched, and the waffle, and carry it to James’s Terrace. Despite the drama in the bakery I’m on a high about my Instagram friend. I want to share the news with Tristan that the second of my five came through.

As I pass the garda station the door opens and out step two familiar faces. Garda Murphy, I say loudly, and she looks up.

Hi, Allegra, Laura says, and I’m so chuffed she’s remembered my name. My heart soars, I could honestly dance. Maybe I’ll be three for five by the end of the day. Back on the beat, I say.

Just finishing she says, got to get home to the little ones. Her partner ignores me and goes round the other side of the garda car. She stops at the driver’s door, in the driving seat. I like that. Well done, Laura.

You know where I am if you need me, I add, as she gets inside, signalling my ticket machine and referring to the last conversation we had where I offered to help them.

Thanks, Allegra, she says with a smile and I feel pumped.

Yellow Ferrari is there, Tristan’s in. So, unlike the fella I first thought he was, he didn’t earn his Ferrari by being a flake. Still, good work ethic doesn’t earn him the right to drive a banana-yellow car. That will never be cool. I hop up the steps to number eight and ring the doorbell. No one answers. I ring again.

Jazz, I hear Tristan’s voice yell. The door. Where are you. He pulls it open, I think I’m happier to see him than he is to see me and that maybe this visit is one too many, but I know he’ll care.

Hi, I say, upbeat.

I’m doing my make-up, Jazz yells from somewhere inside the building. You can open the door yourself, can’t you.

He closes his eyes and that face, the hulk face that lost it with me and ripped up his parking ticket, is suddenly visible beneath the usually kind face.

I brought you a coffee from the bakery I told you about. Much better than that muck you drink.

Who’s that, Jazz yells and Tristan makes a decision. He steps outside and slams the door. He takes the coffee cup. Let’s walk, he says.

He walks fast. I’ve long legs, and usually walk faster than most, but I run along beside him to keep up at one point. We walk to the seafront. He looks like he wants to wade right in and never come back.

Which way, he asks.

What do you mean. Where do you want to go.

With you. Want company for a while, he says. I could do with getting away from that lot.

Sure. Let’s go this way, I say. We take a right, not because it’s my route but because he looks like he could do with some coastal air and a long walk away from people, any people.

So. One of my five contacted me, I say, excitedly.

Your mum.

No.

Amal.

No.

Katie Taylor.

No.

The Minister for Justice.

No.

He rolls his eyes then. Your Pops called you.

No, I laugh. Well, he did, but that’s not who. It’s a girl from school, Daisy. She was the coolest girl in my year – but cool in a good way because she was kind and nice and I think I wanted to be her. Anyway, I hunted her down, aka found her on Instagram.

Stalker, he says through a fake cough.

I followed her and when I woke up this morning she’d followed me back and sent me a private message.

That’s great, Allegra, I’m happy for you. So are you going to meet …

I don’t know.

Then what’s the point of all this.

Maybe she can influence my life via Instagram.

Instagram influencers are not included. You’ve got to have real-life interaction with your five. You are the average of the people you spend the most time with, remember. Spend time with, he repeats. His eyes darken for a moment, as if he’s just thought of something. Anyway, what’s your Instagram account, he asks, taking out his phone.

I don’t want to share it because it’s not really me on the account. But he’s not going to give up, and he’s in on everything in this scheme so far, so I tell him.

He scrolls through his phone. I focus on the windscreens that we’re passing, stopping occasionally to get a better look at a ticket.

Did you take these photos, he asks.

No. I got them online.

He stops walking and bends over laughing. He’s laughing at me, which should sting, but the sight and sound of him in fits is irresistible, it’s contagious, and I join him. He can barely speak, he’s laughing so much. Allegra, I think you’re missing the point of this.

I shrug.

What’s her name.

Daisy.

On Instagram.

Oh. The Happy Nomad.

He frowns as he types, lips slightly pushed out, which makes me smile. He’s fast at typing, fingers moving furiously, two-handed texter, flying across the buttons. Ah. There she is. He scrolls through his phone, zooms in, out, examines her from what seems like every angle in his mind.

She’s nice, Tristan, I say. I looked up to her. I have zero friends right now.

He drops whatever smart remark he was about to make about the Happy Nomad. He taps away on his phone and then puts it back into his pocket. I’m following you now. You have two followers. This is really good coffee by the way.