And Quin was a very different man to Luke. So of course the love I felt for Quin – and I was starting to accept that it was love – would be different to how I’d felt about Luke.
Alerted by a noise at the door, I stood up and there he was: Mr Quinlivan. Abandoning his wheelie case, he crossed the floor, swept me into his arms and kissed me. His macho presence was a huge comfort – he was real, my life now was real – but as the kiss went on I couldn’t help thinking, Just say Luke happened to be getting a private plane back to Denver and he saw us? That would show the fucker!
I put my face in Quin’s neck. ‘You smell fancy!’
‘I had a shower.’
‘On the plane?’
‘Yeah. I know!’ His eyes sparkled. ‘I’ll tell you everything. So? We right?’ He scanned the room. ‘You get yourself any free things?’
‘There are some chocolates …’ I indicated the stack.
‘Go for it.’ He picked up two extra boxes. ‘Give these to your mum,’ he urged with a sly smile. ‘After she’s eaten them, tell her they’re from me.’
I laughed. ‘Stop it, come on now.’
Another benefit of the private terminal was being able to park literally right outside the door, instead of the usual four-kilometre, concrete-coated trudge. Quin slung his bag onto the back seat and we hit the road; we had a plan, one that Quin had lobbied hard for: going swimming in the perishing March sea in search of the famous Cold Water High.
Two years ago, at the meditation weekend, my initial impression of Quin had been correct: he was an adrenaline junkie, his particular poison being rock-climbing. Two or three times a year he, with a group of friends he’d had since junior school, went off to a granite-y part of the world to place metal things into cliff-faces, hang off ropes and generally put his life in danger.
But he was also an endorphin stalker, convinced that constant happiness was achievable if he could just assemble the correct life ingredients together in the right way. He was always suggesting stuff and trying to involve me: ‘People swear by ayahuasca’ or ‘Should we join a choir?’
Sometimes I obliged him. Let’s be clear here – Quin wasn’t for everyone. But my interests frequently overlapped with his because when you don’t drink or take drugs, you have to generate your own dopamine – and shopping, while wonderful, can only do so much.
Despite it being 7.50 a.m. on a bitter March morning, business was brisk in the narrow roads around the Forty Foot. Salt water hung in the frigid air, people with rolled-up towels were disappearing through a gap in the stone wall and others were coming out, looking wet but elated. Several were wearing strange coats – huge, padded, poncho-like things in waterproof fabric.
There wasn’t a parking space to be had but then Quin spotted a woman wrapped in a towel approach a car.
‘Hey,’ he called from the open window. ‘Can we have your spot?’
‘Sure.’
‘She looks happy, doesn’t she?’ he asked me. ‘We’re doing the right thing, Rach.’
‘I am happy,’ she called. ‘This is better than Effexor.’
He leant out of the window. ‘Do you mind me asking, what dose were you on?’
‘Quin!’
Like almost every well-paid person in South County Dublin, Quin was on antidepressants. In my opinion, there was nothing wrong with him, he was simply annoyed that money couldn’t buy full-time happiness. Instead, he bought antidepressants which didn’t fix him but numbed the edge of the disappointment.
Quin retrieved his togs from his case, I threw him a towel and in we went, both of us – but especially Quin – trying to look like regulars.
‘That must be the changing place,’ he muttered, steering me towards something which resembled a concrete bus shelter. Sugar Beach, St Lucia, it wasn’t.
Undressing, we nervously scanned our surrounds, trying to get the lie of the land. There were maybe twenty people here – all shapes and sizes, which was a relief. I was nothing like as neurotic about the size of my thighs as when I was younger, but I suspected it would never really leave me, that body shame.
The sea, though … It looked deep, cold and profoundly uninviting. I had to wonder about Quin. There were times I was glad I’d done whatever fool scheme he’d cooked up, but there were other times, like now, when I worried that he was slightly off his rocker? That we both were?
Still, though, if Luke were to see me now, he’d think I was an impressive and interesting person. Wild swimming in wintertime was only done by brave, questing types.