Maybe I should have run to the station.
Don’t, Spanner, I say, and he looks up at me, as if suddenly remembering I’m here and where he really is. Think of Ariana, I say.
Hearing her name does something different to both of them. It fires up Chloe’s boyfriend, who goes for Spanner, charges at him, but he slips on what I assume is a very messy floor and goes down. The sound of her name softens Spanner somewhat. The difference between choosing the bread knife and the banoffee pie, with its beautiful topping of perfect cream peaks and chocolate shavings, and he shoves it in his face.
You muppet. Get out of here, he says, the danger gone from his voice.
His opponent blinded by the cream, Spanner drags him out the back door.
I watch the door, waiting to see what happens, listening for the worst.
Spanner returns and looks down at the floor. He swears quietly, then back at me.
Sorry about that, he sniffs, straightens his apron, his hat. Could have been worse, he says. I was this close.
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.