***
I needed to turn the air con up further on the drive home. I felt like I was having hot flushes.
Fuck!
Fuck, fuck, fuck!
I really couldn’t believe it.
As we swept further down the mountainsides of lava and little white-washed houses, I tried to get my head around what had just happened. The first full day and there was a right dampener on the holiday. I took out my makeup, flicked open my mirror and started to apply it, trying to distract myself. I felt far too overheated and my stomach was twitching.
And we were meant to have a meal together?
Fuck!
What I mostly felt was guilt. Richard had booked me to play at their wedding reception in their huge home in East Belfast. As the Democratic Unionist Party still denied same sex couples the right to marry, Richard had arranged a small ceremony in England, followed by a big party back home. The actual party night in Belfast had been a few days after they had actually married.
It was a lovely event to play at, really quirky and very different from my usual gigs. It was a totally eclectic mix of guests. First off – it was packed, with lots of friends and family. There were some fairly high profile local celebrities there – golfers, newsreaders and politicians. Also in attendance was a small group of rather flamboyant transsexuals – dressed up like Lilly Savage’s less modest sisters. My Dad would have walked out if he’d seen them! My father and his old church friends had been of the ‘no harm to the gays’ opinion; but they were still an abomination and would burn in hell.
Then also in the mix at the party were some very dodgy looking characters – gangsterish I would describe them as. I recognised a few as previously big names in the paramilitaries – pre ‘Good Friday Agreement’. There were at least two ex-IRA and one ex-UDA. This wedding was certainly all inclusive. I supposed that perhaps Ivan and Richard had some questionable business dealings, but who was I to judge?
When I had first been invited around a few weeks before by Richard, it was to see how it would all be set up on the night and to go over the plans for the evening. It was a big deal. As Richard gave me the full tour, I was staggered by the place. It was incredible – an old elegance that had a flawless finish with just the right modern influences. It’s the kind of home that should be entered on ‘House of the Year.’ In the grand hallway I noted some of the framed photographs on the wall. There was one of Richard with an arm draped around Bono, them both looking a little the worse for wear. Beside it was a picture of Richard and Ivan, about ten years younger with John Delorean and one of his cars standing on one side. He had been the maverick designer of the ‘Back to the Future’ car, built in Belfast and later the target of an FBI cocaine sting operation. On the other side of the hall was Donald E Blake – the former gentleman thief turned Irish celebrity.
Funny company they kept.
Richard showed me enthusiastically as we explored all around his home, describing how the wedding event would take place and the different areas for different guests. When I had seen everywhere, he made us each a cocktail in the generously stocked bar to the side of their giant conservatory. I had been happily whisked from room to room, us both getting on like old friends, now enjoying a drink in his company. It was clear that we found each other attractive, but it felt safe. We were planning for his gay marriage, so it was last thing on my mind.
After our second cocktail it just happened.
Suddenly we were against the kitchen counter and kissing. Then we were on the sofa and our clothes were almost all pulled off. A few minutes later it was all over. We dressed with childish smiles and finished our drinks. I felt guilty, but I pushed it away. Maybe I had given him one last fling before tying the knot.
I convinced myself of that at least.
***
I returned to my hotel room and grabbed a quick shower. I took a light dinner in the restaurant, then skipped down to the beach, down the steps and headed around to the marina. I was keen to get away from the hotel, anxious that I might bump into them on their return. Yeah I know there were hundreds if not thousands of other residents, but I still felt worried about it.
It was a fine evening out, there was a gentle breeze coming off the dark blue of the ocean. I idled onwards; glad to have escaped the hotel, a cigarette burning between my fingers. It was an attractive and craggy coastal path leading down to the local town, past tourist shops with souvenirs and baseball caps and small local restaurants. It was that odd mix of not quite off the beaten track, but not mega touristy either. I stopped at a café that seemed quiet and had tables overlooking some little fishing boats bobbing by the sea wall. I ordered an Americano and then rolled up another smoke. I told myself it would be the last smoke of the day.
“Ola,” said a fiftyish man with a big grin, as he sat down uninvited at my table, interrupting my wallow.
I responded with an awkward nod and half smile, wondering why he hadn’t sat at any of the vacant tables. He fiddled with a packet of cigarettes, while looking around, letting out a sigh. His complexion was a weathered tan and he had thick black, brittle hair.
“Gracias,” he said as the waitress set his expresso down on our white plastic table.
He took a sip, looking up and catching my eye. He set the cup down again.
“Which one you be
