chickadee
New Yorker
Woo, seems I am on a roll with this fic! Never happens so I'm making the most of it while it lasts. 
Hope you enjoy this chapter, again it's all fiction and not true! Please let me know what you think.
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Chapter 2
There’s this song. It’s by Celine Dion, which if you’ve any taste at all will put you on alert straight away. Anyway it’s the one from the film ‘Titanic’, and I hate it. I hate it with a passion I reserve for bad drivers and people who walk into me on the pavement. And now it’s playing over and over in this coffee shop and I swear I am going to go mad if it doesn’t stop. I don’t care if your heart goes on, love! Mine is going to explode.
Fortunately, I am distracted by the arrival of a man. Now, I know you’re getting all excited because you think this is my blind date and you want to know what he looks like. Right? Well, it’s not. It’s the bloke who’s selling me U2 records. I decided to kill two birds with one stone (so to speak) and arrange to meet him quarter of an hour before the solid guy. I couldn’t be bothered making two dates (this is maybe why I have no love life).
I purchase a few decent-condition singles for not much money, plus a slightly-tattier copy of ‘Boy’ which I love anyway and think I might treasure for the rest of my days. The man – his name is Gary – departs with less of my cash than I suspect he’d been hoping for, and I peruse the lovely records, stroking the song titles and looking forward to getting home and sticking them on nice and loud. Do a Bono impression. Pretend I’m Edge but with no talent. And more hair.
Just as I’m sliding the precious items into my carrier bag, a wind blows in the door and I look up, ready to scowl at whoever is letting in all the cold air. I am certainly not prepared for the person I see walking towards me. In fact, my brain goes into some sort of freeze and I can’t seem to blink, let alone breathe properly.
It’s Larry Mullen Jr.
Larry Mullen Jr.!
I force myself to blink just so I know it is Larry Mullen Jr. and not a very good lookalike, but no, it’s him, really him, and he’s not sitting at that empty table over there. He’s still heading this way… Why is he giving me that odd frowny look, like he thinks I might be a scary fan?
I push the records further out of view and almost unconsciously brush hair out of my eyes. Oh God, he’s almost at my table, if he doesn’t watch I am going to scream.
You’ll notice that normally I am quite a calm sort of person. I’m not the type to consider screaming in a public place. So you can understand the impact of seeing Larry Mullen Jr. in this coffee shop. No one’s batting an eyelid except me, either. I guess that’s the Dublin thing, they know who he is and they’re not particularly impressed that he’s famous. I’m not native Dublin and I fancy Larry Mullen Jr. like crazy so forgive me for, y’know, acting slightly less sensibly.
Larry stands by my table. He doesn’t make eye contact with me, which is sort of a relief, actually, but disappointing at the same time.
“Uh, are you Rachel?” he asks, staring down at his boots.
For a second or two, I don’t know! I honestly can’t remember my own name! It might be Rachel but then again it might be Anne. No, no, definitely Rachel.
“Yes,” I reply, reigning in the strong urge to reply with ‘are you Larry?’ and risk huge embarrassment.
“Okay. Right. I’m, um, I mean. The advert.” His hair is all damp from the rain outside, how adorably cute. I decide not to stick my fingers in it. Yet. And that’s mainly because I am further shocked by this statement.
Larry Mullen Jr. is my solid, hard Irishman?
Well, he certainly didn’t lie. And he is pretty. But I can’t imagine he wrote that advert himself. Can you?
And we’d be perfectly right. Because as soon as Larry takes a seat opposite me, I see a flash of black outside the window, out of the corner of my eye; as soon as I do a double-take it’s gone but I’ve a weird feeling someone is watching us. An even weirder feeling that I know who.
Larry isn’t talking, which I guess means I’ll have to. Oh, the hardships.
Actually, it is. I can’t think what to say. It’s not as if I can ask what he does for a living, or how old he is, or where he lives, who his friends are… Yes, yes, I read it all in magazines. I didn’t expect this to happen, did I?
“Look, I’m sorry,” Larry says in his beautiful accent, a few moments after I try to decide how to quiz him about sex without being offensive. “I didn’t mean you to come all the way here. The thing is, it’s been a mistake. The advert. I didn’t mean it.”
“Oh.” Okay, so I didn’t imagine that would hurt.
“I mean,” he adds quickly, and I feel myself blush, realising my expression must have given away how I felt, “it wasn’t my idea. I thought it was a stupid idea. It’s nothing to do with you, Rachel.”
My name sounds delicious when passed over a solid Irish tongue.
I refrain from swooning.
“I see,” I reply, not sure I do. “Well, if you want to leave, go ahead. I can pass the time.” Did I intend to sound so bitter? Perhaps, given that the man is an Adonis and partly responsible for some of my favourite songs ever. And there’s the whole ‘I-was-looking-forward-to-a-date’ thing.
“No, I don’t want to leave.” Larry sighs. “Can I buy you a coffee? We can chat properly.”
It’s the best offer I’m likely to get all week. No, year.
I shake my head. “No.” I like watching his face fall a little. “You can buy me a hot chocolate. I don’t like coffee.”
He smiles, a tiny smile, and I smile back, not so tiny. Because I can’t smile tiny when Larry Mullen Jr.’s off to buy me hot chocolate, can I?
TBC!
Hope you enjoy this chapter, again it's all fiction and not true! Please let me know what you think.******************************
Chapter 2
There’s this song. It’s by Celine Dion, which if you’ve any taste at all will put you on alert straight away. Anyway it’s the one from the film ‘Titanic’, and I hate it. I hate it with a passion I reserve for bad drivers and people who walk into me on the pavement. And now it’s playing over and over in this coffee shop and I swear I am going to go mad if it doesn’t stop. I don’t care if your heart goes on, love! Mine is going to explode.
Fortunately, I am distracted by the arrival of a man. Now, I know you’re getting all excited because you think this is my blind date and you want to know what he looks like. Right? Well, it’s not. It’s the bloke who’s selling me U2 records. I decided to kill two birds with one stone (so to speak) and arrange to meet him quarter of an hour before the solid guy. I couldn’t be bothered making two dates (this is maybe why I have no love life).
I purchase a few decent-condition singles for not much money, plus a slightly-tattier copy of ‘Boy’ which I love anyway and think I might treasure for the rest of my days. The man – his name is Gary – departs with less of my cash than I suspect he’d been hoping for, and I peruse the lovely records, stroking the song titles and looking forward to getting home and sticking them on nice and loud. Do a Bono impression. Pretend I’m Edge but with no talent. And more hair.
Just as I’m sliding the precious items into my carrier bag, a wind blows in the door and I look up, ready to scowl at whoever is letting in all the cold air. I am certainly not prepared for the person I see walking towards me. In fact, my brain goes into some sort of freeze and I can’t seem to blink, let alone breathe properly.
It’s Larry Mullen Jr.
Larry Mullen Jr.!
I force myself to blink just so I know it is Larry Mullen Jr. and not a very good lookalike, but no, it’s him, really him, and he’s not sitting at that empty table over there. He’s still heading this way… Why is he giving me that odd frowny look, like he thinks I might be a scary fan?
I push the records further out of view and almost unconsciously brush hair out of my eyes. Oh God, he’s almost at my table, if he doesn’t watch I am going to scream.
You’ll notice that normally I am quite a calm sort of person. I’m not the type to consider screaming in a public place. So you can understand the impact of seeing Larry Mullen Jr. in this coffee shop. No one’s batting an eyelid except me, either. I guess that’s the Dublin thing, they know who he is and they’re not particularly impressed that he’s famous. I’m not native Dublin and I fancy Larry Mullen Jr. like crazy so forgive me for, y’know, acting slightly less sensibly.
Larry stands by my table. He doesn’t make eye contact with me, which is sort of a relief, actually, but disappointing at the same time.
“Uh, are you Rachel?” he asks, staring down at his boots.
For a second or two, I don’t know! I honestly can’t remember my own name! It might be Rachel but then again it might be Anne. No, no, definitely Rachel.
“Yes,” I reply, reigning in the strong urge to reply with ‘are you Larry?’ and risk huge embarrassment.
“Okay. Right. I’m, um, I mean. The advert.” His hair is all damp from the rain outside, how adorably cute. I decide not to stick my fingers in it. Yet. And that’s mainly because I am further shocked by this statement.
Larry Mullen Jr. is my solid, hard Irishman?
Well, he certainly didn’t lie. And he is pretty. But I can’t imagine he wrote that advert himself. Can you?
And we’d be perfectly right. Because as soon as Larry takes a seat opposite me, I see a flash of black outside the window, out of the corner of my eye; as soon as I do a double-take it’s gone but I’ve a weird feeling someone is watching us. An even weirder feeling that I know who.
Larry isn’t talking, which I guess means I’ll have to. Oh, the hardships.
Actually, it is. I can’t think what to say. It’s not as if I can ask what he does for a living, or how old he is, or where he lives, who his friends are… Yes, yes, I read it all in magazines. I didn’t expect this to happen, did I?
“Look, I’m sorry,” Larry says in his beautiful accent, a few moments after I try to decide how to quiz him about sex without being offensive. “I didn’t mean you to come all the way here. The thing is, it’s been a mistake. The advert. I didn’t mean it.”
“Oh.” Okay, so I didn’t imagine that would hurt.
“I mean,” he adds quickly, and I feel myself blush, realising my expression must have given away how I felt, “it wasn’t my idea. I thought it was a stupid idea. It’s nothing to do with you, Rachel.”
My name sounds delicious when passed over a solid Irish tongue.
I refrain from swooning.
“I see,” I reply, not sure I do. “Well, if you want to leave, go ahead. I can pass the time.” Did I intend to sound so bitter? Perhaps, given that the man is an Adonis and partly responsible for some of my favourite songs ever. And there’s the whole ‘I-was-looking-forward-to-a-date’ thing.
“No, I don’t want to leave.” Larry sighs. “Can I buy you a coffee? We can chat properly.”
It’s the best offer I’m likely to get all week. No, year.
I shake my head. “No.” I like watching his face fall a little. “You can buy me a hot chocolate. I don’t like coffee.”
He smiles, a tiny smile, and I smile back, not so tiny. Because I can’t smile tiny when Larry Mullen Jr.’s off to buy me hot chocolate, can I?
TBC!
