It was all in his imperfections, she decided.
The way his nose stuck out just a little too far. The almost imperceptible crook in his smile. The roll of skin that gathered and slightly over-hung the back of his collar.
The collar, itself.
Assumpta Fitzgerald had always had fairly orthodox tastes when it came to men. The boys she had dated were all perfectly forgettable – similar hair, average height and symmetry of features or the same smile.
Her friend, Niamh had joked that her friend's taste in men was the only Catholic thing about her.
If only she knew…
But Father Peter Clifford… honestly? He was too tall – too awkward.
Too kind, too intelligent, too handsome is he for you, Assumpta?
Too unavailable.
"More Champagne, 'Sumpta?" Peggy's voice was a welcome distraction from her thoughts. It was the after-party for their play – Ryan's Mother – and for once Assumpta could be waited upon.
The glamorous starlet, in noticeable make-up and heels – and Peter, her leading man, across the room in his very best grey jumper.
On cue, her fellow thespian caught her gaze with his own.
He knew. He knew. They'd gone and done it, hadn't they? A year of tip-toeing around this quiet affection and they'd now hung it all out to dry – in front of the entire village, no less.
The script had called for a kiss – they'd had to kiss – but they'd overstepped the stage directions somewhat. Forgotten their mark.
Mary kisses Matt softly on the mouth.
That was the direction. Just that. Had they fulfilled it?
Peter's lips had inched imperceptibly towards hers. If it's a sin there'll be no repeating it, she recited dutifully. And then she froze.
If it's a sin…
As soon as his co-star hesitated, Peter quickly closed the gap between them, ignoring the stage direction entirely. He kissed her once, politely. Closed-mouthed and chaste – or as chaste as a kiss between a Priest and a publican could ever be.
But as soon Assumpta felt his lips on hers, there was no going back. She responded immediately, or at least her body did while her mind tried to catch up. She arched forward, leaving no space between them, and opened her mouth ever so slightly, holding his face lightly beneath her fingertips.
There'd been no practice, no dress rehearsal. Father Frank MacAnally, the Parish Priest, had seen to that. But there was no preventing this moment – this kiss. They had to make it count.
Peter's mouth widened, almost into a grin as she drew closer, sighing dreamily against his mouth. By now her fingers had made their way into his hair, his neck, as the kiss deepened. And deepened. And deepened.
At last, he found her tongue as she found his. Peter felt his stomach tighten in accordance when she allowed him access. He searched her mouth with fervency, joining those delicious sighs as she goaded him to go deeper, explore further.
The crowd dissipated. All there was were the two of them, this stage and a sea of angry lights. And this kiss. This kiss. This kiss that had evolved them. This kiss that would be their undoing.
This kiss that had already gone on too long.
The next thing that Assumpta had been aware of was the stage dimming. Shrouded by darkness, she heard the imperceptible tat of hands clapping, gingerly and under polite duress. A chorus of reluctant applause.
Peter tore away immediately, his eyes still foggy with desire. "I'm sorry," he announced, immediately breaking character.
"Shhh, it's fine," Assumpta assured him with no idea why. "Time for our curtain call."
"Curtain. Sure." Peter stood shakily, keeping his hips conspicuously pointed towards Stage Left.
Assumpta made the impromptu decision to hold her co-star's hand as she rose, but released it just as suddenly when she discovered just how clammy it was with sweat.
"Sorry," Peter mouthed, again. Was there no end to his humiliation?
The applause had erupted accordingly. There were even a few standing ovations. As unlikely as it seemed, the play was a huge success. Audience members had been congratulating Assumpta all night. There was even talk of sequel –
"Wouldn't that be Ryan's Daughter, Padraig?" Michael Ryan had ventured.
"Right you are then," the would-be Producer had replied, unfazed.
Assumpta scoffed at such a prospect. Another play – another illicit romance, no less. Over my dead body, she'd declared to anyone who mentioned it.
Her eyes fell to Peter again. Instinctively she held a group of fingers to her lips. They still stung to high-heaven of course. Who knew that Ballykissangel's mild-mannered curate had been hiding a five-o-clock shadow all of this time? Who knew what he'd been hiding…
Peter caught her staring of course, but instead of this time returning her look with a nervous smile, he crossed the room to meet her.
Oh heavens.
In want of somewhere to hide, Assumpta tried to make herself as small as possible. As it happened she still felt every set of eyes in the room at her back.
"My leading lady," Peter announced as he reached her.
"My… my man," she stuttered by way of a response, inwardly kicking herself for her giddiness.
"I meant to say before, you were really good tonight. Really good."
"Thanks," she blushed shamefully. "You too. A Priest who can act? Better alert the Vatican."
Peter grinned nervously. "Perhaps I missed my calling?"
The publican returned her gaze to her drink. "I think that maybe you did."
The loaded nature of their exchange didn't go unnoticed by the curate. "So," he interjected when the silence became to long. "Ryan's Daughter. Are you in?"
"That's seriously going ahead?"
"Brendan and Padraig are already transcribing the movie."
"You're not serious?"
Peter raised his eyebrows in assent. "A village favourite, or so I'm told."
"Not just the village. The whole of Ireland has seen that film. I swear, they'd study it in school if it was permitted."
"So you fancy yourself as Rosy Ryan then?" he asked cagily.
"That depends. Will you be my Doryan?"
"Thought you'd had enough of my stage skills by now."
Assumpta took another drink. "Who'd ever have enough of those?"
Peter shot her a panicked look. The kiss – their kiss – remained at the forefront of his mind. How could it not? He could still taste her lipstick.
"I… I think I'll be strictly behind the scenes for this one" he decided with a nervous smile. "It wouldn't be fair on the other actors, after all."
"Of course" she agreed, attempting to hide her disappointment. "Couldn't have that – "
"Ballyk's very own star-crossed lovers, I presume?"
A drunken Brendan, their esteemed writer, bellowed from behind them, brandishing crudely annotated leaves of A4 in one fist and a glass of whisky in the other. "I have your new assignment."
"Can't a girl ever get a night off, Brendan?"
The teacher smirked knowingly at his former pupil. "Sure, it's a hard life in the limelight. Now, Ryan's Daughter Act 1, Scene 1 –"
"Ah, leave the little lovebirds alone won't you?" Now Padraig had joined their awkward gathering. "Can't you see we're interrupting?"
"You're not interrupting," Assumpta interjected.
"Never interrupting." The Priest agreed too quickly to sound at all convincing.
"Any road," Padraig continued regardless. "As your Director – "
Peter frowned. "I thought I was the Director?"
"You were the Actor."
"Can't I be both?"
"Anyway," he continued tipsily. "As your Director, I wanted to tell you just how marvellous you both were. That scene. That scene. Wowsers."
Assumpta caught Peter staring at her sheepishly. "Well, it's over now at least."
"But seriously, as your Director, I couldn't have plotted the scene better meself. Couldn't have captured that passion in a million years."
"It was all in the stage direction," the publican offered.
"Now, there you're wrong – see?" Brendan interrupted, brandishing the annotated papers he'd been holding. Honestly, Assumpta inwardly remarked. Had her former teacher really just written the new script on the back of the old?
"Mary kisses Matt. See? Don't you see it? And tonight it was Peter who kissed her – Mary, I mean Assumpta."
Realising the discomfort that they both felt, Peter attempted to steer the conversation to safer climes. "Ah, but call yourself a Director, Padraig? You missed the entire last page. The Soliloquy…"
Their inebriated men shared a private laugh. "Didn't give us much of a choice there, Peter."
"Sorry?"
"Your little kiss there. Dragged on a wee while, don't you think?"
"Dragged on?" questioned Brendan. "I've had hot meals that haven't lasted as long as that."
The pair erupted into laughter. "We brought down the lights so you'd both still have jobs to go to in the morning. You'd both have lives!"
Peter went to great effort to laugh nonchalantly. Assumpta looked as if she was about to explode.
"Just a performance, Brendan. No more, no less."
Her old school teacher exchanged a nod to his cohort. "You tell that to Father MacAnally – I think he'll have some words for this one in the morning."
Now it was Peter's turn to detonate. "What? He was there – at the performance?"
"Who do you think told us to drop the lights?"
Peter wanted the floor to swallow him whole. Embarrassment forgotten, he now had a set of brand new pressures to immerse him.
"I'm sorry, I think I have to… I'll see you."
And just like that, in a flash, Peter was gone.
Assumpta could only look on at the door forlornly after it closed after him. She didn't mean to, just habit she supposed.
"Not to worry, 'Sumpta." Padraig offered. "We'll find another leading man for you yet."
A/N Well, it's been an absolute age since I've been here but I found this old, as yet unfinished story knocking about my hard drive and I thought that i'd revive it.
Let me know what you think... should I finish it?