From the age of four, you’d had refined taste. Turning your nose up at any teacups or - ew, ordinary word - mugs that weren’t made of fine china and covered in pretty designs that often consisted of flora and silver paint. Obviously, in England you attended the lushest of private primary schools from the ages of four to eleven, thriving under Academy education and extended curriculum. You were fed school dinners with two sets of cutlery for Christ’s sake, darling.

So when Mum and Dad decided to pack it up and hoist everything up and over to Ireland, in Ballylaggin of all places, you decided to step out of your comfort zone and have an open mind. Not judge it too quickly. It could grow on you. So at the ripe age of twelve, a couple of weeks before the starting date of September third at Tommen College, you and your Mum were sat on the train on your way back from Cork.

“Ma the trip was two bleedin’ days, I barely said anything past ‘hi’ to anyone.” You hear a boy in the seat opposite yours, grumble to his Mum. The beautiful blonde woman sighed and smiled, looking at her son, “But wasn’t it nice seeing Grandad? You know he’s so proud of your-“

“Rugby, yeah, yeah I get it.” He grumbles, fiddling with his ticket. You’re snapped out of your staring daze when your Mum nudges you, pointing at the fliers she had in her bag. “Look, they’ve got a few competitions coming up my love,” horse riding, you’re one true passion, wherever you went. You nod, not really paying attention, as your Mum rambles about which horses would be best for each competition. Your eye caches the rugby boy on the train; he gives a soft, understanding smile, gesturing at his Ma with a nod of his head. Silently saying ‘I get it’.

So surprise, surprise when you see him again at Tommen in September, and are the year below him. And as your entry years at Tommen blur by, you and Johnny Kavanagh, the rugby boy, become friends. Then it’s best friends. Then it’s drunken truth or dare at parties that end in breathy make outs in corners, very unlike you, I know. But this boy just brought it out in you. The carefree. The laughing, beaming, and slightly spoiled inner child of yours was basking in timeless rapture.

So it was no surprise when he asked you to dinner, because he did dinner by your standards, flowers, chocolate, impeccable manners, payed for hefty check without a second glance - because he was raised like you, like old money. And by the end of the night, you were tangled in his arms, as he kissed you goodnight outside your lovely country estate. “Goodnight.” He murmured, voice low. You lean in again, unable to keep your lips disconnected for long. “Goodnight,” he kisses you. “Thank you for-“ a moan slips from your lips as he nips your jaw. “-dinner.” He cupped your neck, stroking back and forth. “Thank you for coming.” Another lingering kiss.

Unsurprisingly, that resulted in you staying the night at his, and texting your Mum saying it ran over, oops.

Now you two were going strong, he was in sixth year you were in fifth year, and he was tossing the keys of his A3 Audi up and down, as he waited for the telltale vanilla perfume and clicking of your riding boots to round the corner. Throw, catch, throw, catch, throw-

The gate opened and you slipped past, closing it, walking to him, as his head lifts and he smiles at you. His arm slips around your shoulders, pulling your chests together, as he leans low down to brush a gentle kiss in greeting on your lips. “Good hour and a half riding?” He muses. “Bleedin’ cold today.” He grumbles, steering you in the direction of the car park.

“Mm,” You hum. “It was good. What times your Da landing today?”

“5 somethin’. Ma’s gone to pick him up. You’re still coming for dinner, yeah?” He opens the car door for you. Yeah, old money sums you two up as a couple.