Chapter Ten

‘I thought you hated this house? You said it was ostentatious.’

‘It is ostentatious. Just like its owner.’

The words were shocking. Infinitely more shocking was the reply that followed some sentences later.

‘Maybe even having to put up with a minuscule dick would be worth it if you could get out of bed in the morning and wander out on the balcony to get a load of the sunrise, then head off for a skinny-dip before breakfast…’

Río’s voice faded away. It was just as well she hadn’t gone out onto the balcony, Izzy thought, because if she had she would have seen Adair’s ‘princess’ standing to the left of the sliding doors, fists clenched, listening to those two vile women as they bitched about her dad. Bitched? No. What Río had said was worse, much worse than mere bitching. She had cast aspersions on her father’s masculinity, she had belittled him, she had written him off as a buffoon.

But–and, oh God, the knowledge pierced her to the quick–wasn’t Izzy herself guilty of disrespecting her father? She herself was often mortified by his taste in clothes and music, by the fact that he was a dancing dad, an embarrassing oldie. But he was her dad. She was allowed to be mortified by him: disrespecting your parents was something all normal offspring did. But Río–this…this intruder– had crossed a line. What she had said was unforgivable. It made Izzy sick to think about it; she couldn’t think about it; she wouldn’t think about it.

Where else in the house could the Kinsella sisters have gone snooping? Izzy wondered if they’d been into her bedroom. She wondered if they’d made disparaging remarks about her decor and sneaked into her walk-in wardrobe and checked out the labels on her clothes. She wondered if they’d scrutinised the contents of her bathroom and sniggered over her blemish bombs, or if they’d sneered at her heat magazine, the way they’d sneered at her dad’s GQ. What kind of literature did she expect to find in a man’s bathroom? Marcel bloody Proust? And what was wrong with a man taking care of his appearance? At least he bothered–unlike Río Kinsella, with her rag-bag clothes and her mad hair.

Izzy scooped up her phone from where she’d set it on the balustrade of the balcony, and jabbed redial. ‘Lucy?’ she said when her friend picked up. ‘The most horrible thing has happened.’ And she filled her best friend in on the bitchfest that had just gone down in her mother’s bedroom.

‘Ouch. Poor you, Iz! You must be hurting bad,’ said Lucy when Izzy’s tirade timed out.

‘I am. I am. But I’m gonna get her.’

‘How?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Spike her drink.’

‘With what?’

‘Urn. Some of your mother’s Xanax?’

‘There isn’t any. She popped the lot. Oh, Lucy, they were vile! And that Río woman really fancies herself. She was prancing around in front of the mirror, checking herself out and swishing her hair.’

‘Uh-oh.’ There was an ominous silence on the line, and then Lucy said, ‘D’you know what I think, Izzy? I think she might be after your dad.’

‘What?’ Izzy was so appalled by this notion that her fist clenched harder than ever. ‘But she said she didn’t find him sexy! And she said she hates this house and everything it stands for!’

‘What does it stand for?’ asked Lucy.

‘I suppose she thinks it’s a symbol of plutocracy’

‘Um. Forgive my ignorance. What’s plutocracy mean?’

Oh! There Izzy went again, using a big word when a small one would do. But at least her best mate was used to the fact that Iz talked kind of nobby. Anyone else night have thought she was showing off. ‘Plutocracy means the power bestowed by wealth. She’s probably an anarchist who despises anyone who earns more than she does. She wears kind of anarchist’s clothes.’

‘Hm. I wouldn’t be so sure. Maybe she’s just really bitter and twisted. People who are critical of other people’s taste are usually eaten up with jealousy.’

‘You reckon?’

‘Yeah. So when she sneers at something, it means she secretly covets it.’

‘That’s interesting. She said my mum’s bedroom was Laura Ashley’

‘In a disparaging way?’

‘Yes. But then she said something about how lovely it would be to wake up in it.’

‘She actually said that? She said she’d like to wake up in your mum’s bedroom?’

‘Yes.’

‘Yikes, Izzy. She’s after your dad’s money. I’d keep an eye on him, if I were you.’

‘Really?’

‘Yeah. He’s vulnerable right now, and ripe for rebound. It’s a classic syndrome. When men are jilted, they’re sitting targets for predatory types like this Río person.’

‘Oh, I’m so glad I’ve a psychology student for a BF!’

‘Just don’t ask me about the Electra complex.’

‘That’s got something to do with fathers and daughters, hasn’t it?’ asked Izzy.

‘Yep. You could be a case study, Iz. Joke.’

‘And what’s the one about mothers and sons?’

‘That’s Oedipus.’

‘Hm. I wonder. You should have seen the look on her face when she spotted me chatting with Finn yesterday’

‘Whose face, and who’s Finn?’

‘Río’s. Finn’s her son. He’s kinda cute, in a bogger way. He has the kind of floppy hair you’d like to push away from his face.’ And the kind of face you’d like to study on a pillow, lying next to you, thought Izzy: then rapped herself mentally over the knuckles and told herself to stop that!

‘How did she look at you?’

‘The mother? Like, “Hands off my son”, you know? All narrow-eyed and suspicious.’ Izzy suddenly became aware of footsteps crossing the marble floor of her mother’s bedroom. ‘Oops–hang on, Lucy–there’s someone coming.’

‘There you are, Izzy!’ Her father stuck his head round the sliding door that led onto the balcony. ‘I’ve been looking all over for you. Come and join us for a drink.’

‘Hang on a sec, Luce.’ Izzy covered the mouthpiece of her phone with her hand, and adopted a pleading expression. ‘Do I have to, Dad?’

‘Yes, you do. I don’t want word going round the village that my daughter has no manners. What are you doing on the balcony, anyway? It must be freezing out there.’

‘I came out for some fresh air,’ Izzy lied. She’d actually come out to hide from the snoopy Kinsella sisters.

‘Well, if you’re in need of fresh air, why don’t you show Río round the garden? She said she’d love a tour.’

Adair withdrew, and Izzy sighed into her phone. ‘I have to go now, Lucy,’ she said. ‘Dad wants me to join the she-wolves. He’s worried that they’ll think I’m being rude. Ha! They ain’t seen nothing yet!’

‘What do you mean?’

‘After what they said about my father, I think I’ve every right to be as rude as I damn well please.’

‘Are you going to tell him?’

‘About the bitchfest in the boudoir?’

‘Yeah.’

‘No. He’s had enough knocks recently. I couldn’t bear to see the hurt on his face.’ Laughter rose from the drawing room downstairs. ‘I’d better go, Luce. Thanks for your advice.’

‘No problem, darlin’. Let me know how things pan out.’

‘Will do. Bye!’

Izzy depressed ‘end call’, and took a deep breath. She noticed that the palm of her free hand had little sickle moon shapes indented into it from where she’d been digging in her nails. In scuba sign language, Izzy remembered, narrowing her eyes, a clenched fist meant ‘danger’.

Río was sitting on a leather rocker downstairs in the big room–what class of a room was it, exactly: sitting room, living room, drawing room, salon, lounge? She was chewing on Macadamia nuts and enjoying her Slow Comfortable Screw Up Against the Wall, Mexican style. Adair Bolger sure mixed a mean cocktail. The alcohol had gone straight to her head, and had bestowed upon her that lovely tingly feeling that was one of the more pleasurable effects of a stiff drink.

Adair and her sister had been talking boring property talk, so Río had tuned out. She had fixed her attention on the vista before her–the view that never failed to astonish her, whatever the weather. Its mood changed every minute of every day of the year; it was like watching a panorama in motion. Some days it danced before her eyes, sun bouncing off a diamantine sea; some days it threw a tantrum–wind and waves and sky railing against each other; some days it waxed melancholy, a blue moon reflected in its midnight depths. And sometimes, like today, it was dreamlike, bathed in a blue-green mist. And there, far out in the bay–too far to wave to–was Seamus Moynihan’s red and white fishing boat. She’d mosey down to the harbour later, to pick up some fresh fish for supper.

The gentle rocking of the chair combined with the alcohol made Río want to stretch out like a cat on the big leather cushions and go to sleep. How wonderful it must be to stroll out into your garden and be greeted by that view every day! How wonderful to know–because there were no other houses in the vicinity–that this breathtaking panorama belonged to you exclusively! It was shameful, really shameful, that this house was so seldom occupied, that it spent so many months of the year dozing behind its security gates, shuttered and forlorn.

Río knew that the granting of planning permission for the Villa Felicity had been based on the understanding that the house be lived in full time for a minimum of four years. What a daft proviso! How could it be enforceable? Was a spy from the Planning Department meant to lurk around the garden, making notes of the dates on which members of the Bolger family were in residence? Río had scant regard for the Planning Department. She knew it had once been run by penpushers with a proclivity for brown paper envelopes stuffed with cash, and she suspected that that was exactly how Adair Bolger had got the go-ahead to build his horrible blot on the landscape.

Still, she had to admit that sitting here with a cocktail to hand and that vista in front of her was a pretty damn fine experience.

‘How do you do?’

Someone had strolled into the view. It was Adair’s daughter, Isabella. She extended a hand to Río, and Río felt uncomfortable suddenly, lolling against cushions when a formal introduction was clearly expected of her. She stood up clumsily, the seat of the rocking chair banging into the backs of her knees.

‘How do you do?’ she echoed, setting her highball glass on a side table and taking Isabella’s proffered hand. It felt stupid to be saying ‘How do you do?’ She didn’t think she’d ever said it before in her life.

‘Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Isabella Bolger,’ said Isabella. ‘Pleased to meet you. And you are…?’

‘Río Kinsella.’

As she said her name, a shard of Macadamia nut flew out of Río’s mouth and landed on Isabella’s cheek. Río was struck dumb with embarrassment, but she had to hand it to the girl: she didn’t flinch. She simply raised a manicured hand and brushed the offending crumb away without comment.

‘Río? What an unusual name,’ said Isabella, lightly.

‘It’s short for Ríonach.’

‘Really?’

‘Um. Yes.’ There was a pause, and Río felt obliged to elaborate. ‘It’s the Irish word for “queenly”.’

‘Cool!’ said Isabella, cool as you like. She curved her mouth in a smile, then turned and observed the seascape. ‘What beautiful weather for this time of the year!’ she remarked.

‘Yes,’ said Río. ‘But the forecast is for rain tomorrow.’

A silence descended between the two women. On the other side of the room, Dervla and Adair were oblivious, lost in property-speak. Río felt like a complete eejit, a goose. What else could she talk about, apart from the weather?

‘Your garden is beautiful,’ she managed finally. Wow! Inspired!

‘Yes, it is. Daddy tells me you’d like to see around.’

‘That would be delightful’ Delightful? Where had that come from?

‘I’m happy to oblige. This way.’

The girl marched towards a side door, and held it open for Río. Steps led from the wraparound deck to a gravel pathway that ran adjacent to the west side of the house. Río trudged in Isabella’s wake, feeling like a tourist being shepherded by a tour guide. She remembered that when the Bolgers had first built the place, this part of the garden had been open to the sea. Now it was enclosed by a high brick wall. It was necessary, she supposed, to protect the herbaceous borders from the elements, but the grey brick had a forbidding air about it. She was reminded of the Oscar Wilde story about the selfish giant, who had refused to allow children to play in his garden.

The path took them up a slope to where Felicity’s yoga pavilion enjoyed a cracking view of the garden and seascape. Here, Isabella stopped and looked directly at Río, as if expecting some kind of response.

‘It’s–um–magnificent,’ said Río. ‘Do you practise yoga, Isabella?’

‘No. But Mummy does. She finds it therapeutic’

‘Ah. Gardening is my form of therapy.’

‘Really? Do you have a big garden?’

‘No. I don’t have a garden at all.’

‘Oh? That must be something of a challenge.’ And Isabella gave a laugh that reminded Río of the ice tinkling in Dervla’s San Pellegrino earlier.

‘I–er–look after other people’s gardens for them.’

‘I see. So you’re a gardener.’ Was she imagining it, or did she detect a hint of disdain in Isabella’s voice?

‘Well. I’m not exclusively a gardener. I have other jobs as well.’

‘Oh?’

‘Yes. I–er–paint.’

‘Houses?’

‘Sorry?’

‘You’re a house painter?’

‘No, not that kind of painting.’

‘Oh! So you’re an artist! How fascinating. Daddy’s a collector. He owns some fabulous artwork.’

‘I saw the Paul Henry on the landing.’

‘That’s a copy. He doesn’t keep the original here for security reasons. All his paintings are hanging in the apartment in Dublin. Apart from the canvases that are on loan to the National Gallery, of course. What do you paint?’

‘Landscapes mostly.’

‘Might I know your work?’

‘Some of my stuff’s for sale in Fleur’s shop in the village.’

‘Oh, yes. I’ve seen it.’

Isabella’s opinion of Río’s work was made perfectly clear by the absence of any comment, and by the way she adroitly changed the subject by adding: ‘I love your scarf!’

‘Thank you. It was a present from Fleur.’

‘That shop is beautiful, isn’t it? Every time I go in there I just want to buy it all up!’

‘Yes. She has a great eye.’

‘Daddy got a fabulous nightdress there, in embroidered silk. Oh! He didn’t get it for himself, in case you’re wondering! Ha-ha, no! He got it for his girlfriend.’

Isabella’s little jewel of a phone started to purr at her and she immediately checked out the display. ‘Excuse me. I know it’s so rude of me, but I have to take this call. Please feel at liberty to explore.’

Isabella held the phone to her pretty emerald-studded ear and said: ‘Hello, Lucy! Calling for an update?’

Río stumbled off down the slope, feeling like a badly drawn cartoon character. That girl was not just a princess, she was a demi-goddess inhabiting some celestial realm where ordinary mortals could not tread. She had been perfectly polite, perfectly agreeable, but there was something so steely about the politeness that Río would have preferred open hostility. She had to admit to herself that she, Río, who was normally so easy-going and open, had been badly fazed by the encounter.

Sitting down on the edge of a raised flowerbed, Río took a couple of deep breaths, trying to reinstate the blissful sense of peace she had felt earlier, while reclining on Adair Bolger’s leather rocker. Slowly her heart rate decelerated and the flush that she had felt creeping over her neck from the moment Isabella had introduced herself receded.

Río had never succumbed to the temptation she’d felt, while passing the Bolgers’ gate on her way to the beach, to climb over it. She was sure she’d be caught on a security camera, and nicked for trespassing. Now she could admire the garden at her leisure. There was the spot where she had used to picnic with her mother, eating squashed tomato sandwiches and drinking MiWadi. There was the stretch of wall upon which she and Dervla had performed balancing tricks, pretending they were circus acrobats. And there was the apple tree, beneath the branches of which Finn had been conceived.

A yew hedge had been planted along the wall. It had not yet grown high enough to disguise the intrinsic ugliness of the grey brick, but it would do so in time. Trees–bay, myrtle and arbutus–were all thriving despite the salt wind that came off the Atlantic. Beyond the wall sprawled the orchard where Río had picnicked and robbed apples as a child. No flowers bloomed at this time of the year, but Río knew that in a couple of months’ time it would be an Impressionist fantasy of blossom and spring bulbs.

It was, she decided, a successful garden, impressive in its own way, but unimaginative. Up on the yoga pavilion Isabella was standing poised as a prima donna, impervious to the cold, still talking on her phone. The watery sun had sunk lower on the horizon, and was now partially obscured by a eucalyptus. That shouldn’t have been planted there, thought Río. It’ll cast a huge shadow over the lawn when it’s grown.

‘You look very thoughtful,’ came a voice from further down the garden. ‘And I’d say they’re worth far more than a penny.’

‘I’m sorry?’ Río turned to see Adair Bolger leaning against the trunk of a Scots pine, further down the path. His hands were in his pockets, he’d rolled up his sleeves, and he had about him the laidback demeanour of a man who was comfortable on his own territory.

‘Your thoughts. I said I’d give more than a penny for them.’

‘Oh!’ Río managed an unconvincing laugh. ‘I’m not thinking anything very profound.’

That was a lie. Because Río was wondering how long Adair had been standing there watching her, and how vulnerable she may have appeared stripped of her habitual wise-cracking facade.

‘Ready for another cocktail?’ he asked.

‘I’d love one.’

She moved down the path and together they strolled back towards the house, where, beyond the expanse of glass, Río could see Dervla taking photographs of the view with her phone.

‘Dervla tells me you’re a dab hand at gardening?’

I am.

‘Our usual caretaker’s done his back in. Do you think you might be interested in looking after the garden here?’

If it had been anyone else, Río might have said, ‘I’m sure I could fit you in’. But the idea of working in the garden of Coral Mansion–maintaining it for Adair Bolger’s biannual delectation–made Río bridle. Who did he think she was? Some luckless countrywoman who’d be glad of an extra few euro to make ends meet? That was, in effect, exactly what she was, but Río had her pride.

‘I’m afraid,’ she said, ‘there’s a waiting list for my horticultural services.’

Adair looked taken aback. ‘I didn’t realise you were a trained horticulturalist,’ he said.

‘I’m not,’ Río told him with an enigmatic smile. ‘But I have a magic touch. Folk hereabout call me the plant whisperer.’

Adair looked impressed. ‘The plant whisperer,’ he repeated.

And if you believe that, Mr Bolger, thought Río, you’re even more of an eejit than I first took you for.

Río and Adair’s progress was monitored by watchful eyes. Up on the yoga pavilion, Izzy was giving Lucy a running commentary.

‘There she goes, strutting her stuff back to the house. God, Lucy, you should have seen the way she was posing by the flowerbed, trying to look all pensive. And I could tell that she knew damn well that Dad was watching her.’

‘Is she good-looking?’

‘I guess so–in a kind of boho way. You know the arty Coolnamara type–all flowing skirts and hair.’

‘In other words, the complete opposite of your mum.’

‘Yeah. I wonder is that a good thing or a bad thing? The other sister’s completely different. She’s very nicely put together. One of those suckers who forks out fortunes for handbags.’

‘Hello? And just how much did those new shoes you were telling me about cost?’

‘If I’d known Dad was actually going to buy them, I’d never have admired them. I nearly died when he surprised me with them.’

‘Face it, sweetheart. You’re his princess.’

‘And while that Río dame is about, I’m going to behave like one. I’m going to make it very clear that she’s out of her league here, big time. I’ll be so polite she won’t be able to keep up, and she’ll have to back off. Actually, it’s quite good fun, pretending to be überposh. I even told her she was “at liberty to look around the garden”! Oh, and I let slip that Dad already has a girlfriend.’

‘Does he?’

‘No. But she doesn’t need to know that.’

‘Maybe you should do a bit of matchmaking when you’re back in Dublin.’

‘There’s no one good enough for my dad. The D4 circus is full of Botoxed vampires, and he needs somebody fun. He’s talking about retiring here, Luce, and I just can’t bear the idea of him living all on his own.’

‘That’s years away! He’s bound to have hooked up with someone by then.’

‘Maybe. But not necessarily someone who’ll want to come and live in the back of beyond. I read somewhere that prescriptions for Prozac go through the roof in Coolnamara off season. Uh-oh, Lucy, she’s wandered out onto the deck to gaze wistfully at the sea. I’d better go put a spanner in the works.’

‘Go get her, Machiavella!’

‘Catch you soon!’

Machiavella was right, Izzy thought, as she slid her phone back into her pocket. There was a war to be won, and the best way to win it was through subterfuge, using guerrilla tactics. Izzy tossed back her hair, narrowed her eyes and prowled down the pathway, wearing her most panther-like smile. By the time she hit the deck, her demeanour had changed. The prowl had become a prance, and the smile was one Kate Hudson might have envied.

Later, standing by the hob in the kitchen, waiting for the milk for Adair’s hot chocolate to warm, Izzy looked back on the afternoon with glee. Río’s second Slow Comfortable Screw Up Against the Wall had turned out to be a very fast uncomfortable one. She had downed her cocktail in less than twenty minutes, and left the house reeling under Izzy’s onslaught.

Izzy hadn’t been rude, but she had been so determinedly polite that the atmosphere had become almost tangibly frigid. Every time Río had opened her mouth to make some banal observation about the house or the view or the weather, Izzy had fixed her with an expression of such intense interest that it could not but be unsettling for the woman. At one point Río had tried to lighten things up by telling a rambling joke, but by the time she’d reached the end, her audience was left looking bemused and laughing unconvincingly. Whereupon Izzy had told a dazzling story about the forthcoming nuptials of Nicolas Sarkozy and Carla Bruni that had left her father and Dervla helpless with laughter, and Río at a complete disadvantage. She clearly had not understood the punch-line, which Izzy had articulated in impeccably accented French.

Izzy stirred Green & Black’s into a mug of hot milk, and carried it through to her father in the drawing room. Sitting across from him, she tucked her feet underneath her.

‘Aren’t you having chocolate?’ he asked.

‘No. I’m thinking of my figure. I ate far too much over Christmas.’

Adair took a sip of his chocolate. ‘What did you think of the Kinsella sisters?’ he asked.

Izzy shrugged. ‘I thought the one with all the hair a bit–well–gauche. She’s not the kind of person I’d invite to dinner. She wouldn’t have a clue.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘She’d probably use all the wrong cutlery and call a napkin “a serviette” and pudding “sweet”.’

‘Izzy! It’s not like you to be such a snob.’

‘Blame Mum for that. She’s the one who was a stickler for good manners.’

‘She used to host the most perfect dinner parties.’

‘Do you miss them?’

Adair looked thoughtful. Then: ‘I’ve a confession to make,’ he replied with a smile. ‘I used to dread those feckin’ dinner parties. ‘They were like an endurance test.’

‘Really, Daddy?’

‘Yeah. I’d have been happier sitting on the deck with a beer. But your mother was–well let’s just say that the simple life wasn’t for her. Open the window a little, Izzy. I’d like to listen to the waves.’

She did as he asked, leaning out to breathe the scent of sea air. On the beach below a heron took fright, launching itself upwards on ungainly wings, and from an island opposite came the ghostly call of a curlew.

‘I love that sound,’ said Adair, happily. ‘Maybe I should come down here more often. I reckon I could cobble together a better social life in Lissamore than the non-existent one I have in Dublin.’

Izzy turned back to him. ‘What makes you say that?’

‘I run into too many of Felicity’s crowd there. Ironic to think that I can enjoy a drink in any branch of the Four Seasons anywhere in the world, but I don’t dare set foot in the one on my own doorstep.’

‘I hate that place,’ said Izzy, with feeling. ‘It’s full of plastic people.’

‘You’re right. The people in Lissamore are more…genuine, somehow.’

‘I wouldn’t say that,’ Izzy put in hastily.

‘Why?’

She could hardly tell her father that the two women he’d entertained earlier in the day had bitched about him in her mother’s boudoir.

‘Well, take that estate agent woman, Dervla, for instance. Estate agents are notorious for being fakes.’

‘Actually, she was very helpful. She advised me not to put this place on the market right now because of the property slump, but said that she’d be glad to help me sell it in a couple of years’ time, when the market bounces back.’

‘So you really are thinking about selling up?’

‘Just thinking. It’s been on my mind since you suggested it yesterday. This house is too big for just me. When Felicity designed it, she designed it with house parties in mind.’

‘It’s more like a hotel than a house, really, isn’t it?’

‘Well, that’s where the idea came from. From that joint in Miami that your mother loved so much. And it worked for a while. We had some good times here, didn’t we?’

Izzy nodded, even though she had very few fond memories of time spent in the Villa Felicity. She remembered the crowds of people who had used to descend from Dublin to stay in what Felicity had called ‘The Guest Wing’ (the capital letters evident in her tone), and how they’d all pose by the pool or on the deck with their champagne flutes, and how the women had all been immaculately made up and coiffed–even at breakfast. However Izzy had rather liked the fact that they were too precious about their La Perla swim togs to get them wet, because it meant that she could have the pool all to herself, to pretend she was a selkie.

But Adair’s words–‘when the market bounces back’–made Izzy feel something a little like fear flutter in the pit of her tummy. What if all the doom and gloom merchants and the headlines in the property pages were right, and nobody was buying houses any more? The Villa Felicity might never sell, and it would just sit here crumbling on the beach like a great white whale, its shutters closed for ever. Unless they got tenants in. But who would want to live here full time? Adair was right: the house had been built as a pleasure palace, and might not prove easy to sell. Izzy had always thought that it looked more like a clubhouse than a home. It was a soulless place. And then that vision came to her again, of her father as an old man, rattling around here all by himself. She swallowed hard.

‘Finished your hot chocolate, Dad?’ she asked.

‘Yes, thank you, sweetheart. It was delicious. No one makes hot chocolate like you do.’

Izzy smiled at him, and carried his empty mug into the gleaming Poggenpohl kitchen, her face aching with the effort of trying not to cry.