Chapter Fourteen

Towards the tail end of the summer, Dervla had a response from the letting agency she’d engaged to say they might have a tenant for her, on one proviso. Was she prepared to accommodate pets?

Was she? Hm. She wasn’t sure. She’d have been perfectly happy for Río to hang on to W.B., but because the garden now belonged to Mrs Murphy, the cat had transferred his allegiance to her, and was now living next door.

‘Not more than one,’ Dervla hazarded back, trusting that the pet in question was not a python or a Komodo dragon or a Vietnamese pot-bellied pig.

Her duplex was booked the very next day.

A week later, Dervla was sitting on the sea wall opposite ‘her’ house. Río had invited her for supper, so that they could celebrate their mother’s birthday together in the home in which they had been brought up. Because Dervla was early and the evening was so lovely, she decided to loiter for a while and shoot the breeze with whoever should happen by.

Lissamore was looking especially pretty today, decked up as it was for a forthcoming arts festival. There was bunting strung all along the main street, and fairy lights festooned from lampposts. Above her, Río’s balcony was so riotous with pinks, poppies and petunias that it could have been an entry in the Chelsea Flower Show. Dervla was glad she’d managed to wangle planning permission for its construction: permission for the deck at the back of the building had been no problem because it was out of sight, but the balcony had been less of a dead cert because it overlooked the street. Thankfully, her architect had been clever–if it weren’t for the fact that Río’s balcony was a virtual hanging garden, you almost wouldn’t know it was there.

Dervla’s eyes travelled from Río’s balcony down to the first storey of the house. Her tenant had evidently arrived–the blinds on the bedroom window had been raised. It must be seventh heaven, Dervla thought, to wake up in the morning and be faced with that view. Putting the picture windows in had been a smart idea: the prospect was south-east, and watching the sun rise over Lissamore could only be good for the soul. Maybe she’d been wrong to let the house? Maybe she should have swapped her city-girl heels for Río-style espadrilles and downsized to the stress-free zone that was village life? But then the vision that was Dervla’s gleaming penthouse arose before her mind’s eye, and her view over the bright lights of Galway city, and her Zen roof terrace, and the hot tub on the balcony of her bedroom, and she said to herself: ‘No, no, no!’

There was movement going on behind the window on the ground floor, and Dervla tensed, hoping that whoever was in there wouldn’t think she was spying on them. But then, her tenant wouldn’t have a clue that she was the landlord, so it didn’t matter. She didn’t look much like a landlord today anyway, dressed as she was in faded denims and T-shirt. She could be just another tourist taking her ease, soaking up the end of the glorious Coolnamara summer, and watching the world go by. But something made her reach into her bag and slide her shades on anyway, for that added touch of anonymity.

As she did so, the front door opened and a dog came bounding out. It was lean and sleek, with an alert look and the air of a thoroughbred. Spotting Dervla on the other side of the road, the dog made for her instantly, wagging its tail, clearly keen to make a new friend. It was a female, about two years old, with the kind of coat Cruella de Vil would have killed for. It was a Dalmatian, and the man who followed it through the door onto the footpath was the spitting image of Pierce Brosnan.

On her balcony, Río was watering her little bonsai tree. The aroma of roasting garlic wafted through to her from the kitchen, making her hungry. She had invited Dervla to supper this evening, to celebrate what would have been their mother’s birthday.

Río’s miniature gardens were both looking good. The deck at the rear of her apartment accommodated two recliners and a collection of terracotta troughs, in which she’d planted several varieties of geraniums. Here on the balcony there was room for a table, two folding chairs, some urns and hanging baskets, as well as specially constructed ledges for lots of smaller pots. There were nut feeders and a nesting box for her resident bluetits and robin, a preposterously kitsch miniature fountain, strings of fairy lights, and other bits and pieces of whimsy–a tiny Tibetan monk worshipping at the foot of the bonsai, a small zoo of carved wooden animals prancing the length of a shelf, a rather rude Sile na Gig, and a piece of driftwood in the shape of a mermaid complete with tail, flowing hair and smiling face painted on by Río.

The sound of a familiar laugh from the street below made Río look down. There, sitting on the sea wall, looking rather fetching in a spaghetti-strapped cotton T-shirt and jeans, was her sister. She was smiling up at a man whom Río did not recognise, and a Dalmatian was dancing attendance, leaping up to put her forepaws on the sea wall so that Dervla could better pay her attention. It seemed she was bestowing most of her attention upon its master, because they were eyeing each other in that boy-meets-girl manner, body language quite openly flirtatious. Dervla held her head at a coquettish angle, and she kept pushing a strand of her (newly coloured) hair behind her ear, while the man’s stance was one that combined easy grace with courtesy–an alpha male with manners!

Well, this was interesting! For a woman who had said only a few months previously that she had no room for a man in her life, Dervla was putting out all the wrong signals. Río watched as her sister got to her feet, checked her watch, then extracted a card from her bag and handed it to her swain, who in return handed over a card of his own. The pair said their farewells, and Dervla bent to scratch the Dalmatian’s ears before crossing the road without a backward glance. If she had looked back, Río was amused to notice, it would have been to see alpha-male-with-manners regarding her retreating rear with considerable interest.

The doorbell rang. With a smile, Río set down her watering can and went to let her sister in.

‘Yo! Welcome to my crib!’ she sang in mock hip-hop as she threw open the door. Dervla had taken her sunglasses off, and her eyes, as she climbed the final flight of stairs to Río’s loft, held a look of private amusement. ‘Who was the dude?’

‘You’ve been spying on me!’ Dervla passed through the door and dropped her bag on a sofa. ‘Wow! Fantastic smell. What are we having?’

‘We are having,’ said Río, in the manner of a maitre d’ announcing the evening’s specials, ‘chicken baked in a lemon and garlic vinaigrette, with saffron roast potatoes and French beans, a side salad of rocket, red onion and roasted peppers followed by choc—’

‘No, no! Don’t tell me what’s for dessert. I’ll only want it, and I’m trying to lose weight.’ Dervla handed Río a hand-tied bouquet of country-garden-style blooms. ‘These are for you. A bit coals to Newcastle, to judge by all the green-fingered activity that’s been going on since I was last here. Your balcony looks like a display in a florist’s window.’

‘Thanks,’ said Río, accepting the flowers and admiring them. ‘They’re beautiful. Hey, they’d look good in the bedroom of four Lauderdale. They’re the exact same colour as the painting I hung on the wall there.’

‘Don’t you dare! I bought them as a present for you, not as set dressing.’

‘So,’ said Río, selecting a fluted white vase in which to display her bouquet, ‘who is the dude?’

‘Is that vase Parian china?’

‘Yeah. I got it in a car boot sale, and stop trying to change the subject.’

‘The dude,’ said Dervla, settling herself on a sofa, ‘happens to be the tenant from downstairs. Didn’t you meet him when he came to pick up the key?’

‘No. I was out doing the Bradshaws’ garden. I left the key with Mrs Murphy, and stuck a note on the window telling him he could get it from next door.’

‘Isn’t that a little rash, Río? Any chancer could have applied to Mrs Murphy for the key and carted off the entertainment system that cost me an arm and a leg.’

‘Phooey Sure didn’t I leave my car door unlocked the other night, and my wallet on the passenger seat, and nobody went near it. That’s the beauty of living in a village like Lissamore, Dervla. You can leave your front door on the latch all day. And you’re still trying to change the subject.’

‘His name is Christian Vaughan.’

‘Cool moniker!’

‘And he’s taken the place for a week because he’s thinking about coming to live here. I told him I’d be only too delighted to help him, and gave him my card.’

‘Serendipity!’

‘Serendipity?’

‘Serendipity’s when fate intervenes and good things start to happen.’

‘I know what serendipity means. I’m just trying to work out what’s so serendipitous about meeting a potential client and passing on my card.’

‘Well, he’s your man, isn’t he? The one with the Dalmatian who looks like Pierce Brosnan. I mean he looks like Pierce Brosnan, not the Dalmatian.’

‘I suppose he does rather,’ said Dervla. But Río noticed that there was something a little too studied about the casualness with which she made the observation.

‘What kind of house is he looking for?’ asked Río. ‘A big one with manicured lawns and topiary?’

‘Well, I don’t know about the manicured lawns and the topiary, but he is looking for something spacious–preferably with a granny flat or studio attached that could accommodate his mother.’

‘Uh-oh. A mummy’s boy? Is he gay?’

‘He is most emphatically not gay,’ said Dervla, and Río almost laughed at the affront in her sister’s tone, as if the virility of her putative dream man was somehow in question. ‘He’s divorced, with a daughter at boarding school in England.’

‘What does he do?’

‘He’s a wine importer, in Dublin. He and his business partner have decided to branch out, and he’s made an offer on a shop in Ardmore.’

‘So why’s he looking for a house here if his business is going to be in Ardmore?’

‘His preference is for Lissamore. It’s prettier, and the commute’s only fifteen minutes. And his mother was brought up here. He says he’d love her to spend her final years in the place where she enjoyed a happy childhood. She’s been living in London for years.’

Río gave her sister a look of admiration. ‘You got a lot of gen on him in a short space of time, Dervla. You could be a chat-show host.’

‘People skills are part of my job, Río. You don’t sell houses if you don’t show a bit of interest in your clients.’

‘He’s not your client,’ Río pointed out.

‘Not yet, he’s not,’ agreed Dervla, with the narrow-eyed smile of a seasoned speculator. ‘But I can guarantee you that he’ll be checking out my website later on this evening. Can I have a glass of wine, please?’

‘Sure.’

Río poured two glasses, handed one to her sister and said: ‘Here’s to Mama.’

‘To Mama,’ echoed Dervla. She took a thoughtful sip, then wandered towards the window to look out at the view. ‘I wonder what she’d make of us now. I wonder if she’d approve of how we’ve turned out.’

‘She’d approve of you,’ said Río. ‘Who wouldn’t approve of a daughter who turned out to be such a high-flying achiever?’

‘Maybe. But you produced the grandson, and reared him all by yourself. That’s no mean achievement. We’ve both worked hard, in our own ways.’

‘I wonder who we inherited the work ethic from?’

‘Well, I certainly didn’t inherit it from Frank. Do you ever wonder about your–about the Patrick person?’

Río shook her head. She hadn’t told Dervla about the letter she had found in Mrs Murphy’s rosewood bureau. She had told no one about it. She felt that she owed it to her neighbour not to compromise her, and she felt that, in a way, she owed it to her father too. Abandoning Rosaleen and his baby daughter had clearly not been easy for Patrick, but it had been the right thing to do at the time. Back then, life in a rural village would have been hell for a married woman with children fathered by two different men.

Río had wondered–of course she had–about the final letter her father had written to Rosaleen, the one he’d enclosed in the envelope addressed to ‘Anne-Marie’. It was impossible to know if Mrs Murphy had delivered it, because there had been no evidence of any farewell letter amongst the others her mother had stowed away in the battered vanity case. Río had resigned herself to the fact that it was something she would never find out. Maybe that was just as well. The past was another country, after all, and she had no wish to disturb the people who lived there still, who might finally have found some kind of peace.

She had also wondered–if Frank had found out that his neighbour had connived at her parents’ affair–would he have included Mrs Murphy in his will? It was doubtful, Río decided. He would probably have left the garden to the cat.

‘Do you think he might be here still, somewhere in Coolnamara?’ asked Dervla.

‘No. I shuffled his letters about and tried to put them in chronological order. They come to a kind of abrupt end. I think he probably hotfooted it out of town shortly after I was born.’

‘And you still haven’t made any effort to trace him?’

‘No. I’d be too scared he might be a waster, Dervla. From the way he writes, you can tell he’s a hopeless romantic. I met lots of men like him in the days when I was living with Finn in that commune in Galway–the kind of men who’d pass through and fall in love and then scarper if things got too heavy. Loads of girls ended up having babies by men they knew they were never going to see again. I was one of the luckier ones. At least Shane cared enough to send money when he could, and made an effort to see Finn from time to time. Still does. At least Finn knows his father’s on his side.’

‘And his aunt. If he ever has any worries that he can’t talk to you about, tell him he can come to me.’

‘Thanks. It’ll be good for him to know he has family apart from me and his dad. Shane’s folks never wanted to know. They couldn’t handle the idea of a bastard in the family’

Dervla made a sympathetic face. ‘It must have been lonely sometimes.’

‘It was. It’s funny–because I’m so outgoing and sociable people always think I’m doing grand. You’re the only person who knew how bad things had got that time after Finn left.’

‘How are you feeling now?’

‘Much better, thanks to you.’

It was true. Since Río had started to work for Dervla and ‘got creative’, things were on a more even keel. Now that she’d moved into her new home and no longer had so many money worries, life without Finn was more bearable. She’d even started painting again. The bad dreams she’d suffered from–the ones where she trailed through the night like a vagabond, losing things all over the place–were less frequent, and every time she turned the key in the lock and shut her front door behind her, the sense of contentment that suffused Río made her feel as aglow as a Ready Brek kid.

‘Oh, I nearly forgot,’ said Dervla, setting down her glass, ‘I brought you a house-warming present.’ She reached into her leather tote and took out a rectangular object wrapped in handmade paper.

‘As well as flowers? Dervla, you’ve got to stop being so generous.’

Río was reluctant to take the parcel that Dervla was holding out to her. Her sister had gifted her her home, she had found her a job, she had restored her self-esteem. It made her feel uncomfortable sometimes to contemplate how indebted she was to Dervla, and she fervently hoped that some day she would be in a position to repay her.

Beneath the paper–in a simple wooden frame–was a sampler, hand-embroidered in silk thread. Birds and bees and butterflies worked in French knots and featherstitch and herringbone encircled a motto that read ‘Home is where the Heart is’. Río smiled. It was the most perfect house-warming present she could have asked for.

‘You do like it?’ asked Dervla. ‘You don’t think it’s too kitsch?’

‘I absolutely love it,’ Río told her. ‘I’m going to hang it in pride of place, above my Dutch stove. Where on earth did you find it? Samplers like this have real scarcity value.’

‘I drove a hard bargain,’ she said. ‘It cost me ten euro in a car boot sale.’

Río crowed. ‘Well, doesn’t my sister rock! An antique dealer would have charged you ten times that!’

Dervla dimpled a little. ‘There’s a lot to be said for austerity chic,’ she said, ‘and I’m lucky to have the best mentor going.’

‘Oh, yeah? Who might that be?’ asked Río.

‘My sister,’ said Dervla, holding out her arms for a hug.

Later, after a second helping of the chocolate mousse, which Río had twisted Dervla’s arm into eating, and after many reminiscences about their childhood that had them in fits of laughter rather than in floods of tears (‘Remember the time Dad came back from the pub when he’d sold his business for cash?’ ‘Yes! And he had tenners spilling out of his pockets and he gave us each a handful and told us to go and buy something nice to wear!’ ‘And d’you remember the time he recited the lines along with the actors when we went to that Yeats play?’ ‘Yes! And then he fell asleep and started snoring. And d’you remember the time…’)–much later, when Dervla checked on her BlackBerry for the second time that evening, there was, indeed, mail from C. Vaughan.

‘Result! Listen to this. “Dear Dervla,’” Dervla read out loud, ‘“It was–” wait for it!–“serendipitous to meet you earlier this evening. I should be extremely interested in viewing a number of properties on your books. Perhaps you could give me a call at your convenience? In case you may have mislaid my card, my number is–” blah blah blah.’

‘Show me, show me!’ said Río, reaching for the BlackBerry, and feeling a flutter of excitement for her sister. Scanning the screen, she scrolled down and widened her eyes. ‘Wow,’ she said. ‘Did you get a load of the way he signed off?’

‘No,’ said Dervla. ‘You grabbed the BlackBerry before I got a chance.’

‘Give me a thousand kisses, then another hundred, then another thousand, then a second hundred, then yet another thousand more, then another hundred,’ said Río, deadpan.

‘Ha-ha,’ said Dervla, with a laconic yawn. ‘What did he really say? “Best wishes”, “All best”, or “Best”?’

‘None of the above,’ said Río. ‘He said “Warmest”.’

Dervla looked thoughtful for a moment, and then she gave a little smile. ‘The cheek of him!’ she said.

‘There are three properties I’d be interested in viewing,’ Christian Vaughan told Dervla over the phone the next day. ‘One is the converted church.’

‘That’s definitely worth a look,’ said Dervla.

‘The other is the Victorian hunting lodge.’

‘An absolute must-see.’

‘And, thirdly, I’d like to have a look at the Old Rectory.’

‘Oh.’

‘Don’t tell me it’s gone?’

‘No. In fact, it’s been on our books for some time.’

‘So why hasn’t it sold? Is there some problem with it?’

‘No, no. It’s–it’s beautiful. It’s just that the owner has refused to drop the asking price, and buyers these days are looking for bargains.’

Dervla had had mixed feelings when the owner of the Old Rectory had refused to budge on the price. It had put prospective buyers off even bothering to view the property, which was, of course, bad news for her, professionally. But while the Old Rectory remained unsold, Dervla allowed herself to dream that one day it might be hers.

It was, of course, a complete pipe dream. Dervla was a registered member of IAVI–the Institute of Auctioneers and Valuers in Ireland–and was bound by a strict code of ethics. While the property was on her books, there was no way she could even think about putting in a bid for it. There were ways that other, less ethical, agents got around this rule. They would keep the price unrealistically high and make viewings as difficult as possible for prospective buyers, and then–when the vendors were on the verge of despairing that they would never sell–the agent would put in a low offer, a kind of ‘sympathy’ bid. Once the contracts had been signed and the property was legally theirs, they would scarper, cackling up their sleeves like pantomime baddies. It wasn’t just the code of ethics that Dervla felt bound by; she had her own fairly strict moral code, and liked to think she was a person of integrity. It was for these reasons that she made a point of never allowing herself to become emotionally entangled with her properties. It was just too dangerous.

The Old Rectory, however, was an exception. The house so resembled the one of her childhood dreams that she had fallen in love with it at first sight. It was a small double-fronted Georgian manor, approached by a winding, tree-lined avenue, which curved graciously up to the front entrance before serpenting round to the back. Here, a large courtyard housed the kind of outbuildings that were crying out for conversion. The main house had retained all its original features. Dervla could repeat the list like a mantra: original cornices, coving, ceiling roses and bas-relief panels; original stone flag flooring, fireplaces, recessed windows and wooden shutters.

‘What about the Mill House?’ suggested Dervla, trying to expand Christian Vaughan’s horizons. ‘It’s a rarity, and an absolute beauty.’

‘Too much hard work,’ said Christian. ‘The thatch would be a bitch to maintain, and I don’t have a clue how a mill wheel works.’

‘The Old Schoolhouse? It’s in turn-key condition.’

‘Too small.’

‘No worries!’ said Dervla, sounding a lot more upbeat than she felt. ‘I’ll put in some phone calls, and hopefully all three properties will be available to view tomorrow.’

Dervla knew they would be available: none of the owners was resident, and she had keys to all three houses. But it was a matter of professional courtesy to let those concerned know that a viewing was on the cards, whether they were in situ or not.

She made the phone calls. The converted church? Check. The hunting lodge? Check. The third call was long distance to Mr McKenzie, vendor of the Old Rectory. He had bought it as a holiday home a decade ago, and visited it only twice. ‘Sure–go ahead,’ said McKenzie. ‘And tell whoever’s interested that I’m prepared to negotiate downward.’

‘Downward?’ echoed Dervla. ‘I thought you were determined to stick to your original asking price, Mr McKenzie?’

‘Sheesh. I’ve been waiting over a year for that baby to shift. If you can’t beat ’em, makes sense to join ’em at this stage, dontchathink?’

‘Well…’ Dervla thought quickly. If McKenzie was prepared to drop his price, and the house still didn’t sell, then that could be good news for her because he would, in all likelihood, decide to switch agents. In which event there was nothing to stop her, Dervla, from entering the bidding. ‘Well, Mr McKenzie, perhaps you’d like to think about the kind of figure you have in mind?’

‘Nah. See what the sonofabitch is prepared to offer, and get back to me.’

‘Certainly,’ said Dervla, adding, ‘Good morning, Mr McKenzie.’

It was actually afternoon here in Ireland, but only ten a.m. in New York where McKenzie was receiving calls in his brownstone overlooking Central Park. But Dervla was a stickler for accuracy, and had trained her receptionist to say ‘Good afternoon’ if she picked up the phone just one minute after midday. First impressions were so important.

She got straight back to Christian Vaughan.

‘Well, Mr Vaughan—’

‘Christian, please.’

‘Christian. Since all the properties are within a few minutes’ drive of Lissamore, I suggest we kill three birds with one stone. We could schedule the viewings for tomorrow morning, if that suits you?’

‘I have business in Ardmore, I’m afraid. But I should be through by midday. How about meeting up then?’

‘Certainly’

‘I’ll pick you up in Lissamore. That means we can halve our carbon footprint by using just the one car.’

Dervla hesitated. Since the disappearance of estate agent Suzy Lamplugh over twenty years ago, women auctioneers knew the importance of being vigilant. Dervla had completed a self-defence course, and her oversized Hermes handbag was not just a fashion accessory. It contained a personal attack alarm, a spray can of Mace, and a digital voice recorder, which she discreetly switched on any time she felt uneasy during a viewing. Her speed-dial numbers included her office, a private security firm, and half a dozen garda stations.

But in this instance, she had no worries. All Christian Vaughan’s details–including his passport and credit card numbers–were on record with the agency responsible for letting the house that was now known as ‘Harbour View’. If her tenant had any ulterior motives for viewing her properties–such as rape, abduction or murder–he wouldn’t get very far.

‘Sounds like a good idea,’ she said. ‘Tomorrow, midday, outside Harbour View?’

‘Perfect,’ said Christian. ‘I look forward to it.’

On putting the phone down, Dervla picked it up again to Río. ‘How are you fixed for casting a critical eye over some properties? I have to warn you, it’s pretty short notice.’

‘That’s OK. Which ones?’

‘The church, the hunting lodge, and the Old Rectory. No. Wait a minute. You don’t have to bother about the Old Rectory. But I might ask you to take a look at the other two and make sure they’re presentable? Just in case anyone’s been staying there?’

‘Sure,’ said Río.

Dervla was reasonably certain that both properties were in good nick, but she’d made a point of double-checking after she had learned a salutary lesson. On one occasion, a vendor’s son and a crowd of his friends had arrived down to Coolnamara from Dublin for a bank holiday weekend, and had either not been warned or hadn’t given a tinker’s that there was a viewing scheduled for the following Tuesday.

Dervla had gone into the house to be confronted by a smell that could only be stale Parmesan cheese or vomit, and which had proved to be both. Red wine had been spilled on the sitting-room carpet, unwashed plates were stacked in the kitchen sink, and half-empty bottles and glasses had been abandoned in every room in the house, including the downstairs loo. Dervla had found not one, but two pairs of discarded panties in an unmade bed under which lurked a couple of used French letters and a pornographic DVD.

It was the only time she had ever been relieved to receive a call from the prospective buyer to say that their car had broken down, and might it be possible to postpone the viewing until another day.

The following morning, Río called Dervla back to say that all was well. She’d laid fires in the sitting rooms of both properties, positioned plants strategically (orchids always looked fantastic in bathrooms) and laid out fresh towels and soap.

Midday found Dervla sitting on the sea wall opposite Harbour View, this time dressed in her work uniform of charcoal-grey suit, crisp white blouse and sensible shoes.

‘Hey,’ said Christian, when he rolled up bang on time. ‘I very nearly didn’t recognise you in those duds. Hop in.’

He was sitting behind the wheel of a Saab convertible, with leather-lined interior, sat nav and übercool sound system. Dervla was impressed, and impressed too by the way he handled the car once they hit the winding roads beyond the village. Christian had the air of a man who was totally in control, yet relaxed with it. It felt good to ride in a passenger seat. Dervla couldn’t remember the last time she’d been driven anywhere, except by taxi.

‘Where’s the dog?’ she asked.

‘I took her for a long walk on the beach this morning, before I hit Ardmore. She’ll likely spend the rest of the day sleeping off the effects of all that sea air. Being a city girl, she’s not used to it.’

‘Somebody once told me that the air in Coolnamara has the same effect on city people as a pint of Guinness,’ Dervla told him.

‘Pity you couldn’t bottle it,’ he returned with a smile.

‘Some enterprising local did, once. Bottled Coolnamara air, and sold it to Yanks.’

‘Maybe I should think about stocking some in the wine shop.’

Their first stop was the Victorian hunting lodge.

‘Do you ride?’ Dervla asked, as they pulled up outside the stable wing. ‘There are some lovely hacking trails nearby.’

‘’Fraid not,’ said Christian. ‘What interests me most about this house is the potential for converting the stables.’

They got out of the car, and Dervla produced a key. ‘The place has been extensively renovated in recent years,’ she told him, as she pushed open the front door, ‘to exceptionally high standards.’

Seguing effortlessly into estate-agent speak, Dervla led Christian through the hall to the kitchen, utility, sitting and dining rooms, the cloakroom and the office. Upstairs there were four bedrooms, two of which incorporated en suite bathrooms. Río had been thorough. The place looked loved.

The stable block next. Here there was no whiff of Jo Malone grapefruit, but Dervla was convinced that clever Río might have wielded a room spray that suggested the scent of freshly mown hay.

‘Perfect for conversion to a studio apartment or granny flat, don’t you think?’ With a smile, Dervla launched into her spiel, but when she finished, Christian just murmured a polite ‘Thank you. That was very interesting. Shall we move on to number two?’

Shit, thought Dervla. Either Christian Vaughan was totally unimpressed, or he was an excellent poker player.

On they drove to the converted church.

‘As you can see,’ began Dervla, ‘this was once a Gothic church. The extension was built less than ten years ago, and was designed to blend into the style of the existing building. The whole incorporates many gorgeous features, including this very impressive teak staircase with decorative rails and banister.’

Leading Christian upstairs, Dervla continued her eulogy. Actually, she wasn’t mad about this property. She thought the refurbishment not entirely successful, and there were too many folderols, like canopied beds and chandeliers. The place felt as if it was trying too hard. She could tell that Christian was as unmoved by it as she was, because, after a perfunctory look around he said, ‘Thank you. How about property number three?’

‘The Old Rectory,’ said Dervla, almost as an afterthought. ‘Oh, yes.’

As they drove through the gates, Dervla found herself fighting the temptation to say: ‘Bit of a waste of time, viewing this one. I’m sure it isn’t the right property for you.’ But of course, she didn’t.

They got out of the car and stood looking up at the rose-coloured brick facade.

‘It’s a handsome building,’ remarked Christian.

‘Yes.’ Dervla climbed the steps and unlocked the front door. Inside the front hall, light flooded through the fanlight onto the stone-flagged floor. Dust motes had been sent dancing by the sudden draught, and cobwebs swayed overhead. There was no smell of Jo Malone here, no gleam of polish on woodwork.

‘As you can probably tell, the house has not been viewed for some time,’ said Dervla.

‘Clearly not,’ said Christian, looking around with a smile. ‘She’s like the Sleeping Beauty’

‘I’ll show you—’ began Dervla, leading the way towards the cantilevered staircase.

But Christian cut her off. ‘Thank you, no. I’d prefer to explore on my own, if that’s all right with you?’

‘Of course,’ said Dervla. ‘I’ll wait outside.’

She spent half an hour sitting on a wrought-iron bench by the front door with the sun on her face, admiring the view, and feeling guilty that she wasn’t using the time to send emails on her BlackBerry It was perfectly silent in the overgrown garden of the Old Rectory, the only sound being the lazy buzz of a bee in the shrubbery.

As a child, when she and Río had shared their daydreams, this was the kind of house that Dervla had had in mind when she’d pictured her future. She’d imagined herself dressed in white linen, drifting around a garden with a basket on her arm, plucking flowers that she would arrange later in the kitchen with the help of a rosy-cheeked housekeeper. Together they’d go over the plans for the evening’s menu, and later friends would arrive and they’d have aperitifs on the terrace before going in to dine at the polished mahogany table in the dining room, and she would sit at one end, and her husband would sit at the other, and the repartee would ring round the table until it was time for their guests to drive off into the night, leaving their hosts to enjoy a nightcap by the dying embers of the drawing-room fire before extinguishing the candles and putting the dog out and, finally, climbing the stairs to bed.

Dervla had been a sucker for romance in those days. She’d read Mills & Boon books by the dozen, and pinned Pre-Raphaelite posters on her walls, and wept at mawkish movies. Now there was no room for romance in her life. Romance was a dream peddled by PR people and media consultants and cynical, jaded advertising executives. And estate agents.

So why was she still harbouring a dream about one day swapping her penthouse for a place like this, where there would be no concierge to help things run smoothly, and no nearby trendy florist to deliver her weekly arrangements, and no smart facilities to turn on her lights and her heat and her entertainment system at the touch of a button on a remote control?

It was stupid of her to entertain notions of McKenzie taking his business elsewhere so that she could put in a bid for this property. It was stupid to think that she could make the switch from city to country living without the kind of major, major stress that would have her importuning her GP for Xanax. And imagine the commute! No matter how much she loved her nifty little Merc, forty kilometres to Galway every day would do her head in.

Hearing the sound of feet crunching on gravel, Dervla got to her feet. Christian was rounding the corner of the house, looking up at the rooftop with a hand shading his eyes. When he reached her, he turned to regard the view, and remained silent for a long moment.

‘Well?’ said Dervla pleasantly. ‘What do you think?’

Christian smiled down at her. ‘I love her,’ he said.

His expression said it all. She’d seen that look before on the faces of those prospective buyers who had found ‘The One’, and Dervla knew at once that she might as well forget her dreams of ever being chatelaine of the Old Rectory. Once a man started referring to a house as ‘her’, there was no going back. It looked like Sleeping Beauty had landed Christian Vaughan hook, line and sinker.

‘I can just picture Kitty racing through that landscape,’ he continued, his gaze taking in the meadows that ran down to a river below, and the rolling blue hills on the horizon, and the glint of the sea beyond. ‘She would be so happy here.’

‘Who’s Kitty?’

‘The dog.’

‘So,’ said Dervla, taking a deep breath, ‘you think this might be the house for you?’

‘I don’t think so,’ replied Christian, turning to look up at the stone pediment over the front door. ‘I know so. Isn’t it a bitch when you fall in love with a house?’

Dervla slid her shades on, and extracted her bleating BlackBerry from her bag. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It is.’