Chapter Seventeen

On Friday afternoon, Río got a call from the hackney company to ask her to pick up a fare from Galway airport. The fare’s name was Sharkey, his destination was Lissamore, and, as ill luck would have it, she learned too late that his flight was delayed by an hour and a half. ‘Sure, no matter!’ said the girl in dispatches, as Río negotiated the Galway ring road. ‘Take yourself into town and treat yourself! Lucky you, to have time off for a bit of shopping!’

Río couldn’t understand the girl’s ebullience. She had never been much of a one for shopping. She wasn’t easily intimidated, but department stores were, for her, amongst the scariest places on earth. How some women viewed shopping as a ‘leisure activity’ was beyond her. She hated having to ask advice of the snooty-looking girls behind the cosmetic counters with their immaculate maquillage, and she hated it when she shuffled out of changing cubicles, shaking her head apologetically at the salesgirls because the clothes that looked so gorgeous on the rack looked like shit on her.

But sometimes you had to be brave and just do it. Having finally found a place to park, Río slouched into a posh emporium, feeling shabby in her polyester suit. It looked all right from the waist up, she supposed, but the bum had gone shiny from all that sitting in the driver’s seat. She ventured first into the cosmetics section, and was immediately set upon by an army of girls wielding perfume sprays. No, no, no! There was nothing worse for a fare than being stuck in a hackney with a driver who smelled like an air freshener. Río ducked and dived like a resistance fighter, and finally drew up at a counter where there was a promotion on. She found herself being suckered into parting with a nauseating sum of money for a night cream that the salesgirl promised would eliminate free radicals (whatever they were) and a cleanser that would calm her stressed skin.

Upstairs, she made her way to the discount rail, where a nondescript mackintosh caught her eye. It stood to reason that if the coat looked unappealing on the hanger, it might look quite good on her, and she was right. Because she badly needed a coat now that autumn was on the way, she bagged it, and then she bagged a pair of jeans that had been marked down from 250 euro to 50 (who in their right mind would pay 250 euro for a pair of jeans?), as well as a plain black dress with elbow-length sleeves that was very un-Río but looked pretty stylish, and a pair of heels that she knew she’d never be able to walk in. A cardigan! Why not?

Río was feeling reckless, now–so reckless that she thought she might even pluck up the nerve to infiltrate the lingerie department. It was Fleur’s birthday soon, and she wanted to buy her friend something special. On Río’s last birthday, Fleur had presented her with the most beautiful coffee-table book of underwater photographs by David Doubilet. Río wanted to return the compliment by giving Fleur something she knew she would love, and Fleur was passionate about underthings. In the lingerie department, she helped herself to a pair of darling knickers, polka-dotted and trimmed on each hip with a miniature geyser of scarlet ribbons, and a matching bra with teeny bows on the straps.

What was she doing, she wondered, as she handed over her credit card. She had never spent this kind of money in her life, ever! As she keyed in her PIN, her palms were sweaty and she was practically hyperventilating–and then two things happened that made her wish that the ground would open up and swallow her and her glossy carrier bags in one big gulp.

The first thing that went wrong was when the salesgirl murmured: ‘I’m sorry, madam, but there appears to be a problem with your card.’

‘A problem?’ stammered Río to the assistant, whose name tag told her she was Kirsty. ‘Surely not! I’ve made several purchases already with my card.’

‘I’m sure it’s just the usual gremlin in the works,’ said Kirsty, with professional politeness, ‘but I will have to phone the bank to get clearance. Liz–’ this to a fellow salesgirl–‘could you serve the gentleman, please?’

‘Certainly!’ said Liz, joining her colleague at the cash desk.

And this is when the second awful thing happened. Río heard a man’s voice from behind say: ‘If I’d known that you were going shopping for girly stuff, I wouldn’t have come with you. I always feel like a perv in these places.’ And then she heard a girl’s voice say: ‘Put your wallet away, Dad! I will not have you paying for my underwear.’ Río knew that voice, that imperious Dublin 4 accent.

She started to sidle unobtrusively away from the cash desk, but as she did so, she heard the man’s voice say: ‘Río! Hello! What a coincidence. I believe you’re joining us for lunch tomorrow?’

‘Hello, Adair. Yes, I believe I am.’ Río turned to him, agonisingly aware that her face was now redder than the ribbons on her new purchases.

Isabella was looking at her with an expression of ill-concealed affront, and Río knew that it was because she had clocked the items of underwear that Kirsty had left on the counter when she’d gone off to phone the bank. They were, Río realised now, identical to the ones that Isabella herself was purchasing. Oh, God! This was awful, awful!

‘I’m sorry,’ said Kirsty, putting her hand over the mouthpiece of the phone, ‘they’ve put me on hold.’

‘Oh, look,’ said Río, ‘it doesn’t matter. I’ll come back another time.’

‘I don’t mind holding,’ said Kirsty.

‘No, no, really.’ Río was now desperate to get out of there. ‘I’m running late for an appointment. Please give me back my card.’

‘Well, if you’re sure…’ said Kirsty.

‘Sure, I’m sure. Thank you.’ Río snatched back her card and jammed it into her wallet.

‘Can I help?’ asked Adair.

‘No. No, thanks. Really.’ Río’s wallet hit the deck, and a load of coins came tumbling out of her change purse.

‘It’s just that the bank’s taking ages to respond,’ Kirsty told him, helpfully.

Oh God, she must have assumed that she and Adair were shopping together, thought Río, as she scrabbled around on the carpet for fifty-cent pieces.

‘Please allow me,’ said Adair, turning to Liz, ‘to add Ms Kinsella’s purchases to my bill’

‘Certainly, sir.’ Liz reached for the pile of ridiculous frippery and helped herself to a length of tissue paper.

‘I can’t allow you to do this, Adair!’ protested Río, getting to her feet. She was now so frazzled that she thought she might start snivelling.

‘Why not? Sure, won’t we be seeing each other tomorrow? I’ll allow you to pay me back then, for the–um…’

Liz had started to wrap each of the flimsy items carefully in tissue paper, and as she did so, a terrible silence descended, as everyone registered exactly what Río was buying. The silence was broken only by Kirsty, who had started singing along to ‘Greensleeves’ down the phone.

‘Thirty-six C?’ Liz trilled at Río, holding up the polka-dot bra with the scarlet bows. Río nodded.

Then: ‘Thirty-two C?’ she trilled, turning to Isabella. Isabella said, ‘That’s right,’ in that perfectly modulated voice of hers, and just gazed serenely into the middle distance. Oh! The wretched child didn’t seem at all fazed by the fact that the two women had opted for the same underwear, and Río went redder still when she thought of shapely little Isabella sporting scanties that would make Río in comparison look like a wobbly chunk of fatty mutton masquerading as lamb. She suddenly remembered the dancing hippos in Disney’s Fantasia, pirouetting in their tutus, and she couldn’t help it–she started to laugh and cry at the same time.

Adair looked at her with concern. ‘Is something the matter?’ he asked, and Río managed to shake her head. How she’d love to be able to explain that the underwear wasn’t for her–that it was actually for her very girly girlfriend–but she had a suspicion that an explanation would make her look as if she were protesting too much. ‘I’m–I’m just remembering a joke,’ she said, ‘that makes me laugh, but because–because my son told it to me, it makes me cry at the same time.’

Oh God, oh God. Any minute now Río was going to wake up and laugh when she realised that the past ten minutes had been just a crazy nightmare! But no such luck. The next thing she knew, her phone was alerting her to a text, which read: ‘Sharkey’s flight landing in ten.’

‘Oh, yikes–yikes–I’ve gotta go,’ she whimpered. And she grabbed up her assorted carrier bags and fled the lingerie department. If all the hounds of hell had been hot on her heels, Río couldn’t have fled it faster.

‘Was she drunk?’ Izzy asked her father, who was looking after Río with a bemused expression.

‘I don’t think so,’ said Adair. ‘I didn’t get a smell of drink off her.’

‘Maybe she’s mad,’ said Izzy.

‘A little scatty, maybe,’ conceded Adair. ‘She’s a bohemian. You expect bohemians to be a bit eccentric’

‘What was that you said about seeing her tomorrow?’

‘She’s coming with her sister, to have a look at the house.’

‘Why does she have to look at it?’

‘I’d value her opinion.’

Izzy gave him an incredulous look. ‘Is that wise, Dad? You just admitted yourself that she’s batty’

Adair shrugged. ‘Apparently she’s excellent with gardens. She whispers to plants.’

‘That makes her officially mad. And look, she left her stuff behind.’ Izzy indicated the carrier bag that Liz had packed with such care.

‘Sir?’ Liz was looking at Adair expectantly.

‘Oh, I beg your pardon,’ he said, pulling out his wallet.

‘No, Dad.’ Izzy laid a firm hand on his arm. I told you you were not to pay for my stuff.

‘What about Río’s stuff? I said I’d pay for that.’

‘I’ll pay for it. Knowing you, you’ll be too embarrassed to ask her for the money back. And I don’t imagine she’ll be beating a path to your door to offer it to you on a plate.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘It’s just a hunch. If she’s an eccentric bohemian she’s probably an anarchist too. And since anarchists believe in the equal distribution of wealth, by inveigling you into footing her bill, she’s doing her bit to redistribute it.’

‘When did you get to be so cynical, Izzy? Is this what they’re teaching you in college?’

‘I’m not cynical, Dad,’ said Izzy, jabbing her number into the chip-and-pin machine. ‘I’m just a realist. You’re the big softie in our family.’

And I’m not going to allow that cow Río, with her coy blushes and her big blinking bovine eyes, to take advantage of you, Izzy vowed, as she waited for the transaction to go through. She wondered how much of today’s chance meeting had really been down to ‘chance’. Had Río spotted them and followed them to the lingerie department, and then staged it so her credit card didn’t register? It would be an easy thing to do: just enter the wrong pin a couple of times, and hey presto! Suddenly you’re a damsel in distress, in need of a knight in shining armour to rescue you. She wouldn’t put it past that Kinsella woman to have lots of con-artist tricks up her polyester sleeve.

‘Thank you so much,’ she told Liz as she swung the pair of carrier bags off the counter.

Her father was regarding his watch with a dismayed expression. ‘I knew we shouldn’t have stopped off in Galway,’ he said. ‘It’s nearly four o’clock.’

‘We needed to stock up on food,’ Izzy pointed out. ‘You’ve invited people for lunch tomorrow. I hope we have enough for four.’

When Adair had told her he’d invited Dervla for lunch, he hadn’t mentioned that her evil sister was part of the equation.

‘We could always eat out tonight.’

‘No. I’m going to make sure you eat properly. That’s why I got all that fruit and green vegetables. You haven’t been looking after yourself, Dad, and if you carry on working at this rate and eating out all the time, you’re asking for trouble. At least when you and Mum were together, you had a healthy diet.’

‘Nag, nag, nag.’

Izzy smiled up at her father, and linked his arm as they made their way towards the escalators. ‘Somebody has to do it,’ she said.

It was true. Somebody had to nag him and cook for him from time to time and give him shoulder rubs. Izzy was doing her best, but she couldn’t be there for him for ever. It was definitely time, she decided, that Adair got himself a new life partner. Preferably one of Izzy’s choosing.

Río was still whimpering as she manoeuvred the hackney into a space in the airport car park. How had it happened, she asked herself. How had she managed to make such a spectacular eejit of herself in front of Adair Bolger and his ice-princess daughter again? She felt like a circus clown–not the pretty Pierrette type, but the big bungling one with the outsized feet and the fright wig and the red nose, the one that all the other clowns jeered at.

But what bothered her more than anything was that she actually cared. Río–who normally didn’t give a toss about people’s opinion of her–actually cared what the Bolgers might think of her. How had this happened? When had she decided that she wanted to be accepted by Adair and Isabella, who stood for everything she despised?

Had her change of heart happened that time she’d seen Isabella and Finn sitting together on the sea wall, during Frank’s wake? They had made such a beautiful couple and looked so at ease with each other that Río had felt a weird sense of shame. What if they decided to become friends–or even more than just friends? Finn would hardly want to bring a princess like that home to meet a mother who might be dancing round the place singing along to her iPod, or sitting crying in front of a DVD of Disney’s Dumbo, or gazing out to sea with a joint between her fingers.

Or had the change of heart happened when she’d seen that Adair could take her petty wisecracks on the chin? Or when he had made her laugh that time he’d invited her to slide down his banister? Or when she’d learned it had been Felicity, not him, who had been responsible for that monstrous villa? Or even today when—

Hell! Now was not the time to indulge in speculation about her relationship with the Bolgers. Now was the time to get her arse over to Arrivals and look out for Mr Sharkey The notice-board told her his flight from London had arrived, and as she scribbled ‘Mr Sharkey’ in block capitals on an A4 sheet, the first of the passengers began to straggle onto the concourse. Río held the sign aloft, scanning the weary faces of the emerging travellers. Nobody looked twice at her. They were all too busy gawping at the dapper chauffeur who was holding up a sign that read: ‘Mr Hade’.

‘OK,’ an American voice hissed at her suddenly, as a man strode by. ‘Let’s drive. Go, go, go!’

‘Mr Sharkey?’ But the man was already moving fast across the concourse. Río legged it after him, trying to keep up. Sharkey was dressed in a black leather jacket and black jeans. He had on a baseball cap that screened his face and wraparound aviators that screened his eyes. A black leather rucksack was slung across one shoulder, and a suiter was draped over his arm. Once outside the automatic doors, he stopped and half-turned to her.

‘Where’s the car?’

‘Um. Follow me.’

Río led the way across the car park. As she took the keycard from her bag, she reached for her phone and punched in the number of the hackney company. If this guy turned out to be some criminal on the run, she wanted to know that all she had to do was press ‘re-dial’, and someone would be on her case. She aimed the card at the door, and Sharkey got into the front and tossed his bag in the back. Río slid into the driver’s seat, and started the ignition.

‘Please put your seat belt on, sir,’ she told him, as she put the car into gear. ‘I’ll be liable for penalty points if you don’t.’

‘And isn’t that the last thing I’d wish to be after happening?’ said Sharkey. ‘That a lovely girl like yourself would get hit with a great big fine on account of a divil like me.’ Río stopped the car and turned to her fare. With a broad grin, he doffed his cap and shades. ‘And isn’t it a grand soft day that greets my return to the Emerald Isle?’ he said, in a voice she recognised.

‘Shane Byrne,’ replied Río, deadpan. ‘What the hell do you think you’re playing at?’

‘I’m not playing at anything,’ he said, looking aggrieved. ‘I’m a fugitive.’

‘From what?’

‘From the paparazzi, of course.’

‘Oh, them! The ones who were yowling like jackals to get the first shots of you arriving into a provincial airport.’

‘Less of the sarcasm, Río. Just pick up a copy of this week’s National Enquirer and you’ll see what I mean. Since Faraway hit the screens in the US it’s been open season on me and the rest of the cast.’ He slanted her a smile. ‘Especially on me,’ he added.

‘Well, hot-shot, welcome home.’ Río leaned over and gave him a kiss on the cheek.

‘Thanks, mavourneen.’

‘If I’d known it was only you I had to pick up,’ she remarked, looking into her rear-view mirror and pulling out, ‘I wouldn’t have bust a gut to get here. Where to?’

‘Lissamore.’

‘Lissamore? Why Lissamore? I’d have thought you’d have booked yourself into somewhere trendy like the G Hotel in Galway.’

‘What? And have the paparazzi parked outside the door once word got out that I was staying there? No, no, sweet Río. I have come here for peace and quiet. That’s why I booked your services under the pseudonym of Sharkey.’

‘You asked for me specifically?’

‘I did. I said I wanted the driver with the red-gold hair and the laughing green eyes and the fantastic baloobas.’

‘Pity they got it so wrong, then. They should have sent Anita.’

‘Who’s Anita?’

‘A colleague of mine who happens to have red-gold hair and laughing green eyes and fantastic baloobas. She also happens to be about fifteen years younger than me.’

‘Arra, acushla! For me, you will be forever young.’

‘Shut up, and tell me if I’m clear on that side.’

Shane looked to the left. ‘You’re clear,’ he said.

‘You still haven’t told me what brings you to Lissamore.’

‘My agent suggested a break,’ Shane told her. ‘Somewhere far away from the razzmatazz and stress of Lala Land. And I figured that Lissamore was about as far away as it gets.’

‘And you’d be right. Lissamore out of season may as well be renamed Zed-Ville. Where are you staying?’

‘Dunno.’

‘You mean you haven’t booked a rental?’

‘No. I thought I’d just stay in a hotel’

‘Shane! You dozy lummox! There’s no hotel in Lissamore.’

‘You’re kidding me! Not one?’

‘Well, there’s one under construction, and there’s Coolnamara Castle–but you’d have to get yourself a hire car because it’s too far to walk. You might get a room in a B & B in the village—’

‘A B & B? Are you out of your mind?’

‘Oh. I forgot you’re Hollywood royalty, now.’

‘It’s not that, Río. It’s just that I’ve always had the heebie-jeebies about B & Bs since that landlady tried to ride me when I was on tour once.’

‘What? You never told me that!’

‘Ach, it was years ago when I was touring with some bloody awful schools’ production of Macbeth. We were all put up in this B & B with pictures of the Sacred Heart on the wall, and didn’t I wake up in the middle of the night to find the lady of the house wrapping her arms and legs round me and whispering into my ear about how I was a fine strong lad and wouldn’t I like to have a hoult of her.’

‘Wow! What did you do?’

‘I lay there and pretended to be asleep until she gave up and went away. And then I packed my bags and was out of there like Roadrunner.’

Río laughed. ‘I guess you’re fighting off celebrity babes now, not landladies decked out in pink nylon.’

Shane shrugged. ‘I don’t have the time to meet any babes. All I do is work and sleep. It ain’t glamorous being a commodity, Río.’

‘A commodity?’

‘That’s all I am. I’m under no illusions that if the powers that be decide to axe the series I’ll be back to waiting tables. Stardom is as ephemeral, acushla, as the last fading ember of turf in the hearth, or the glint of the sun on the curlew’s wing as it skims across the bog, squawking its plaintive melody—’

‘If you don’t shut up, Shane, I’ll feck you out of the car.’

‘OK. I’ll change the subject. What’ll we talk about?’

‘Quantum physics.’

‘You have two minutes on quantum physics, starting from now.’ Shane’s pronouncement was followed by exactly two minutes of silence, and then he said: ‘Hey, couldn’t I stay with you, Río?’

‘No, you could not. I’ve no spare room.’

‘I could sleep on the couch.’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because I like having the place to myself, Shane. I do not want it compromised with someone else’s stuff scattered around the joint and a big man stretched out snoring on my sofa.’

‘I could stretch out in your bed, instead.’

‘No!’

‘Not even for old times’ sake?’

‘Jesus, Shane! If you really wanted to get into my bed, you’d have to come up with a better line than that.’

‘I could talk to you in Italian. You used to love it when I did that.’

‘“Used to” being the key words.’

‘Vorrei mettere la mia mano sotto la tua gonna e farla salire super la tua gambo fino alla pelle morbida, morbida in alta sulla tua coscia.’

‘Shut up, Shane. It’s not going to work.’

‘E poi vorrei fare l’amore con te.’

‘We are now entering the Gaeltacht. Please revert to your native tongue.’

‘Pah!’ said Shane, folding his arms crossly. ‘You know I don’t speak Irish.’

As they approached a red traffic light, Río was distracted by two women in an adjacent car waving wildly at them, signalling to them to pull down the window.

‘What’s wrong with them?’ asked Río. ‘Is there something the matter with my car?’

‘Must be,’ said Shane, lowering the passenger seat window. ‘Hi! Is there some problem—’

But the driver wasn’t listening. ‘Seth! Seth!’ she called. ‘We love you! We love you! Can we have your autograph?’ Reaching out an arm, she handed over a scrap of paper and a Biro. Shane signed with good grace, and handed the autograph back with a smile.

The woman kissed the paper, and waved it in the air as if she’d just won the lottery. ‘Thank you! Thank you!’ she yelled, while behind them car horns honked irritably at them to get a move on.

Río put the car into gear, and shot Shane a curious look. ‘How does that feel?’ she asked.

‘Pretty damn stupid, to tell you the truth. They never have a clue who Shane Byrne is, so I always have to put “a.k.a. Seth Fletcher” as well’

‘But it must be dead flattering, all the same?’

‘Nah. It’s not me they’re interested in, Río. It’s just the character I play. People go to bed with Seth Fletcher and wake up with Shane Byrne. Hey!’ He turned to her suddenly with an eager expression. ‘If I can’t share your bed, maybe Seth could?’

‘Have you got your leather kilt in there?’ Río indicated the bag that Shane had slung onto the back seat.

‘Are you mad? No.’

‘Then all I can say is–nice try but no cigar.’

‘You mean you’d only sleep with me–I mean with Seth–if I wore that leather yoke?’

‘Me and a million other gals,’ said Río. ‘I told you I’d visited your websites.’

‘Brave of you. I don’t dare go there.’

‘I’ll take you by the hand and give you a guided tour some day.’

Río’s phone rang.

‘Hey!’ said Shane. ‘Our song!’

Duran Duran’s ‘Río’ was still her ringtone: she hadn’t changed it since Finn left. She and Shane had used to play it on his cassette player during the time of their passionate affair. She smiled at him, then glanced at the display. ‘Hi, Dervla,’ she said.

‘Hey, Río. Just to say that Christian left Harbour View this morning.’

‘Oh, right. So you want me to turn the place round?’

‘There’s no hurry. I’ve no one queueing up to get in there. The season is well and truly over.’

‘I might have someone for you. I’ve just picked up a fare from the airport and he’s looking for somewhere to stay.’

‘Great. Thanks, Río. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

‘Tomorrow?’

‘We’ve been invited to Adair’s, remember? For lunch.’

‘Oh. OK. Shit.’

‘What do you mean “shit”?’

‘I saw him in town earlier. He has his spooky daughter with him.’

‘What’s so spooky about her?’

I dunno. She reminds me of one of the classmates in that film Heathers!

Dervla sighed down the speaker. ‘Don’t be daft, Río. I’ll pick you up tomorrow. One fifty’

‘Yes, Dervla.’ Río made a face, and cut the Bluetooth connection.

‘Yikes,’ said Shane. ‘Dervla hasn’t changed much.’

‘She’s actually mellowed, believe it or not.’

‘Why didn’t you tell her that I’m her new tenant?’

‘I–I don’t know. I guess I was scared of reopening old wounds.’

‘Is she still beautiful?’

‘Yes. Very.’

There was a pause, then, ‘Do you remember that pastiche of the Yeats poem I made up about the pair of you?’ Shane asked.

‘Erm…no,’ lied Río.

I do. It went like this.

‘You could make a fortune recording poetry for the Yanks,’ said Río, trying to sound careless. The recitation in Shane’s dark-chocolate voice had been meltingly beautiful. She remembered how she had used to lie in his arms as he recited passages from the play he was working on, the better to fix the lines in his head, and how she would never let him finish because his voice was so sexy she just had to kiss him.

‘My agent’s on my case,’ he told her. ‘I’ve already contributed to a couple of anthologies. Anyway–tell me. What’s Dervla’s place like?’

‘Lovely. She’s done a terrific job on it. State-of-the-art kitchen, and all’

Shane gave her a puppy-dog look. ‘I guess I’d better stock up on tins of baked beans and frozen pizzas from the corner shop, then. My culinary skills still aren’t the best.’

‘It’s OK, film star. I’ll cook for you this evening. As long as you’re not expecting Pacific Rim cuisine or whatever’s de rigueur in LA these days.’

‘Thanks. Believe it or not, Irish stew is quite trendy in LA right now. Anything Irish is trendy there. That’s probably why I got lucky.’

There was silence for a moment or two as Río negotiated a treacherous bend, then Shane started beating a light tattoo on his knees. ‘Who’s Adair, Río?’ he asked.

‘Adair? Oh, he’s the millionaire who knocked down Coral Cottage and built a mansion.’

‘Coral Cottage, where we made Finn?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you’re having lunch with him tomorrow?’

‘Yes. Well, it’s more kind of business—Oh, you wanker!’

‘Jesus, Río, that was close!’

‘Yeah, this stretch of the road is chequered with accident black spots, and I bet half the cars using it would never get past their MOT. You’d better let me concentrate on driving.’

Shane pulled the ‘recline’ lever on his seat and slid his shades back on. ‘In that case, I guess I’ll just lie back and enjoy the ride.’

‘Do you want the radio?’ said Río, flicking a switch. On a live music programme, someone was playing the fiddle.

‘Oh, no,’ said Shane. ‘Turn it off. Please.’

‘What’s wrong?’ asked Río.

‘That tune,’ said Shane. ‘It’s the theme of Faraway. It seems to haunt me wherever I go. There’s a bar on Sunset that I can’t go into any more because the pianist plays it every time I walk through the door.’

‘Well, buster,’ said Río, shooting him an amused look, ‘didn’t I always tell you to be careful what you wished for?’

‘I never got what I wished for.’

‘Poor Shane! What did you ever wish for apart from fame and fortune?’

‘Ti. Ti ho sempre amato, sciocchina.’

‘What are you on about now?’

‘It’s an old Latin proverb.’

‘What does it—Oh! You stupid fucking idiot!’ As yet another boy racer did his damnedest to involve them in a multiple pile-up, Río slammed on the brakes. ‘Sheesh! How does it feel to be back in the land of saints, scholars and psychopaths?’ she asked, smoothing her hair before shifting down a gear.

‘Dangerous,’ said Shane. ‘It feels very, very dangerous indeed. I’m beginning to think that I shouldn’t have come home at all.’

Because he was regarding her through the black lenses of his aviators, she couldn’t read his expression, so Río just laughed. ‘Sounds like a line from your television series,’ she said.