Chapter Eighteen

That evening, Dervla got a call from Christian Vaughan.

‘Dervla. I’m calling to say thank you so much for everything. For the use of your charming apartment, for your professionalism, and for locating what could very well turn out to be my dream home. You’ll be glad to know that I’ll have a surveyor on the case very soon.’

‘No thanks are necessary,’ said Dervla smoothly. ‘But it’s very courteous of you to call, Christian. How was your journey back to Dublin?’

‘It was fine once I hit the motorway. But that road into Galway is a nightmare. All the cars that passed me seemed to be driven by lads swigging out of beer cans and jabbering on their mobile phones.’

‘I saw one of those lads the other day,’ said Dervla. ‘He was wearing a T-shirt that said, “I like my cars fast, my beer cold, and my women hot”. My calculated guess was that he wasn’t much more than thirteen years old.’

Christian laughed, gratifyingly. Then he said, ‘There’s something I’d like to ask you, Dervla.’

‘Yes?’

‘I’m going to be back in Galway next week, on business. A convention of wine importers is being held at the Hamilton Hotel, and I’d very much like it if you could join me there one evening for dinner.’

Dervla hesitated. And in that moment of hesitation she thought three things. She thought: I am hitting my ‘best before’ date, and my diary is blank. She thought: There is something about this man that I like very much. And she thought: maybe–just maybe it’s time to live life a little more dangerously…She took a deep breath. ‘I don’t very often mix business with pleasure, Christian,’ she said. ‘But I guess there’s a first time for everything, and in this instance I’m prepared to make an exception.’

‘I am very glad to hear it. Would Monday suit?’

Dervla didn’t bother to pretend to check her BlackBerry She didn’t bother to say, ‘Well, actually, Tuesday would suit me better.’ She decided to throw all those stupid goddamn dating rules and that silly-bugger game-playing out of the window, and instead she just said, ‘Yes, thank you. Monday would suit me very well. It’s a bank holiday, isn’t it?’

‘Yes. I decided to drive down from Dublin the evening before the conference begins. What time suits you?’

‘What time suits you?. You’re the one doing the driving.’

‘Let’s say I book a table for seven thirty?’

‘Seven thirty is fine.’

‘I look forward to seeing you again, Dervla.’

‘Likewise, Christian.’

And as Dervla put the phone down, she started to plan in minutest detail what she was going to wear for Christian Vaughan on Bank Holiday Monday evening.

Río was standing in front of her wardrobe, planning what she was going to wear for lunch at Adair Bolger’s place tomorrow. The last time they’d visited the Villa Felicity, Dervla had sneered at Río’s boho look, and she was damned if she was going to be a target for her sister’s criticism again. So she unfurled her smart new dress from its tissue paper nest and teamed it with her new cardigan and her new shoes. Teetering into the bathroom to check herself out in the full-length mirror, her reflection looked back at her with an astonished expression. The effect was one of effortless elegance–especially when she draped the cardigan casually around her shoulders and discarded her ankle chain. To complete the look, she knotted her newly washed hair into a loose chignon, hooked on a pair of pearl earrings (six euro from Claire’s Accessories), and squeezed a spot.

She was playing around with the complimentary make-up that had come with her expensive potions earlier, enhancing the fullness of her mouth as per the directions by adding a smudge of gloss to her lower lip, when the doorbell rang.

‘Who is it?’ she asked through the security phone.

‘A murderer,’ came the answer.

‘Come on up, Shane.’ And Río headed for the kitchen to switch on the kettle.

‘I really could have been a murderer,’ Shane said cheerfully, as he pushed open the door of her flat. ‘Remember that film where—Holy moly! What are you wearing?’

‘A dress,’ said Río, reaching for a packet of tagliatelle.

‘Well, yes, I can see that. But it’s–it’s a kind of grown-up dress.’

‘Shane, I am a grown-up. I am the mother of a twenty-year-old son.’

Ach, you know what I mean, Río. It’s not you!

‘Don’t you like it?’

‘Well, yes, I do.’

‘That’s enough, then. I’m going to an important business lunch tomorrow, and I wanted to check that this outfit ticked all the boxes.’

‘You want it to tick all the business boxes, yeah? Ergo, you don’t want to look sexy’

‘God, no.’

‘Well then, you’d better wear something else, Río, because that dress is sexy.’

‘What? Don’t be daft, Shane!’

‘It’s sexy. It’s sexy in a classy way–like Grace Kelly’.

Río wandered across to the fridge, trying to think of some witty riposte. None came to her, so, ‘I’m just throwing something together from store cupboard staples,’ she said. ‘Nothing fancy, so you won’t have to mind your manners.’ Taking a bulb of garlic from the vegetable basket, she set it on the chopping board and selected a knife. ‘Peel me a few cloves, will you, Shane? I’m going to get out of these threads before they start to reek of kitchen smells.’

‘Where’s the corkscrew? I brought some wine.’

‘In the top drawer.’

Río kicked off her heels and climbed the captain’s ladder to the mezzanine. Here, she hung her smart new clothes in the wardrobe, donned a baggy pair of sweat pants and an oversized surfer dude T-shirt, and took off her earrings.

Back downstairs, Shane was pouring red into two wineglasses. He handed one to her as she crossed into the kitchen.

‘Mm,’ she said, taking an experimental sip. ‘Ríoja?’

‘What else?’ said Shane, with a smile.

An hour and a bit later, Shane was clearing away plates and stacking the dishwasher, and Río was draining her wineglass.

‘D’you want coffee?’ she asked him.

‘No, thanks. Coffee’ll just mess up my body clock even more. It hasn’t a clue what time it is.’

‘If you stay up a little longer you won’t suffer so much tomorrow. I know, let’s uncork another bottle and do a little surfing.’

‘At this hour of the night?’ Shane looked dubious. ‘I know Lissamore’s got some of the best surfing in Europe, but—’

‘Not that kind of surfing, you eejit,’ said Río, booting up her computer. ‘We’re gonna check out some websites. Will you open the wine?’

‘Sure.’ Shane uncorked a second bottle and finished clearing away dishes.

By the time he’d done that, Río, said, ‘Da-dah!’ and patted the cushion next to her on the sofa. ‘Come and have a look at this, film star.’

‘What are you up to, Río? You have that minxy look on that used to scare me shitless.’

‘It did? Why?’

‘Because it meant that you were going to do something insane like surfing–real surfing–at midnight, or skinny-dipping in the rain, or making out in somebody’s garden.’

‘We never made out in anyone’s garden!’

‘Yes, we did. That’s how Finn happened, remember?’

‘That was an orchard, not a garden.’

Shane sat down beside her and refilled their glasses. ‘What’s this?’ he asked, looking at the computer screen. ‘“Introducing…Shane Byrne.” What the fuck!’

‘It’s one of your fan sites,’ Río told him.

‘What? Who dreamed this up? Oh, Jesus…’ Shane clamped his hands over his mouth and his eyes grew wide with horror as Río clicked, and clicked some more. ‘Oh, sweet mother of Jesus! See that? That go-see pic is ancient–it must be at least twenty years old! And there’s me as Hamlet and–oh God–look at that! I was so drunk when that was taken. How did they get their hands on this stuff?’

‘I sent all those pix,’ said Río. ‘I got good money for them.’

‘You what?. You—’

‘Joke. Joke!’ Río interjected, registering Shane’s outraged expression. ‘I don’t have a clue where they got them. You’d have thought they’d have sunk below the radar years ago, wouldn’t you? I guess there must be an archive somewhere.’ Returning her attention to the screen, she clicked again.

‘Hey, what’s that pic doing on some random chick’s blog? That’s not archive.’

‘It seems it was taken at Los Angeles airport,’ Río told him, scanning the text, ‘day before yesterday’

‘What? Does this mean I can’t go anywhere without somebody papping me with a camera phone?’

‘I guess not.’

Shaking his head, Shane gave her a bemused look and said, ‘I have only one question. Why?’

‘It’s the price you pay for being famous, you eejit. Get a load of this!’

Río clicked again, and as the strains of Prince’s ‘Kiss’ came over the speakers, a montage of video footage glimmered into view, of Shane sharing screen kisses; Shane slow dancing; Shane tumbling around between tangled sheets with some nubile young thing…

‘Enough! Enough!’ he yelled, clutching his head. ‘I can’t bear watching this stuff, Río. Knock it off–please, please, knock it off. Let’s look at pictures of Finn, instead.’

Río brightened. ‘Oh, yes–let’s.’

She accessed her photo album, and together they scrolled through the pictures and video clips that Finn had sent her from New Zealand and Australia and Thailand. Some showed their son larking about on a beach or a boat; some showed him underwater against a shimmering background of jewel-coloured coral; some showed him relaxing with his mate Carl in a variety of palm-thatched bars. In nearly all the photographs, a different girl featured.

‘He’s a good-looking kid,’ Shane remarked.

‘He takes after his daddy,’ said Río, generously.

‘Ah, but he has your beautiful soul. And wicked eyes.’

They smiled drunkenly at each other and gazed some more upon the vision that was their son, until Shane’s head flopped onto Río’s shoulder. It felt comfortable, the weight of him there, and she automatically reached up a hand to smooth his hair. How many women the world over would kill to be her now! To be curled up on a sofa with Seth Fletcher falling asleep in her arms! But he could never be Seth Fletcher to her. To her he would always be plain Shane Byrne.

‘Time for bed, Mr Sharkey,’ she said.

‘Mm. Can’t we just snuggle down here?’ he said, with a yawn.

‘No, we can not. Come with me.’

Río pulled Shane to his feet, led the way down to his apartment, took off his boots and tucked him into bed. And then she kissed him on the forehead and whispered, ‘Night, night,’ and climbed the stairs back to her own place.

And all that night, her dreams were fabulously full of Finn.

Shane rang the doorbell again, just before midday the next day.

Río let him in, then moved into the kitchen and reached for the cafetiére. ‘How did you sleep?’ she asked, as he shambled into her apartment.

‘I slept well, thanks. That bed’s very comfortable. But my circadian rhythms are still syncopated, big time.’

‘Do you still take milk and sugar?’ Río asked, pouring coffee into a mug.

‘No. I take my coffee black now. I have to. The camera adds four kilos.’

‘So you suffer for your art?’

‘To hell with art. It’s my career I have to think about. The money men aren’t going to keep me on if I turn into Mr Blobby’

‘What are your plans for the day?’ she asked.

‘I thought we might take a walk along a beach.’

‘You forget I have a lunch to go to.’

‘Bummer. Then I’ll take a walk along a beach all by myself. Can I buy you dinner tonight?’

‘In O’Toole’s?’

‘Yeah.’

‘I thought that, being a fugitive from the paparazzi, you wouldn’t want to show your face anywhere.’

‘There won’t be any paparazzi in O’Toole’s.’

‘There’ll be people with camera phones.’

‘Yeah, but they’ll be locals, mostly, won’t they? Lissamore folk are too cool to be bothered to take photographs of arriviste television stars like me.’

It was true. Stars of stage and screen turned up in Lissamore on a regular basis, trying, like Shane, to escape the stress of city life. Bono had strolled into a local pub once, and nobody had batted an eyelid apart from a drunk who had greeted him with, ‘Found what ye’re lookin’ for yet, Bonio?’

‘Remind me what time you’re going out,’ Shane said.

‘Dervla’s picking me up around two. But don’t feel you have to scarper. You could have lunch on the balcony, if you like.’

‘Thanks. Lunch on the balcony sounds good. I could do with a blast of sea air.’

‘Just remember to leave the door on the latch, if you’re coming and going between the apartments.’

‘Aren’t you worried about security?’

‘In Lissamore? Are you mad? Every second front door in the village is left on the latch.’

The faint strains of Duran Duran sounded from somewhere, and Shane cocked an ear. ‘There’s your phone,’ he said.

‘Bugger! The damn thing always ends up some place I can never find it.’

Río located the ringing phone under a cushion on the sofa and her face lit up when she saw the number on the display. ‘Finn!’ she said into the receiver. ‘What a coincidence! We were just talking about you last night.’

‘We?’

‘Your dad and me. He’s here in Lissamore, far from the madding crowd.’

‘Hey!’ said Finn. ‘In that case we’ll be a family again real soon.’

‘We will?’

‘Yes. I’m at Heathrow. I’m flying in to Galway tonight.’

‘What? What are you doing at Heathrow, Finn?’

‘Didn’t you get my email?’

‘No. I haven’t looked at my mail since yesterday.’

‘Well, check it out, Ma. I can’t talk for long because my phone’s nearly out of juice.’

‘But–hang on a sec, Finn! Are you really coming home tonight?’

‘Yeah, yeah.’

‘That’s so fantastic! What time’ll I pick you up?’

‘There’s no need, Ma. Carl’s dad’s gonna collect us. We should be in Lissamore by around nine o’clock.’

‘OK. Oh God–this is fantastic news! But, Finn, everything’s all right, is it? You haven’t had an accident or anything?’

‘No, Ma, my phone’s about to go. Check your inbox. There should—’

And Finn’s phone went dead.

‘That was Finn?’ asked Shane, looking up from the bread he was slicing.

Río turned shining eyes on him. ‘Yes, he’s on his way home!’

‘What? I thought he wasn’t coming home until after Christmas.’

‘That was the original plan, but something’s happened. He said he’d sent an email.’ Reaching for the laptop on the coffee table, Río booted it up, and steeled herself as she heard the sluggish drone that announced that the machine was emerging from hibernation. ‘Agh! This dozy thing is going to take for ever,’ she said. ‘Dammit, why didn’t I check my mail last night instead of waltzing around your stupid fan sites?’

Shane stretched, then wandered over to the French windows, munching on a hunk of baguette. ‘That morning sun smacks you right between the eyes,’ he said, sliding back the glass panel and stepping onto the balcony. ‘Hey. This is a swell spot for being a nosy neighbour, isn’t it?’

‘Mm,’ replied Río abstractedly, willing her laptop to lumber into life.

A low whistle came from the balcony. ‘Wow,’ said Shane. ‘Who’s the hottie?’

‘What hottie?’

‘The toothsome chick who’s just come out of Fleur’s shop.’

Río scampered across to the balcony and peered over the balustrade. ‘Oh, her!’ she said dismissively. ‘That’s Isabella Bolger, Adair’s daughter. She’s the most stuck-up little princess on the planet.’

‘Hm.’ Shane’s eyes narrowed in appreciation.

‘Stop that, Shane! She’s young enough to be your daughter.’

‘So are most of my co-stars,’ said Shane. ‘Once a gal hits twenty-four in LA she’s past it.’

‘Oh, yeah?’ said Río indignantly. ‘What about the Wisteria Lane ladies? What about Carrie and co?’

‘They spend a fortune to keep themselves looking like that, Río. They’re just commodities, like me. It’s all to do with smoke and mirrors.’ He nodded towards Isabella on the street below. ‘She’s the real thing.’

For some reason, Río felt miffed by this remark. She flounced back to the coffee table, where her laptop was finally beginning to show signs of life.

Amongst the spam in her inbox–Legendary Tales of Your Sausage; Put More Flesh on Your Pole; Erotic Maidens in Costume–was a message from Finn: ‘Subject: Coming Home’.

Hugging herself with delight, Río clicked, and the following appeared.

‘Wow. He’s certified.’

‘Hm?’

‘Your son has certified as—’ Looking over at Shane, Río was aware that he was still mesmerised by Isabella Bolger on the street below. ‘Hello? Hello! Earth calling Shane Byrne.’

‘Yeah? What do you want?’ he replied absently.

‘I’ll only tell you if you can manage to tear your eyes away from princess posh.’

‘Sorry’ Shane ambled back into the sitting room. ‘What’s happened?’

‘Your son has certified as a scuba-dive instructor.’

‘No shit! No shit!’ Shane’s face spread into a broad grin. ‘Wow! Do you know what kind of respect those guys are held in, Río? They are the coolest dudes on the face of the planet! They’re–they’re courageous, they’re Zen, they’re tough, they’re fit, they’re laid-back, they’re–um–cool…’

‘Yes. You’ve already said that. I get your gist.’

‘No shit!’ Shane punched the air, then looked a bit sheepish when he realised how uncool he looked. ‘Wow. This has made me one very proud parent. When’s he due back?’

‘This evening, around nine o’clock. Carl’s dad is picking them up in Galway.’

‘Then he can join us in O’Toole’s. I’ll ask them to put champagne on ice. Good idea, yeah, Río? Río?’

‘Sorry?’

‘Hey! What has you looking so pensive, mavourneen? Don’t you feel like celebrating?’

‘Yeah–yeah, of course. I was just wondering…um…whether Finn would want to crash here or in Carl’s.’

‘He can crash downstairs with me. My roomie–my main man–the dive god!’

‘Good idea. I’ll make up another bed.’ Río got to her feet and stood looking undecided for a moment. ‘But first I’d better go and get ready,’ she said. ‘Dervla’ll be beeping her horn any minute, badgering me to get a move on.’

‘Shoo, then,’ said Shane. ‘Can I read Finn’s email?’

‘Be my guest.’

Upstairs in the mezzanine Río got into her new outfit, hooked on her earrings and twisted her hair into a chignon with mechanical hands. This was good! This was all good news. But one thought kept tugging at her. She knew that job opportunities for dive instructors in Ireland were scarce. However, the scuba journals that Finn used to leave around the house were full of vacancies for English-speaking instructors in countries as far flung as Vietnam, Egypt and Russia. If Finn was going to get work in his chosen profession, he was going to have to look for it further afield. He was going to have to look for it a world away, on another continent.