Chapter Nineteen

Izzy had prepared lunch with the help of the Avoca Cafe Cookbook. On the glass-topped dining-room table in the Villa Felicity she had laid out platters of grilled vegetables, buffalo mozzarella, prosciutto, artichoke hearts, figs and a selection of salamis. She had opened red Bordeaux and left it to breathe, and she had chilled white Burgundy to the correct temperature. She had set four places with gleaming Newbridge silverware and John Rocha glassware. She had arranged flowers in a centrepiece (actually, they had been arranged for her the previous day in Galway), and she had put together an exotic fruit salad. (That too had been put together for her. Izzy had no qualms at all about cheating when it came to things culinary.)

In effect, Izzy had thrown down a gauntlet. She was sending out a message to her lunch guests that said, ‘Try competing with that, gals! Nobody can look after my daddy better than I can!’

It had worked. Throughout the course of the afternoon, Izzy had played a blinder as the consummate hostess, refilling glasses, passing around dishes, offering second helpings, clearing away plates, and brewing coffee. Any time she shimmied off into the kitchen, she took care to keep within earshot of the conversation, which was–it had to be said–pretty unilluminating. The awful Río woman seemed a bit subdued–probably because she hadn’t partaken of Slow Comfortable Screws Up Against the Wall this time–and Dervla and Adair were all business. After coffee, the sisters took themselves off to do a recce of the house and take photographs while Adair returned all the calls that had come in while his phone had been switched off during lunch.

Izzy loaded the dishwasher, and helped herself to another glass of wine. Hardly anyone had touched the stuff during lunch. Izzy had hoped that that dipsomaniac Río might have got drunk and made a few good gaffes, but any time Izzy had tried to force wine on her, the woman had put her hand over her glass and said, ‘No more for me, thank you,’ as if she were a model of abstinence. Izzy guessed that she was on her best behaviour now that the Villa Felicity was on her sister’s books. Dervla had said something about how Río’s flair for ‘staging’ had helped sell properties that might otherwise have lingered on the market, and Izzy had felt indignant. Even though Izzy hated it, she knew the Villa Felicity was easily the most stylish residence in Coolnamara.

Swigging back wine, Izzy wandered outside and took the path up to the yoga pavilion. The pavilion was looking a bit sorry for itself. In fact, the whole garden was looking sorry for itself, she saw now. She hadn’t been able to check it out last night because their priority had been to get the house aired and beds made, but today the sun shone on woefully unkempt flowerbeds and overgrown lawns, and trees that looked like the Whomping Willow in Harry Potter. Ms Río Kinsella would have her work cut out.

The sound of feet crunching on the shingle below made Izzy look down. A man was walking along the beach. He was dressed in black, hands thrust deep into the pockets of his leather jacket. When he reached the Greensward–which was now as sadly neglected as the rest of the garden–he paused and looked around. Izzy set down her glass and, doubling over, guerrilla fashion, so that she could not be seen, skittered towards the sea wall. A section of the masonry had been undermined by the roots of bramble bushes, and what had crumbled away provided a niche in which she could curl herself up and observe, unobserved.

The man remained motionless for some time, watching a cormorant dip in and out of the waves, and then he turned and looked up at the walls of the Villa Felicity. When Izzy saw his face, she nearly fell out of her niche. It was the star of that new television series Faraway! She had seen his picture just last week, in her father’s GQ magazine. What was his name? Shane something. And then Izzy remembered that the article had mentioned that he hailed from Galway. So here he was, probably back on a sentimental journey to the auld sod! How intriguing!

As his eyes scanned the sea wall, Izzy froze. But his gaze passed over her hiding place and continued on until it came to rest upon the old orchard gate. People seldom used this gate now, and because it was hidden behind a curtain of some droopy green stuff, nobody who wasn’t a local would even guess that it was there. But Shane–Shane Byrne–that was his name she remembered now!–moved directly towards it, laid a hand on the latch, and pushed. The gate didn’t give, nor did it budge when he pushed it a second time, more forcefully. And then Izzy watched in astonishment as he set both his hands on the topmost bar, and vaulted the five bars easily. He was standing in her garden now. He was standing in the garden of the Villa Felicity, looking as if–looking as if he owned the place!

Izzy shrank back further as he gazed around proprietorially, but then he turned his back on her and proceeded along a rabbit trail that meandered through the orchard. There he stopped under an ancient, gnarled apple tree and raised his face to the sky, and Izzy saw a beatific smile curve his mouth, heard his voice mutter some kind of incantation. He was singing something–Izzy strained harder to hear–something about a bird of paradise dancing on the sand. Oh shit. Was this man completely barmy? Should she make a run for it back to the house, and alert her father to the fact that there was a mad film star trespassing in their garden?

But then Shane Byrne stopped singing, and stood again looking out to sea, and Izzy saw that this time there was something nostalgic in his expression. Oh, how she wished she had her phone with her to record the moment! Lucy would never in a million years believe that one of the sexiest men in the world had vaulted a gate into her garden!

Now Shane was on the move again, swinging back over the gate, striding along the shingle the way he had come. His phone was in his hand, and she heard him say, as he passed directly beneath her, ‘Hey, it’s me, Shane, leaving a message at around four o’clock. Just to say I visited our orchard. Did you know the apple tree’s still there? I felt I should have done something that might have lent the moment significance–you know, said thanks to whoever’s up there for bestowing such a cool kid on us. But instead I just looked up at the sky and sang your song. I reckon that was enough. Don’t you?’

And Izzy watched as Shane Byrne slid his phone back in his pocket and disappeared around the headland.

Río felt lacklustre. Isabella Bolger had made her feel even more woefully inadequate than she had done last time they’d met. The lunch that she claimed to have ‘thrown together’ had looked like something you’d see in the pages of a foodie magazine. She had been an impressively attentive hostess–in fact, Río had decided that there was something almost intimidating about the way Isabella had hovered over her guests, refilling glasses and offering second helpings. Any time Río entertained, the affair was a kind of scrum, with guests helping themselves to food and drink amid much shouting and laughing and telling of jokes, and often–at the end of the evening–rambunctious singing. Río wondered what would happen if she volunteered to sing her favourite Björk ditty as Isabella passed around the porcelain coffee cups.

She also knew that she’d made a big mistake in wearing her new black dress, and the heels she could hardly walk in. She felt like a female impersonator–and not a very good one, at that. Everyone else was wearing smart/casual, while Río wouldn’t have looked out of place at a nobby cocktail party. She was also out of her league when it came to most of the topics under discussion. Dervla, she knew, was an expert on practically every subject under the sun. She had made it her business to bone up on politics and sport and books and music because it meant that she could hold her own in any social setting. Her sister should go on Mastermind, Río conjectured; she’d be genius at General Knowledge, with her specialist subject being, of course, the property market.

‘Río? Are you all right?’

It was Dervla’s voice.

‘Yes. Yes, I’m fine thanks. I–I just have a bit of a headache.’

‘Maybe we should go,’ said Dervla. ‘Heavens! It’s after four.’

‘Are you sure you wouldn’t like some more coffee?’ said Adair.

‘No, thanks very much, Adair. They say that if you want to get a decent night’s sleep you shouldn’t drink coffee after four o’clock in the afternoon. Although I can’t say I’m not tempted. That was exceptionally good coffee. Jamaican Blue Mountain, if I’m not mistaken?’

‘You’d have to ask Izzy that. Izzy! Izzy?’

There was no reply from the kitchen.

‘I saw her go out into the garden earlier,’ said Río. ‘And by the way, Dervla, Jamaican Blue Mountain has been bested by that Indonesian stuff that comes out of cat poo.’

‘I must add that to my list of fascinating trivia,’ said Dervla crisply, draping her taupe cashmere cardigan around her shoulders. ‘Thanks so much, Adair, for a most enjoyable lunch. And please say thank you also to Isabella. She made it all seem so effortless!’

‘Her mother taught her well. Can you believe that at one stage Felicity was considering sending Izzy to Le Rosey?’

‘The finishing school in Switzerland?’ queried Dervla.

‘Yes. But Izzy quite correctly pointed out that she wouldn’t learn anything at Le Rosey that her mother hadn’t already taught her. Actually, I think it was just the little minx’s way of getting out of going!’

Dervla laughed politely, and Río felt obliged to join in. Ha-ha-ha! What a clever little refusnik that Izzy was!

As they moved into the atrium, Adair said, ‘Oh, hang on, Dervla. I’d better let you have a key to the house. And you’ll need one too, of course, Río.’ He dived into the study, and emerged with two large envelopes, which he handed to Río and Dervla respectively. ‘There are keys in each of those, as well as instructions on how to operate the security system, and any other details you might need to know. It’s all pretty straightforward, I think, but if you need any more info, please don’t hesitate to get in touch. All my contact details are in there.’

‘Thanks, Adair,’ said Dervla. ‘I’ll get the copy for the brochure off to you a.s.a.p. I’ll need your appro on it, and the photographs too, of course.’

At the door, the air-kissing ritual was observed. Río would have preferred to have shaken hands, but the more formal option was hardly valid after Adair had kissed her sister robustly on both cheeks. As he brushed the side of her face with his, Río was aware of his scent–the citrusy notes that were, presumably, the signature ingredients of Acqua di Parma.

He had just taken a step back from her when Isabella danced into the hall, swinging a carrier bag by its silken handles. ‘Don’t forget your underwear, Río!’ she said chirpily. ‘I wouldn’t want you disappearing without it again!’

‘Oh, thanks.’ Río took the glossy carrier bag from her sweetly smiling hostess. ‘Clever of you to remember. I–um–I don’t have any cash on me right now. But I’ll send a cheque, if that’s all right?’

‘Sure. Send it care of Daddy’

With a little wave of farewell and an odd look at Río, Dervla passed under the porte-cochère to where her car was parked, and zapped the locks.

‘What was that about?’ she asked, as Río clambered into the passenger seat, longing to kick off her shoes.

‘Oh, it’s too boring to go into. I told you that I met Adair and Izzy while I was shopping, yesterday? Well, he helped me out when my credit card started giving me grief because otherwise I would have been way late for my airport fare.’

‘Oh. I meant to ask you who your fare was, by the way. Presumably that’s the tenant you’ve ensconced in Harbour View?’

‘Yes. It’s Shane.’

‘Shane?’ Dervla looked at her in astonishment. ‘Not Shane Byrne?’

‘Yes. He’s come back to Ireland on a kind of sentimental journey’

‘Really? Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘I did try to earlier, when we were on our way to lunch, but you were rabbiting away so much on your hands-free that I didn’t get a chance.’

‘So Shane is staying in my holiday let?’

‘Yes. You–you don’t mind, do you, Dervla?’

‘Mind? No. Why should I mind? I imagine his money is as good as anybody else’s.’

‘Better, probably’ And Río filled her sister in on Shane’s recent success.

‘Hm. That’s interesting to know,’ said Dervla. ‘So your ex is now a man of some wealth and influence? I’ll have to get him to sign my visitors’ book.’

‘Guess who else’ll be staying, Dervla–Finn!’ And Río filled Dervla in on even more recent developments.

‘What fun!’ remarked Dervla, as the car pulled up outside Harbour View. ‘The three of you can play at being happy families together.’

‘Play? We are a happy family. Not a particularly orthodox one, admittedly.’ As Río opened the passenger door, her sister’s phone rang.

‘Bye, Río. Talk soon,’ said Dervla, blowing her a kiss. Río saw her check out caller ID, and then, just as she went to close the passenger door, she heard her say, ‘Hello, Christian.’

Christian? It had to be Christian Vaughan. What was he doing, phoning Dervla out of office hours? Sly-puss Dervla! She remembered the body language that had gone on between the two of them outside Harbour View on the evening Dervla had come to dinner, and wondered if things might have progressed since then.

Rummaging in her handbag for her key, Río let herself in. Upstairs, Shane was fast asleep on her sofa. She set her carrier bag down on the coffee table, and headed towards the kitchen. The sound of a cupboard door being opened didn’t rouse Shane, but the sound of a cork being popped did.

‘Gah,’ he said, shaking himself awake. ‘Jet lag sucks. What are you doing, Río, opening wine at this untimely hour of the afternoon? Or is it past six already?’

‘I want to allow it to breathe,’ Río told him. ‘I thought that I’d do a home-cooked dinner for the three of us this evening, and then we can book a table in O’Toole’s for tomorrow night instead.’

‘Sounds good–so long as you don’t mind going to the bother of cooking.’

‘It’ll be no bother at all,’ said Río. ‘There’s home-made cottage pie in the freezer. Finn’s favourite.’ She smiled to herself and started humming ‘Lullaby of Broadway’, something she’d used to sing to Finn when he was little. ‘What did you get up to this afternoon?’ she asked Shane.

‘What did I get up to?’ said Shane, drowsily. ‘I tried on your clothes and read your private email.’

‘Yeah? What did you think of the mail?’ asked Río, reaching for a jar of teabags.

‘That’s what sent me to sleep. God, you have a dull life, Río.’

‘I’m very glad you think so. You clearly didn’t access the encrypted files to do with my double life as an undercover agent.’

‘For whom?’

‘Ann Summers. D’you want a cup of tea?’

‘Yes, please. I’d love one.’

Shane reached for the carrier bag on the coffee table and looked inside. ‘Hello? What’s this? Are you really an Ann Summers agent?’

‘Excuse me!’ said Río with hauteur. ‘That stuff is way classier than Ann Summers.’

Shane looked uncertain. ‘So, did you go shopping today as well as have lunch?’

‘No. That was just some stuff I’d left behind.’

‘Left behind where? At the Villa Felicity?’

‘Well, no. Well, yes. Oh, it’s too complicated to go into.’ Río filled the kettle and switched it on, then moved to the cupboard to fetch mugs. One of them bore the legend ‘I MUM’. It had been a present from Finn for her thirtieth birthday. The other mug had the Celtic logo on it, and was chipped. Río imagined serving builder’s tea in mugs to Isabella Bolger, and found herself laughing.

‘What’s so funny?’ asked Shane.

‘Oh, nothing really. I’m just comparing the perfection of the Bolger household to my slum.’

‘It’s not a slum, Río,’ Shane told her. ‘It’s a real home. LA is full of soulless palaces–the kind you’d see on Second Life. You’ve got yourself a very cosy little nest here.’

‘I guess I have, and I’m grateful for it, really. I just wish I had a garden.’ She handed Shane the Celtic mug. ‘Still, I guess gardening by proxy’s the next best thing. I can’t wait to get my hands on the garden of Coral Mansion.’

‘You’re doing Adair Bolger’s garden for him?’

‘Yes. I’m getting the house ready to go on the market.’

‘He’s selling up?’

‘Yep.’

Shane gave her an interested look. ‘I was there this afternoon.’

‘Where?’

‘Coral Mansion. Didn’t you get my voice mail?’

‘No.’

‘Have a listen.’

Río retrieved her phone from her bag, and accessed her mail box. When she’d finished listening to the message, she looked at Shane and smiled. ‘So while I was sitting in Coral Mansion having lunch, you were standing singing in the orchard?’

‘Yeah.’

‘How did you get in?’

‘I vaulted the old gate.’

‘Yikes. Just as well Miss Isabella didn’t see you. She’d have had the law on to you before you could have said son-of-a-gun.’

‘I wonder what old Bolger would do if he knew we used to make out under his apple tree?’

‘Less of the old, Shane. Adair Bolger can’t be that much longer in the tooth than you.’

‘Hm.’ Shane took a thoughtful sip of tea.

‘What are you thinking?’ asked Río.

‘I’m thinking that the next time I trespass, I should change my tune. Maybe instead of singing Duran Duran, I should sing the old Glenn Miller classic’

‘Which one?’

‘“Don’t Sit Under the Apple Tree (With Anyone Else but Me)”,’ said Shane.

‘Sit?’

‘Oh, all right. Make out.’

‘We didn’t just make out,’ she told him with a smile. ‘We made Finn.’

Later that evening, Dervla picked up the phone to Río.

‘Hi,’ she said. ‘Just to say that I’ve Jpegged the pics of the Villa Felicity to you. The interior shots are all fine, but I don’t want to put any of the garden ones up on the website until you’ve appro-ed them.’

‘OK. I’ll have a look in the morning.’

‘Has Finn arrived yet?’

‘No. He should be here any minute. Oh, by the way, Dervla, we’ve booked a table in O’Toole’s for dinner tomorrow night. Would you like to join us?’

Dervla hesitated. ‘By “us”, I presume you mean you, Finn and Shane?’

‘Yes.’

‘Hell, why not? It would be an experience to have dinner with a real live movie star–even if he is only Shane. What time?’

‘Eight o’clock.’

‘I’ll see you there.’

Dervla put down the phone, picked up her glass of chilled Sancerre, and moseyed onto the roof terrace that overlooked Galway city. The notion of seeing Shane again after all these years intrigued her. How people changed! She had been so gauche, so naive, so young! After Shane, Dervla had grown up very fast. Having had her heart broken at such a tender age, she had taken to wearing a tough emotional armour, and had never allowed herself to fall in love since. Unless you could describe as love the feelings she harboured for the Old Rectory…

Below her, the streets were teeming with people on their way to pubs and clubs and cinemas. The sky was darkening, but instead of that rich, dark, velvety blue that would now be descending over Coolnamara, a jaundiced night sky was draped slackly over the cityscape. Instead of the call of curlews, the sound that rose up to Dervla’s twelfth-storey penthouse was a cacophony of traffic.

Leaning her elbows on the balustrade, Dervla allowed her mind to go back over the events of the day. It was a real feather in her cap to have acquired Adair Bolger as a client, she knew.

However, upon recceing the Villa Felicity a second time, she was even more uncomfortably aware that the property might not prove easy to shift. She had asked Río for her thoughts, but Río had been uncharacteristically glum, saying that the place had about it all the hallmarks of an aesthetic that was alien to her. Well, those weren’t her exact words. She had actually said that Coral Mansion (as she insisted on calling it) had been so self-consciously designed that it had disappeared up its own arse, and there was nothing Río could do to make the house feel like a home that any sane person would want to live in. There was absolutely no point in her bringing any of her vision to bear on the interior, she insisted, and her remit could go no further than the garden.

Dervla wondered now if it hadn’t been a mistake to offer to sell the Villa Felicity for Adair. She already had several overpriced properties on her books, some of which had not attracted a single viewer. Celtic Tiger Ireland had lost all its teeth and been declawed and was moulting like something diseased. Every day she heard rumours of other estate agents downsizing or going under or suffering nervous breakdowns. Just how was Dervla going to get through the recession that was forecast to run for at least another eighteen months?

Christian had come up with an interesting idea today. He had phoned to say that he had been singing her praises to a friend of his who worked in publishing, and his friend had asked if Dervla might be interested in writing a book. ‘Don’t knock it!’ Christian told her, when she’d laughed at the idea. ‘Everyone wants to know how to go about making their property saleable. If you pitch an idea to a publisher, you could win yourself a book deal.’

So, since this afternoon, Dervla had been thinking about it. It wasn’t the first time that she’d been approached about writing something on the Irish property market. An editor of one of the major property supplements had asked her, at the height of the boom, whether she’d be interested in penning a weekly column for him, but at that time Dervla had been just too busy. Now she’d have given anything to be able to while away the time waiting for no-shows by jotting down ideas for newspaper articles.

Dervla eased into a stretch, took another sip of Sancerre and headed back inside, where her laptop with its Taj Mahal screen-saver was shimmering on the breakfast counter. Setting her glass down and going to ‘My Documents’, she opened a file and stared at the screen for a minute or two, rallying her thoughts. Then she typed in: ‘Selling Your Home–What Every First-Timer Needs to Know’, and pressed ‘Save’. ‘Save To?’ the computer prompted her. And instead of automatically saving the file to her documents, Dervla clicked again and opened a brand-new folder upon which she bestowed the moniker ‘My Bestseller’.