Chapter Twenty-six
Dervla was in love. She was in love with a man who looked like Pierce Brosnan and who owned a Dalmatian and who was buying the house she yearned to live in.
For the past week she had felt as if she were floating around in a dream world, like a woman in a Chagall painting. The Vegas wedding had been the most gloriously tacky thing she had ever done, the honeymoon had been the most gloriously romantic thing she had ever done, and the lovemaking had been the most gloriously fulfilling of her life.
Christian Vaughan was the kind of man women dreamed about, the kind of man who populated the Mills & Boon novels she had read so avidly as a teenager. He was tall, dark and handsome, he was authoritative without being domineering, he was polite without being obsequious, and he loved to laugh.
But today–an unseasonably sultry Monday in Galway–the dream had to end. Instead of lounging around in bed or sharing a bath or quaffing champagne, she would have to make phone calls to her accountant and her solicitor and her bank manager.
The decision to fold the business had been a surprisingly easy one. In the current economic meltdown, lots of people were doing the same thing–selling up their businesses, renouncing their lifestyles and making a bid for happiness before it was too late. Dervla was one of the lucky ones. The passion she had once felt for her business had been transmuted to passion for her new husband, and she had never been happier. She pictured a life of serenity, living in the Old Rectory with Christian (Christian! Even the name made her swoon!) and Kitty the Dalmatian.
In the Old Rectory she would write every day in the little turret room at the top of the house that she had earmarked as a study. With her mind free from stress, the words would come flowing, and she’d have a manuscript finished in no time! She would walk with Kitty down by the river and through the woods that adjoined the house. She would sit with Christian on the wrought-iron bench by the front door of a summer’s evening, sipping chilled Sancerre and reading books. She would make soup in the kitchen–real soup with home-made stock and fresh vegetables. She even entertained the idea of keeping chickens; she’d read somewhere that keeping chickens was a fascinating pastime. Bees? Could she learn about bee-keeping? She rather fancied the idea of herself drifting round the garden of the Old Rectory in wifty-wafty frocks–as per her childhood daydream–and sporting a big hat with a veil. Bees, chickens, vegetables, fruit trees–hey! they could be virtually self-sufficient. Life would be simple and good; life really, really would be worth living.
The phone went. Dervla picked it up with a languid hand, and smiled when she saw the name in the display. ‘Hello, Christian,’ she purred.
‘Hello, beautiful wifelet,’ he said. ‘What’s the weather like on your side of the country?’
‘Cloudy, but warm.’
‘It’s cloudy here too. Depressing. God, I miss you already. I can’t wait to get out of Dublin and back to my gorgeous Galway girl.’
‘And I can’t wait to have you back. I was awfully lonely in my bed last night.’
‘Me too. It’s funny how easily you get used to falling asleep with your arms wrapped round a heavenly body’
Dervla felt like purring again. ‘You charmer. How’s your first day back in the real world?’
‘Stressful. How’s yours?’
‘I haven’t got round to it yet. But guilt will get the better of me. When I got in last night the light on the answering machine was fluttering like someone with a nervous tic, and I’m dreading opening my inbox.’
‘That’s what a week in paradise does to you.’
‘It wasn’t even a whole week. I could have stayed there for ever, no problem.’
The resort in Careyes had been idyllic. The honeymooners had lived without computers, cars, newspapers, telephones or television. There had been the usual top-class resort facilities–fine dining, spa treatments, leisure activities–but Christian and Dervla had spent most of their time simply enjoying each other’s company. Dervla hadn’t laughed so much since she was a child, and she realised it was true that laughter was the best medicine. She felt the tension leave her shoulders and her jaw muscles, she stopped worrying her cuticles, and the word ‘stress’ no longer featured in her vocabulary. Any time she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror she had a smile on her face, and she suspected that she might look–that word so beloved of pharmaceutical advertising–radiant. Christian Vaughan was better for her than any spa treatment.
‘I’ve good news for you, wifelet,’ said Christian. ‘I spoke with your putative publisher. He’s very keen indeed on the idea of a book on How to Sell Your Home, and he’d be delighted to get some sample chapters from you.’
‘Heavens!’ said Dervla. ‘How will I find the time? I’ll be bogged down with real-life stuff until we move into the Rectory.’
‘Write a couple of hundred words in bed at night, while I’m not there to distract you.’
‘There’s an idea. The danger of that is it might turn into a steamy novel instead of How to Sell Your Home. When are you coming back to me?’
‘This weekend’s looking good. Megan managed to get an exeat from school’
Megan was, of course, Christian’s seventeen-year-old daughter, who, he’d told her, was keen to meet her new stepmother.
Stepmother! She, Dervla Kinsella, was a stepmother! She was a little apprehensive about it–of course she was–but the internet was there to help her. There were loads of sites with advice for step-parents, and she would work her ass off at being the best damn stepmother a girl could have. She’d find out what Megan’s interests were and bone up on them, and she wouldn’t nag her if she didn’t tidy her room, and they could watch rom-com DVDs together and paint each other’s toenails and read heat magazine and do girly stuff.
Dervla gave herself a mental slap on the wrist. ‘Sorry, Christian, I got a bit distracted there. What did you say the story was on Megan’s flight?’
‘She’s flying out of Gatwick with Mum on Friday afternoon. I’ve booked Coolnamara Castle for four nights, and I’ll drive down and meet them at Galway airport. Mum will be tired after travelling on Friday, so I thought Sunday rather than Saturday would be a good day to view the Rectory’
‘That can be arranged,’ Dervla told him. ‘I’ll get someone down there this week to put the “Sale Agreed” sign up, and I’ll have a think about how the outhouses might be converted into a granny flat. I’d better get in touch with my architect as well. You’re quite sure you’re happy to use him?’
‘Why not? He’s been highly recommended by the brightest gal in the business, who just happens to be my wife.’
‘Except I won’t be in the business for very much longer,’ she reminded him.
‘No. You’ll be a bestselling author instead.’
‘It’s bound to be a bestseller, sweetheart. Think of all those endless television programmes advising people on how to make their properties more desirable. Hell!’
On the other end of the line, Dervla had just heard the ping! of mail arriving in Christian’s inbox.
‘Hell,’ he said again. ‘I’m going to have to go, darling.’
‘What is it?’
‘My mother’s carer has a problem. Her passport’s out of date. That means she won’t be able to come over at the weekend.’
‘Your mother has a carer?’
‘Yes. Nemia’s a real treasure–we were incredibly lucky to find her. She and Mum get on like a house on fire. Shit. This is a bummer. Excuse my language.’
‘No worries, Christian.’
‘Sorry, love. Talk to you soon.’
‘Yes. Bye.’
Dervla put the phone down, feeling numb. She knew nothing about this Nemia. Christian hadn’t mentioned that his mother had a carer. A carer! What did a carer do exactly, and how much caring did the old lady need? Was this Nemia a full-time or a part-time carer? And how incapacitated was Mrs Vaughan that she required help?
She hadn’t a clue what age Christian’s mother was. She knew she wore a hearing aid because she was partially deaf, but she’d assumed that the old dame was still reasonably active. Dervla realised now with a chill of apprehension that she had scarcely given her new mother-in-law a thought. She’d pictured, in her rosy-tinted ‘Life in the Old Rectory’ scenario, an apple-cheeked little old dear who would spend most of her time pottering around in her granny flat, knitting tea cosies and comforters (whatever they were) and dropping in for dinner in the main house occasionally. But now she had an uncomfortable feeling that there might be more to living next door to Mrs Vaughan senior than she’d bargained for.
What could she do? She could hardly phone Christian back and demand to know what condition his mother was in. It was fair enough when you were examining an old property to ask for a surveyor’s report or a schedule of derelictions, but it was hardly appropriate to conduct something similar on an old person. Even Trinny and Susannah might draw the line at that.
Of course, Dervla hadn’t demurred when Christian had stuck to his idea of converting the Rectory outbuildings into accommodation for Mrs Vaughan. She could hardly marry the man and then insist that there was no room in her life for his mother–or his daughter, come to that. But Megan was at boarding school and spent most weekends and holidays with her mother in London, so she wouldn’t impact too much on their lives. Anyway, she looked like a lovely girl–Christian had shown her pictures of a pretty dark-haired teenager with a winning smile. But, she realised now with a sense of awful foreboding, he hadn’t shown her any pictures of his mother.
Her phone rang. Dervla’s instinct was to ignore it and let the answering facility kick in, but then she changed her mind. She wanted something to distract her from the fluttering she felt in the pit of her stomach at the idea of a mother-in-law in her life.
It was Adair Bolger on the line.
‘Hello, Adair,’ she said, seguing automatically into unflappable mode. ‘How are you?’
‘I’m very well, thank you, Dervla–and I believe congratulations are in order. I understand you’ve just come back from honeymoon.’
‘That’s right. Careyes, in Mexico.’
‘Really? I know it. Any tortugas around?’
‘No. Wrong time of the year, possibly…’
And Dervla and Adair small-talked for a few minutes more before he got round to the point of his phone call, which was to invite her to a party on Saturday night.
‘A party at the Villa Felicity?’ she asked.
‘What fun! A big party or a small one?’
‘A smallish one, followed by a biggish one.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, I thought I’d do dinner for around a dozen people, and then put word out for anyone who’s interested to join us for drinks and dancing afterwards. I’ll ask Michael in O’Toole’s to spread the word, and I’m going to hire a trad band.’
‘What a lovely idea, Adair! May I bring my new husband?’
‘Of course you may. Anyone else you’d like to invite?’
‘Yes, actually. I’d love to be able to bring my new stepdaughter and my new mother-in-law. They’re coming to Coolnamara for the weekend.’
‘A whole new family for you and Río!’
‘Indeed. I presume Río will be coming to the party?’
‘I hope so, but please don’t say anything to her about it.’
‘Why not?’
‘I want to surprise her. It’s her birthday’
‘You’re throwing a birthday party for Ríonach?’ Dervla was astonished.
‘Well, not really. I thought that it would be a nice thing to do, to throw a party before I leave Lissamore, and when Río mentioned it was her birthday on Saturday I decided to have it then.’
‘How generous of you! You are a nice man, Adair Bolger. Lissamore will miss you.’
‘No it won’t,’ Adair said blithely. ‘The people in Lissamore hardly know me. That’s why I asked you to invite more guests. I only really know you and Río.’
‘You could invite Finn.’
‘Izzy’s already invited him.’
Oh? thought Dervla. The plot thickens.
‘And Shane,’ she suggested.
‘Shane’s gone back to LA, unfortunately.’
Dervla wondered how sincere Adair’s ‘unfortunately’ was. He actually sounded rather pleased that Shane had gone back to LA. And then she remembered how Río and Adair had flirted over dinner that evening in O’Toole’s, and how Shane had looked a bit cross about it, and she began to wonder if Adair had an ulterior motive for throwing this farewell bash. Was it really more to do with impressing her sister than with bidding farewell to Lissamore?
‘What about Fleur?’
‘From Fleurissima?’
‘Yes.’
‘Now that is a good idea! She’ll be clued in on the kind of stuff Río likes.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, there will need to be presents for the birthday girl, won’t there? Fleur can handpick a few items for me.’
‘Fleur’s shop is awfully expensive, Adair.’ And it’s only Río, she wanted to add, but didn’t. Fleur’s stuff would be wasted on Río; even Dervla balked at the prices on Fleurissima’s exclusive stock.
‘I can afford to throw my money around, Dervla,’ said Adair matter-of-factly, ‘and I don’t do it often enough. Izzy’s the only person I spend my dosh on. Splashing out on a little fun for a few folks this weekend isn’t going to break the bank.’
Dervla made a noncommittal sound.
‘See you Saturday, eight o’clock-ish?’ said Adair.
‘Perfect. I look forward to it.’
‘Bye, then!’
‘Bye, Adair.’
Dervla put the phone down feeling pensive. ‘Splashing out on a little fun’ was all very well, but there was something else on the agenda here, Dervla was sure of it, and she was pretty sure that it had to do with Río. Was Adair falling for her sister, the way so many men seemed to? If so, Dervla felt sorry for him.
She remembered the way Río had once shimmied around the Villa Felicity, being rude about it and poking fun at the master of the house, and she knew that Adair had a better chance of snaring a selkie than of snaring Río.
She wandered over to where her laptop awaited her and booted it up. Money might buy you fun, Adair Bolger, she thought, as she waited for the Taj Mahal to shimmer onto her screen, and it might buy you a kick-ass lifestyle, but Dervla knew it sure as hell couldn’t buy you love.