Читать книгу That Gallagher Girl - Kate Thompson - Страница 11

Chapter Four

Cat sat bolt upright. Since the night of the fire on the houseboat, she had trained herself to be vigilant against the tiniest sound. The brush of a moth’s wing against glass, the plash of an otter in the bay below, the scarcely audible whine of a mosquito was sufficient to wake her now.

Someone was in the house. Staring into the darkness, Cat tried to locate where, exactly. Downstairs. Footsteps were crossing the cavernous expanse of the hall. She listened harder, alert as a leopardess. The creak of that unoiled hinge told her the intruder was in the kitchen; the echoing drumbeat of her heart was signalling fight or flight. Sliding herself from the cocoon of her sleeping bag, Cat reached for her sarong and wound it tightly around her. Then she moved on silent feet to the top of the stairs. A light moved in the darkness below . . . a torch? No. By the greenish tinge to the illumination, Cat could tell that it belonged to a mobile phone.

‘Dad?’ said a male voice. ‘About fucking time. I’ve been trying to get through for ages. Yeah . . . I’m in Lissamore. No – it was too late to call in on her. I’m in Coral Mansion. I can’t tell . . . there’s no electricity: I’ll have to wait until morning to do a recce. But I’ve a feeling you’ve had visitors. Squatters . . . yeah.’

On the landing, Cat froze. Then she lightly retraced her steps back to the room in which she had set up camp and reached for the Swiss Army penknife that she always kept by her while she slept, cursing her stupidity when she realised she’d left it below in the kitchen. Grabbing her phone instead – her lifeline to Raoul – she moved out onto the balcony. A flight of steps took her down to the garden. Here, by the disused pool on the patio, she hunkered behind an overgrown shrub, and sucked in a couple of deep breaths.

Stupid, stupid Cat! Why hadn’t she had her things packed and ready for a quick getaway, the way she usually did? Why had she left her laundry strung up on towel rails in the bathroom? She was normally so careful about being on the ball. Now here she was in a garden at midnight, half dressed and horribly vulnerable. And Cat hated feeling vulnerable! She wished she hadn’t left her Swiss Army knife in the kitchen. Her Swiss Army knife felt good in her hand: even if she had no intention of using it, it lent her an air of bravado she did not necessarily feel.

Through the big picture window overlooking the patio, she saw that the trespasser had moved into the sitting room, and was starting to light candles. He must have found the supply she’d left in the kitchen. The kitchen and the room where she slept were the only rooms in the house in which Cat ever lit candles, since those windows could not be seen from the road. She’d learned to negotiate her way through the house in the dark, like a feral creature. The sitting room, however, was her daytime lair: she used it as a studio, and the paintings she’d made were taped to the walls.

Cat watched as the figure moved around the room, planting candles on mantelpiece and window ledges. She was freezing now: the wind was up, and it had started to rain. Perhaps she could slip back to the bedroom, quickly help herself to some clothes and her sleeping bag and leg it out of there? But leg it where, exactly? To Raoul’s place in Galway? To the Crooked House? To that hellish gaff she’d spent a night in last week – the one with the junkyard out back, and the rats?

She would feel at home in none of these places: there was nowhere in the world that was home for Cat. She felt a rush of helpless rage as she stood there in the chill night air, watching through a window as this . . . this interloper took possession of her space.

But hey! There was something familiar about the inter-loper, now that she saw him by the light of half-a-dozen candles. The last time she’d seen him, hadn’t he been all bathed in the golden glimmer of candlelight? It had been at the wrap party of that film she’d worked on – The O’Hara Affair. He’d had a gig as a stunt double and, that night at the party, Cat had decided on the spur of the moment that she’d wanted to get to know him. His name was Finn, she remembered. They’d shared a dance or two, then a bottle of wine and a laugh and a drunken snog. Later, they’d swapped phone numbers . . . and had never seen each other again because the number Cat had given him was bogus. Cat was careful about letting anyone have her number.

And yet, and yet . . . he was cool, Finn Byrne, wasn’t he? He’d be cool about the fact that she’d been squatting in his house – she knew he would. He was a scuba diver, and divers were laidback individuals. Maybe he’d even allow her to stay on until she got herself sorted with money and somewhere else to live? What the hell – she hadn’t much choice. She had no choice. She looked at the phone in her hand, then scrolled through the menu until she found Finn’s number. Clicking on the cursor in the text message box, she thought for a moment or two, then smiled. Help! she entered in the blank space.

Beyond the glass, she saw Finn take his phone from his pocket, and consult the screen with a perplexed expression. Seconds later, she received the following message.

Who is dis?

I am an orfan of da storm i need ur help luk oot ur windo.

It took ages for her to compose the text, but it was worth the effort. If Cat hadn’t been so cold, the look on Finn’s face might have made her laugh. Approaching the big window that overlooked the bay, he placed the palms of his hands against it and squinted through cautiously.

Rong window, texted Cat. Try da other 1.

He turned and looked over his shoulder, out over the black expanse of the patio and the derelict swimming pool.

Ur gettin warmer but im not its freezin out here.

Finn looked really spooked now. Feeling sorry for him, Cat pressed ‘Call’.

‘Who the hell is this?’ he said, picking up.

‘I am the Cat who walks by herself,’ Cat told him in her growliest voice, ‘and I wish to come into your house.’

‘Look, I don’t know what you’re playing at, but—’

‘Oh, Finn! Let me in!’ she wailed. ‘It’s me – it’s Catty! I’ve come ho-ome. Please let me in.’

‘You are fucking barking, whoever you are.’

‘No, no – I’m mewling, piteously. Come . . . come to the window.’ She watched as Finn moved slowly in the direction of the window through which she was spying on him. ‘That’s right. See? Here I am!’ Cat emerged from the overgrown rose bush behind which she’d been concealing herself, stretched out her arms to him and smiled.

Lunging backwards, Finn let out a yell, and this time she did laugh. ‘Who the fuck are you?’ he demanded.

‘I told you. It’s Cat. Cat Gallagher. Remember me? We met at The O’Hara Affair wrap party. Won’t you please let me come in? I’m awful cold.’

‘What are you doing out there?’

Moving right up against the plate glass, Cat pressed her face against it. ‘Let me in, and I’ll tell you,’ she said.

Finn gave her a wary look, hesitated, then tugged at the handle. ‘I can’t open it. It’s locked. Come round the front, and I’ll let you in there.’

‘No. I can find my own way. Give me a moment.’

Pressing ‘End Call’, Cat danced away from the window, and back up the balcony steps. In the bedroom, she grabbed her sleeping bag, unzipped it, and wrapped it around herself, shawl-fashion. Then she pattered down the staircase, through the massive entrance hall and into the sitting room. Finn had moved into the centre of the floor, and was standing lobbing his phone from hand to hand, looking rattled.

‘How did you manage that?’

Cat gave him a Giaconda smile. ‘I flew in through my bedroom window.’

‘Sorry . . . your bedroom window?’

‘Yes. I’m squatting here.’

‘You . . . but this is my dad’s house!’

‘Maybe. But it’s been lying empty for far too long, and it suits me perfectly.’

‘Is that right? Well, good for you, Catgirl, but your time as house sitter’s up. You can get lost now.’

‘Finn! Don’t be so heartless. You should be glad that it’s me and not some skanky gang of vagrants that’s been living here.’ She pulled her sleeping bag tighter around herself and gave him a look of appraisal. ‘So. Your dad must be the Mystery Buyer?’

‘What?’

‘Word in the village is that this place has been bought by a Mystery Buyer.’

‘A Mystery Buyer?’

‘Yes.’

Finn laughed. ‘That’s a bit cloak and dagger, ain’t it? There’s no mystery about it, really. Dad just wanted to keep it quiet.’

‘Why?’

‘Ever heard of press intrusion? My dad likes to keep his private life exactly that – private. And anyway, what are you doing sticking your nose in? It’s none of your damn business.’

Cat shrugged. ‘Well, it kinda is my business, since I’ve laid claim to the joint.’

‘Don’t be so stupid,’ scoffed Finn. ‘You can’t lay claim to a house just because you’ve been living in it.’

‘All property is theft, squatters have rights, and possession is nine-tenths of the law.’

‘That’s crap. Now go away. I’ve just flown in from LA and I’m jetlagged and not in the mood for Marxist trivia.’

Cat gave him an aggrieved look. ‘You should be grateful to me for taking care of the joint. It badly needed TLC.’

‘And what kind of TLC have you been giving it?’

‘Um . . . I’ve sprayed it with Febreze. Smell!’

Finn sniffed the air tentatively, and Cat laughed. ‘It’s roses. Wild roses.’

‘Febreze wild roses?’

‘No. Real roses. I brought masses of them in – they’re growing like crazy in the garden. You really think I’m the kind of gal who’d go around polluting the atmosphere with air freshener?’

‘I don’t know what you’re capable of. I hardly know you.’

She slanted him a smile. ‘But I intrigue you, don’t I?’

‘It would be hard not to be intrigued by a girl who arrives out of the blue in the middle of the night wearing nothing but a sarong and a sleeping bag.’ Finn started lobbing his phone from hand to hand again. ‘You could be like something out of Wallander. For all I know you’re planning to slit my throat. That Swiss Army knife I saw in the kitchen is yours, isn’t it? Not some nefarious accomplice’s?’

‘Yes, it’s mine.’ Cat looked towards the door. ‘Can I have something to eat? I saw your boxes in the hall, all piled with grub.’

There was a beat, then Finn gave a nod of assent. ‘Sure,’ he said.

‘Thanks. I’m starving. The kitchen’s this way.’

‘I know where the kitchen is. I’ve been here before. How long have you been living here?’

‘A week,’ she threw back at him. ‘You’re very welcome to my abode. It beats the hell out of the last joint I broke into. That was a tip. This is like the Ritz Carlton in comparison.’

Following her through into the hall, Finn paused to pick up one of the boxes, then moved into the kitchen where more candles were burning. ‘How have you managed without electricity?’

‘I have a Primus.’

‘What about water?’

‘I’m a hardy creature. As long as I’m connected to a supply, it doesn’t matter if it’s hot or cold.’

‘You wouldn’t be so complacent if it was winter,’ he remarked, setting the box on a countertop.

Cat shrugged. ‘I managed to get through last winter on a houseboat.’

‘No shit.’ Finn gave her an admiring look.

‘It was no big deal,’ she told him, carelessly.

‘So you really are a vagabond?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Cool!’

Cat’s nonchalance was entirely affected. Privately, she rather liked the idea of Finn thinking she was a vagabond. There was something boho and romantic about it. He didn’t need to know that the houseboat had all mod cons, and that the only reason she was living rough now was because her next house-sitting gig had fallen through. He didn’t need to know that she was, in effect, a Trustafarian, living on an allowance from her daddy. Well, waiting for an allowance from her daddy. Until that came through, she guessed she really was a vagabond.

Humming a little tune, she set about ransacking the box of groceries. ‘Let’s see what you’ve got here. Bread, cheese, salami, tomatoes. Wine! Excellent. A very acceptable Bordeaux. You have good taste.’

‘You know about wine?’

‘I’m spoofing,’ she lied. He didn’t need to know that she knew the difference between Bordeaux and Burgundy. He didn’t need to know anything about her. She could be an enigma! An enigmatic vagabond. She liked the idea of that. Passing him her Swiss Army knife, she watched as he started to uncork the bottle. ‘Tell me about you. What are you doing here?’

‘I’ve come to kick this house into shape.’

‘That’ll take some doing. Bits of it are falling down. What made your dad buy a crumbling mansion like this?’

‘He can afford it. What made you decide to break in?’

‘I was looking for somewhere to live –’ Cat broke off a hunk of bread and helped herself to salami ‘– and I found out about this place from the barman in O’Toole’s. Barmen are the most clued-in blokes in the world. They know everything there is to know about everything.’

Finn leaned up against the counter and gave her a look of assessment. ‘So what did you find out?’

‘I found that it was built by a millionaire who went bust, and that you’d once dated the millionaire’s daughter. I found out that you and the daughter were planning to run a scuba-dive outfit here, before the recession happened and things went pear-shaped. I found out that it used to be called “The Villa Felicity” after the millionaire’s ex-wife, but that everybody around here calls it “Coral Mansion”. So . . . I’m guessing that your dad bought it so you can go ahead and set up your dive business?’

Finn’s face closed over. ‘I dunno why he bought it.’

‘Yes you do. Tell me.’

‘You’re awful nosy, Cat Gallagher.’

She spread her hands. ‘I’m just curious. And being curious hasn’t killed me.’

‘Yet.’ Finn returned his attention to the wine bottle, and drew out the cork. He was clearly not going to be forthcoming. ‘Are there glasses?’ he asked.

‘Yes.’ Cat moved to a cupboard and fetched a couple of glasses from the shelf. There was one more thing she wanted to know. Turning back to him, she said, ‘What happened to the millionaire’s daughter?’

‘Last time I checked she was living in Dubai.’

‘With her millionaire daddy?’

‘Yes.’

‘What’s her name?’

‘Izzy.’

‘Izzy. Were you in love with her?’

That closed look came over Finn’s face again. ‘What’s with the third degree, Cat?’

Cat set down the glasses and hopped up on a high stool. ‘Sorry. I find it hard to shut up once I get started. You should take it as a compliment. I don’t talk much to people I don’t like.’

‘I remember that from working on the film with you. You used to prefer talking to horses.’

‘Horses talk more sense than most people I’ve met.’

Picking up one of the wineglasses, Finn squinted at the ostentatious logo before pouring the wine. ‘Designer glasses! Holy shit. I knew this house was sold fully furnished, but I wonder why they left stuff like this behind?’

‘What else would they do with it? I guess Izzy and her daddy have all the designer crystal they need in Dubai.’ Cat took the glass from Finn and sipped. ‘There’s designer stuff all over the gaff – Philippe Starck fittings in the bathrooms and all. Don’t worry, I’ve taken good care of it. It’s been like playing house living here. I’ll give you a guided tour if you like, once I’ve had something to eat. Cheers.’

‘Cheers.’ They chinked glasses, and then Cat broke off another hunk of bread, prised out the blade from her penknife and cut into the cheese. ‘I guess I’ll have to find somewhere else to live, now that the Mystery Buyer’s son’s showed up.’

‘I guess you will.’

‘Let’s hope I can find somewhere locally. I like Lissamore.’ She let a silence fall, and looked at him expectantly. Stupid Finn! He wasn’t picking up on his cues. ‘When’s your dad due?’

‘Once I’ve got the place up and running. It could take a while. He wants me to fix the pool, paint and decorate – that sort of thing. I’m going to need to hire some help.’

‘I could help you. I wield a mean paintbrush. I used to be a scenic artist, remember?’

‘I remember. But are you any good? Someone told me you got kicked off that film.’

Cat gave him an indignant look. ‘I got kicked off for not being legit, not for being crap at my job. They got all po-faced when they found out I’d no social insurance number.’

‘You really are a floater, then?’

Cat nodded. ‘Will work for food.’

‘And bed?’

‘That depends on where the bed is. As I said, I like Lissamore.’

They looked at each other warily. Then Finn said: ‘All right. You can stay on here.’

‘Thank you. That’s very decent of you.’

‘Just till my dad rolls up. How did you get in, by the way?’

Cat tapped a finger to her nose. ‘Not telling. I can get into most places, if I want to. Did you never read the Just So Stories?’

‘No. What are they?’

‘They’re meant for little children, but they’ve become cult classics. My mother used to read them to me. The one about the cat was the one I loved most. Once a cat decides she wants to come into your house, you can’t keep her out, you know.’

‘I’d noticed.’ He smiled, then turned and went out into the hall.

Cat narrowed her eyes at his retreating back. He had a great smile, she decided, once he let his guard down. She remembered the night at the wrap party, and the kiss they’d shared. How many girls had he kissed since then? Plenty, probably. Plenty of lovely LA girls with lissom golden limbs and luscious golden hair, and pearly American teeth. She must be a complete culture shock after what he was used to. Like something out of Wallander, he’d said. Hell – at least she’d washed today. Her biodegradable travel soap may not have had the sweetest scent in the world, but she guessed that was compensated for by the wild-rose-smelling house.

Back Finn came, lugging another box. He dumped it on the counter, and together they pulled out more provender. Coco Pops, chocolate HobNobs, apples. A bumper pack of popcorn, a six-pack of beer, a copy of Empire magazine, an iPod with a docking station.

‘Oh, look – you have music!’ she said, biting into her bread and cheese and taking a swig from her wineglass. ‘Put something on, and let me show you around.’

‘Any requests?’

‘Surprise me.’ Sliding down from her high stool, Cat helped herself to an apple. Her sleeping bag was starting to come adrift from around her shoulders, so she looped it over her forearms and let the ends trail behind her as she moved towards the door. ‘Will you bring a candle?’

‘I have a torch in here somewhere. You should be careful – you’re a walking fire hazard in that sleeping bag.’

Cat froze, and the sleeping bag slid to the floor as the first strains of Springsteen’s Born to Run oozed through the speakers.

‘What’s up?’ asked Finn.

‘Just what you said. About being a . . . a fire hazard. It gave me the shivers. That’s why I had to leave the houseboat, you see. It was . . . someone tried to burn it down.’ She gave a shaky laugh, retrieved the sleeping bag and reinstated it around her shoulders. ‘Sounds stupid, doesn’t it? Imagine trying to set fire to a house built on water. Anyway, I shouldn’t worry about this sleeping bag. It’s Millets’ finest fireproof stock.’

‘Shit.’ Even by the light of the candles, Cat could make out the concerned furrow between Finn’s brows. ‘You mean, someone tried to burn you out?’

She nodded.

‘What did the Guards have to say?’

‘They said,’ she told him, ‘that I should have been more security conscious.’

‘Did they find out who did it?’

‘No. But I know who did it.’

‘Who?’

‘A bloke who thought I was up for it, and who got cross when he realised I wasn’t.’

‘Did you report him?’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘He was a Guard.’

‘Bastard! It must have been terrifying.’

‘Yes, it was. I don’t scare easily, but that fire was no foolin’ around. I was out of there like a cat out of hell.’

‘Did you lose a lot of stuff?’

‘I don’t really do “stuff”. I grabbed my backpack in time, and my paintbox. I’d have been fit to be tied if my paintbox had gone up in smoke. It’d cost a fortune to replace.’

‘I saw paintings, hanging on the wall in the sitting room. Are they yours?’

‘Yes.’

‘Mind if I take a look?’

‘Sure.’

Finn had fished a torch from the box. ‘Didn’t it freak you out, having to light candles here?’

‘I didn’t have any choice. Candles was all they had in the local store.’

‘I’ll get the electricity reconnected tomorrow. And we’ll take a drive into Galway – stock up on essentials. How do you manage for transport?’

‘I had a bicycle, when I was living on the houseboat. But it’s handy enough to walk into Lissamore from here.’

‘Was the bicycle banjaxed in the fire?’

‘No. Some gobshite threw it in the canal. Probably the same dickhead who was responsible for burning me out.’

‘I guess you can claim everything back on insurance.’

‘Nothing belonging to me was insured. The people who owned the houseboat will put in a hefty claim, but I won’t get anything. I think they’re kind of relieved that the place is gone, if truth were told. Too much responsibility.’

‘It wasn’t yours?’

‘No. I was houseboat-sitting.’

‘Of course. I forgot you held Marxist beliefs about property ownership.’ Finn aimed the beam of his torch at the kitchen door. ‘After you,’ he said.

In the sitting room, dustsheets still shrouded most of the furniture, giving the place a funereal appearance. ‘What’s underneath all that?’ Finn asked.

‘Furniture. Very Terence Conran. Not my style at all.’

‘What is your style?’

‘I’m not sure I have one.’ Cat bit into her apple. ‘I’ve never cared enough about keeping up appearances to develop a sense of style. My stepmother deplored my lack of interest in fashion.’

‘You have a stepmother?’

‘Yes. A wicked one. She’s tried to poison my father’s mind against me.’

‘Has she really?’

‘Well, it was already pretty poisoned with hooch.’

‘You mean he’s an alcoholic?’

‘Yep. That’s why I ran away from home. I could write a misery memoir, except I can’t truthfully say I’ve ever been that miserable.’

‘How do you get by?’

‘Moneywise?’

‘Yes.’

‘I sell my paintings,’ lied Cat. ‘Wanna buy one?’

Finn turned his attention to the paintings that Cat had fixed to the wall with masking tape. They looked better by candlelight, Cat decided. You couldn’t see the mistakes. The disadvantage of working in acrylic was that it dried faster than oil paint, so mistakes were harder to put right. But because acrylics were so much cheaper than oils, using them made sense to Cat.

‘Wow!’ said Finn, aiming the beam of his torch at the wall. ‘These are great! These are really fine. I mean, I don’t know much about art, but I can see that you genuinely have talent. Where did you train?’

‘I didn’t. My dad wanted me to go to the Slade, in London, but the last thing I wanted was to go back to school.’

‘I wouldn’t have thought that art college was much like school. I’d have thought art college might be quite a blast.’

Cat shrugged. ‘I don’t like being taught things. I’d rather learn from my own mistakes. The only good teacher I ever had was my brother.’

‘Yeah? What did you learn from him?’

‘How to skip stones.’

‘Good skill to have.’ Finn resumed his scrutiny of Cat’s paintings. ‘How much do you ask for them?’

‘Five hundred euros each.’ What!? Where had that come from?

‘That’s a lot. My ma gets about two fifty a pop.’

‘Your ma’s an artist?’

‘An amateur. But she sells quite well during the tourist season. Her stuff’s on display in Fleur’s boutique in the village.’

‘Fleurissima? I wouldn’t dare go into that shop! How does she get away with charging those kind of prices?’

He shrugged ‘Women are stupid when it comes to clothes. Izzy used to spend a fortune in there.’

Izzy. Izzy! Why did Cat hate her so? ‘It’s the kind of place my stepmother would love, too,’ she remarked.

Finn returned his attention to Cat’s artwork. ‘Five hundred euros a pop? Seriously?’

‘Three to you. Special price.’

‘Nice try, but no cigar. How much do you charge for your house-painting skills?’

‘I told you – will work for food.’

‘You mean it?’

Cat nodded. She’d be glad to work in return for a roof over her head. Tomorrow she’d put in a call to her father, and see about getting some money from him. She wondered what she’d need to set up the poste restante thingy Raoul had talked about. She reckoned some form of ID would be required, and she doubted that her fake student card would cut any dice. Shit. Maybe she’d have to go legit and get herself a passport, after all. Oh! Just the thought of filling in the forms made her feel dizzy.

‘Tomorrow we’ll head in to Galway and pay a visit to B&Q,’ said Finn. ‘Stock up on DIY stuff. Anywhere else you need to go?’

‘Um. I wouldn’t mind getting to the art suppliers. I’d love to be able to start painting on canvas again.’

‘Is that what you usually paint on?’

‘Yes. But if I can’t get my hands on canvas, I’ll paint on anything. I found a roll of wallpaper in a cupboard here – hope you don’t mind. I even took to painting on old shards of slate once, when I ran out of funds. Most of my money goes on art supplies.’

‘Most of mine goes on dive gear.’ Finn moved toward the window, and turned off the torch. In the plate glass, Cat could see candles reflected and, beyond the glass, the dark hump of Inishclare island. ‘There was a dive outfit on that island once,’ he remarked. ‘That’s where I cut my teeth.’

‘What age were you when you started?’

‘Twelve.’

‘So it’s your lifelong passion?’

‘Yeah.’

‘What about your plans to turn this place into a dive outfit?’

His smile was a little rueful. ‘Setting up a dive school here would mean infringing on Ma’s orchard.’

‘The orchard at the bottom of the garden belongs to your ma, does it?’

‘Yeah.’ He smiled down at her. ‘She has no Marxist scruples about owning property. Those two acres are her pride and joy.’

Cat remembered the three women earlier that day who had enjoyed a fête champêtre in the orchard, and how carefree they’d seemed. It was an eye-opener for Cat to see women revelling in each other’s company: her mother had been the only woman she had ever trusted. And hadn’t she every reason to be mistrustful of her own sex? She’d been bullied at boarding school, set upon (on more than one occasion) by gangs of girl thugs (the ones who wore pink were the worst), and cold-shouldered by her stepmother.

Her stepmother. She hoped to God that Ophelia didn’t pick up the phone tomorrow when she called the Crooked House to petition her father for cash. Even the sound of Oaf’s voice over the telephone line had the power to make Cat want to puke. That sick-making, saccharine, actorish voice that Oaf put on was worse than listening to Burt Bacharach. How had her dad fallen for it? Why had he betrayed the memory of perfect Paloma by marrying that gold-digging has-been?

She suddenly felt very tired. But she didn’t want to go to bed just yet.

‘Let’s finish the wine,’ she said to Finn, ‘and watch the sun come up.’

‘Nice idea,’ said Finn with a smile. ‘I’ll get my camera. I’ve some great shots of the sunrise over Inishclare that I took a couple of years back.’

‘I’d love to see them.’

‘Coming up.’

Finn disappeared into the kitchen, and Cat settled down on one of the Terence Conran chaise longues and tried to make herself comfortable. Bruce Springsteen was bouncing off the walls, warbling about Candy’s room, and Cat wished he wouldn’t, because it was such a sexy song. That iPod was a miniature miracle, she thought, especially when compared to her great clumsy brick of a Sony Walkman. It had belonged to her mother, and before the fire Cat had used to plug herself into it every night before she slept, even though it devoured batteries. Cat could ill afford batteries – but, like art materials, they were her essentials, the way make-up or hair straighteners or gossip magazines were for some women.

‘More grub.’ Finn was back, bearing a tray on which he’d laid out a kind of antipasto. He set it down, and refilled Cat’s wineglass. ‘Izzy and me used to do this, way back,’ he said.

‘Do what?’

‘Crack open a bottle of wine and watch the sun rise. Here, have a look.’ He handed her his camera. ‘See? That was taken at around this time of year. With a bit of luck, we might get something similar today – the weather conditions are about the same.’

Cat looked at the picture displayed on the screen of Finn’s camera. It showed a breathtaking tangerine sun rising over a roseate sea. Silhouetted against the horizon, a figure was holding a fiendishly difficult yoga pose with seeming effortlessness.

‘Who’s the yoga master?’ she asked, knowing full well what the answer would be.

She wasn’t wrong, and there was a smile in his voice when he replied. ‘That’s Izzy,’ said Finn. ‘I’ll never forget that night. I had exams to take, to do with Nitrox diving. She sat and read and read and re-read the dive manual out loud, so that it would stick in my head. It was the most boring stuff in the world, but she made it sound like poetry. Isn’t she gorgeous?’