Читать книгу That Gallagher Girl - Kate Thompson - Страница 12

Chapter Five

Río was looking at pictures of a mobile home on the internet. It was due to be delivered today in two separate sections to Adair’s oyster farm, and Río was to be there to meet it.

The ‘Bentley’ was like no mobile home she had ever seen. Her experience of caravanning had been limited to the Roadmasters of her childhood, when she and Dervla had gone with their parents to spend a fortnight of the summer in a trailer park in Sligo. Those mobile homes had been all Beauty Board and Crimplene curtains and swirly Acrilan carpets, with unreliable water pressure (the shower would peter out just as you were shampooing your hair), and intermittent electricity during storms. She and Dervla had fought over who would get the top bunk in the confined space of the ‘spare’ bedroom, and entertainment had consisted of 479-piece jigsaws (masquerading as 500-piece jigsaws), back copies of the Reader’s Digest, and Cluedo with Mrs White and the lead piping missing.

This Bentley yoke was a revelation. Its galley-style kitchen was bigger than the one in Río’s apartment, it boasted an en-suite shower room as well as a state-of-the-art tiled bathroom, and a ‘bespoke’ flame-effect hole-in-the-wall fire. Not only did the Bentley have an integrated washer/drier and a dishwasher, it also featured a Smeg American fridge-freezer, a kitchen island unit complete with built-in wine cooler, and a home cinema and surround-sound system. There was a study kitted out in tan leather office furniture, ‘beautiful’ bed throws and scatter cushions (Río thought them the most hideous things she’d ever seen), and – ta-ran-ta-ra! to cap it all – there were ‘soft-close’ toilet seats. Río could not help but notice the plural. The single loo in her bathroom had a seat that slid out of place every time you sat on it, due to the fact that she hadn’t got around to replacing a missing bolt.

When he’d asked her to oversee the advent of the Bentley, Adair had made some joke about the fact that he’d gone from being a property baron to being trailer park trash almost overnight. Trailer park trash! This mobile home was fit for a queen: or, at the very least, a princess. And there was, of course, a scratch-resistant quartz vanity unit in the bathroom for HRH Izzy, and a custom-built closet in her boudoir.

Río wondered how much this Bentley yoke had cost Adair. A fraction, she conceded, of what it had cost Shane to buy Coral Mansion; but then, Shane could afford to splash money around now. Back when they’d conceived Finn and lived in a squat, neither of them would ever have dreamed that Shane might one day be in a position to afford as much as a time-share in a crumby bedsit, let alone an apartment in a brownstone overlooking Central Park and a house on Mulholland Drive. She’d had a phone call from Finn first thing that morning to say that, since his flight had landed at one o’clock am (having been held up by mutinous cabin crew on another go-slow), he had decided not to disturb his auld mammy.

‘You should know that I can’t imagine anything lovelier than being disturbed by you!’ she’d told him crossly. ‘You’re a pig, Finn. I need a hug from you more than I need anything right now.’

‘Look on it as delayed gratification, Ma,’ he’d told her. And when she’d asked him about the ‘surprise’ he’d mentioned yesterday, he’d said, ‘Hold on tight. You’re going to fall off your chair.’ He was right. Because she’d been leaning backwards rather precariously when Finn revealed that the Mystery Buyer of Coral Mansion was none other than his dad – Río had done just that.

‘Well, I’ll be doggone,’ she said. ‘Shane must be on Monopoly money.’

‘I think he got it at a knockdown price.’

‘Ha! That’s exactly what should be done with that hideous carbuncle. Just knock the joint down and start again.’

‘Not a chance, Ma. I’m here to oversee the refurbishment. But you’ll be glad to know that the first casualty will be the yoga pavilion. I’m going to demolish it today.’

‘That eyesore? Yes!’

‘I’ll be kipping here, by the way, while I’m working on the joint.’

‘That’s cool.’

The sleeping arrangements suited Río because, while she adored her drop-dead-gorgeous son, he was six foot two, and her apartment overlooking the harbour was tiny. She’d have him round for dinner tonight: he’d be jetlagged, she guessed, and in need of red meat and red wine after knocking down the pavilion that had been built for Felicity all those years ago, when Adair had been rich, and Shane had been poor. How the tables had turned!

She supposed Shane buying Coral Mansion was a bit like that intrepid mountaineer Mallory trying to conquer Everest ‘because it was there’, or Richard Burton buying the Krupp Diamond because it was up for grabs, or Imelda Marcos spending a fortune on shoes she’d never wear. She also supposed that he’d finally given in to Finn’s badgering about converting the joint into a scuba-dive centre. The badgering had been going on for so long now that it had become a family joke.

Río knew as well that it would give Shane no little pleasure to own the biggest, brashest, most ‘fuck-off’ residence in Lissamore, particularly since it had once belonged to the man who had been his rival in love. How would poor Adair Bolger, slogging over his oyster beds and slumming it in a mobile home (even one as deluxe as the Bentley), feel when he found out that Shane Byrne was now the owner of the erstwhile Villa Felicity?

Ping! Outlook Express announced the arrival of an email in her inbox. Oh! As if life wasn’t complicated enough, the email was from Isabella Bolger, ‘Sent from My iPhone’, and the subject matter was the Bentley.

Hi, Río, she read, when she clicked on the envelope icon. I understand that Dad has asked you to meet the Bentley people when they deliver to the site. Thank you so much for helping out. Just to let you know that I shall be arriving in Lissamore this evening. I wanted to check out for myself what Dad’s accommodation for the foreseeable future is going to be like. I had hoped to be staying in Coolnamara Castle Hotel until the plumbing, etc is taken care of in the Bentley, but I’ve just found out that they’re fully booked due to some fly-fishing event. Would you happen to know if there’s anything going in B&Bs in the village?

All best, Izzy

Oh, God. It would be unmannerly of Río to expect Princess Izzy to bed down in a B&B. Should she phone Finn and ask him if he could put her up in Coral Mansion? Um, no. That was so not a good idea. Río didn’t pry too much into her son’s affairs, but she knew enough about his love life to hazard a guess that he might not welcome Izzy back into his life with open arms. Also, it would be disconcerting – to say the least – for Izzy to find out that Finn was now ensconced in her former home, just down the shore from where the Bentley was to be parked. Life was complicated? Life was bonkers!

There was only one thing for it. Hi, Izzy, she typed. How good to hear from you! You’re more than welcome to stay with me, if you don’t mind sleeping on a sofabed. What time will you be here?

The response was immediate. That’s really kind of you. I should be arriving around 7.00. Can I buy you dinner in O’Toole’s?

Oh, well. She’d have to delay Finn’s roast dinner till another time. Río was just about to type ‘Thank you – that would be lovely!’ when her phone went. It was Finn, again.

‘Hi, Ma,’ he said. ‘Fancy dinner in O’Toole’s tonight?’

‘No!’ she said. ‘I’m cooking for . . . Fleur.’

‘Fleur can come, too.’

‘No! She’s bringing the baby.’

‘Oh. Shame. There’s someone I’d love you to meet.’

‘What? Who?’

‘Just a girl.’

‘A girl, Finn? What girl?’

‘A girl I think you’d like. She’s a really talented painter. She’s going to help me out with the refurbishment of this gaff.’

‘With Coral Mansion?’

‘Yeah.’

‘She’s a house painter?’

‘No. She’s like an artist painter. But she needs somewhere to stay, so she’s giving me a hand here, in return for bed and board.’

‘Oh. Is she – um – is she like . . . a girlfriend, Finn?’

‘No.’

‘You said that too fast. That means she could become a girlfriend.’

Ping!

Or I could cook for you! I’ve just passed a fish shop and they’ve fresh langoustines! Shall I stop and get some? Iz. xx

Thank Jesus! Frsh langustins heaven! typed Río, and pressed ‘Send’ without bothering to correct the spelling mistakes.

‘Just because she’s a girl, Ma, doesn’t mean that there has to be a romantic thing going on,’ Finn rebuked her.

‘Of course not, sweetheart,’ said Río abstractedly, wishing that Izzy had chosen another time to descend upon her. She hadn’t even been able to give Finn a hug yet! ‘I’m glad you’ve got someone to help you. Now, forgive me. I have to go. I’m running late. Love you!’

‘Send my love to Fleur and Marguerite.’

‘What?’

‘Your dinner guests.’

‘Oh, yes. Bye.’

Río put her phone down and picked it up again as her ringtone sounded. It was the Bentley delivery man to say that he was having problems getting the state-of-the-art mobile home down the bumpy boreen that led to Adair’s oyster farm, and could she get there ASAP?

Life was bonkers? thought Río, as she grabbed her jacket and her car keys. No, no. Life was certifiable!

Some hours later, Río had seen the Bentley safely moored at the rear of Adair’s horrible rundown bungalow. (The Bentley had received a bit of a bashing on its way down the boreen: some of the feature Western Red Cedar panelling had come a cropper against a drystone wall leaving it scarred for life, all the knocking about meant that the toilet seats weren’t as ‘soft-close’ as they were supposed to be, and Izzy’s custom-built closet had lost some of its bespoke shelving.)

But Río was happy that the thing had arrived reasonably intact. Tomorrow, the two sections would be joined together, and plumbing and electricity would be instated as if by the deft hands of magical elves, and all would be in turn-key condition for Adair. Once he’d wound up his business dealings in Dubai he could come winging his way to the west coast of Ireland, ready to embark upon his ill-advised new career as an oyster farmer.

At seven o’clock precisely, Río’s doorbell rang. Buzzing Izzy in, she turned off her phone. She didn’t want any calls from Finn interrupting their cosy evening. Well, she did want phone calls from Finn – of course she did – but not while Izzy was here.

‘Izzy! Hello! Long time!’ she said, as she watched the girl climb the stairs that led to her eyrie. ‘You look fantastic!’

She could have parroted the words in her sleep, for Izzy always looked fantastic. But this time the words rang hollow as Izzy’s cheeks. The girl looked awful – like a ghost of her former self. The minxy, golden babe that lived in Río’s memory had turned into a wretchedly thin, pasty-faced spectre.

‘Oh, Río! It’s so good of you to have me! I can’t tell you how grateful I am. I was dreading coming back to Lissamore – I was – I was dreading everything! And . . . and . . . here are your langoustines.’

Thrusting a carrier bag at Río, Izzy burst into tears.

‘Come in, come in at once!’ said Río, horrified. To see Isabella Bolger cry – Princess Isabella, who was normally so soignée and so on top of things – was truly disturbing. Bundling her through the door, Río led the girl to the sofa and said ‘Sit!’ Then she did what most women do when confronted by a weeping compadre: she cast around for the corkscrew.

‘Red or white?’ she asked.

‘White, please.’

Río shoved the bag of langoustines into the fridge and pulled out a bottle of white.

On the sofa, Izzy was rummaging in her bag. ‘How stupid! I don’t have a tissue . . .’

‘Here.’ Tearing off a section of kitchen towel, Río handed her a wodge.

‘I’m sorry,’ sobbed Izzy. ‘My car stalled just as I was coming into the village, and a man in a van behind started honking his horn at me.’

What? All those tears because of such a minor upset? Río guessed Izzy must be pre-menstrual.

‘And then he started shouting at me. He told me . . . he told me to take driving lessons!’

Río raised her eyes to heaven. Sweet Jesus! Get over yourself, Isabella! Sloshing South Africa’s finest plonk into a glass, she handed it to Izzy with ill-concealed impatience, resisting the impulse to tell the girl to stop being such a wimp.

‘I’m sorry.’ Izzy managed a wan smile, then raised the glass to her lips and took a sip. ‘I guess I’m just tired after the drive from Dublin. Thanks for the wine.’

‘You’re welcome.’ Río took a seat opposite. ‘You’re back living in Dublin then?’ she asked, glad of a conversational gambit.

‘Yes. I’ve got a position in a marketing company.’

‘What made you decide to come back?’

‘Not the job satisfaction, that’s for sure.’ Izzy blew her nose. ‘I guess it was . . . well, when Dad told me he was coming back to Ireland, I thought I might as well come home too.’

‘What was Dubai like?’

‘Bloody horrible. Some good wreck diving, though.’

Río plucked a piece of lint from her sleeve. She didn’t want to be diverted on to the topic of diving, because if they went there, Finn’s name would be bound to come up. ‘When’s Adair due back?’ she asked, even though she knew perfectly well when he was due.

‘Next week. He’s just tying up some loose ends.’ Izzy took a swig of wine, and then she started crying again. ‘Oh, Río!’ she wailed. ‘Is the cottage really as bad as it looks on the internet? I couldn’t believe it when Dad showed me. I couldn’t believe that he was serious about buying it.’

‘The cottage is pretty bad, all right,’ conceded Río. ‘But the mobile home is more like a mobile palace!’ She invested her voice with gung-ho enthusiasm. ‘You needn’t have any worries that your dad isn’t going to be comfortable, Izzy. It’s the Taj Mahal in miniature.’

‘Is it? Is it really?’

‘Yes. And I’m sure that he can make the cottage into a really lovely home. It’ll take a lot of work, of course, but your dad’s never been afraid of hard work.’ The irony struck her forcibly now, of Adair working like a navvy on a rundown cottage while Río’s son and his father swanned around in Coral Mansion.

‘How . . . how long do you think it’ll take to fix the place up?’

‘Six months, or thereabouts, I’d have thought if he hires some help and works flat out.’ Río looked at Izzy curiously. Her face had gone an ugly, mottled shade of puce.

‘Six months?’ she whispered. ‘Working flat out?’

Río nodded. ‘Are you all right, Izzy? You’re looking—–’

‘My dad can’t work flat out for six months on some crappy little house!’

‘He’s done it before,’ Río pointed out. ‘Sure, didn’t he start his career as a builder?’

Izzy flinched, and tears started to course down her cheeks again.

‘I know he’s come a long way since then,’ said Río. ‘But, hey – there are swings and there are roundabouts, Izzy. You win some, you lose some.’ God, she was even beginning to talk like Adair! Funny the way clichés came so easily when you were trying to console someone.

‘I can’t bear to think of him navvying!’ whimpered Izzy.

Río got to her feet and moved to the window. She was feeling a tad exasperated with the girl now. Wasn’t everybody in Ireland rolling up their sleeves and fielding the flak that life was firing at them? Izzy Bolger’s darling daddy wasn’t the only ex-property tycoon taking a reality check.

‘I think he’s kind of looking forward to putting the place to sorts. He was full of beans the last time I talked to him.’

‘He’s not able for it, Río.’

‘Arra, he’ll be grand.’ Río started to busy herself dead-heading a geranium. She was beginning to regret her invitation to Izzy to stay the night. Maybe she should have sent her in the direction of Coral Mansion after all, where she could be accommodated in the style to which she was accustomed.

‘No. He won’t be grand, Río,’ said Izzy. ‘He’s dying.’

‘What?’ Río turned back to Izzy. The redness had left her face; she was ashen now. ‘What . . . did you say? That . . .’

‘Daddy’s dying.’

The withered geranium blossom dropped to the floor. ‘Adair’s ill?’

Izzy nodded. ‘Cancer.’

‘Oh. Oh, God.’ Río’s hands went to her mouth, and she shut her eyes for a long moment. Then she moved to the sofa and sat down beside Izzy. Putting her arms around her, she gathered the girl against her. ‘Oh, God, Izzy. I am so sorry. I am so, so sorry. Words can’t—’

‘I know. You don’t have to say anything.’

No words were adequate. Not even the one-size-fits-all clichés to which Adair was so partial. She remembered the last time she’d seen him, before he left for Dubai. It had been in Dublin: he’d put her up in a splendid room in the Four Seasons, and treated her to the theatre, and bought her dinner in Patrick Guilbaud. Except he hadn’t called it dinner. He’d called it a ‘slap-up feed’, and when his Charolais beef and foie gras had been set in front of him he’d rubbed his hands together with gusto, the way a cartoon character might. That was what was so endearing about Adair: despite his wealth and his very real business acumen and the power he wielded, he was possibly the most down-to-earth, least affected person Río had ever met. And now this larger-than-life, convivial, generous man was dying.

Izzy disengaged herself from Río’s embrace and blew her nose again.

‘When did you find out?’ Río asked.

But Izzy just shook her head, clearly too distressed to answer. Reaching for her bag, she pulled out an envelope and handed it to Río.

‘Am I to read this?’

Izzy nodded.

Inside the envelope was a folded sheet of A4 paper.

Dear Dr Rashidya, she read. Thank you very much for being honest with me. I appreciate this, because it gives me a chance to get off my arse and spend the last year of my life doing something I’ve always wanted to do. It’ll amuse you to know that I’ve bought that oyster farm I was telling you about, so I’m going to realise my dream of living off the fat of the land (OK – the fat of the sea) back in my native country.

It’s funny how you get your priorities right when the Big C comes calling. I’ve realised that living the good life isn’t about drinking Cristal champagne or having gold-plated taps in your bathroom. For me, the good life will mean a pint of Guinness in my local pub after an honest day’s hard labour, and the sound of the sea on my doorstep. In the best of all possible worlds, the good life might also mean finally marrying the woman I love, if she’ll have me. I’ve always believed that anything is possible, if a man wants it badly enough.

You might write a letter of reference for me to my doctor in Ireland. He can recommend a specialist when the time comes, but until then I just want to truck on as best I can. That medication sure does exactly what it says on the tin, and as long as it keeps kicking in I won’t be telling anyone. No point in raining all over someone else’s parade – especially not Izzy’s. She worries about me enough as it is.