on, but I broke my own rule about never talking to strangers on a plane, and told Brian Lynch the whole story. An excellent listener, he interjected with “Say it’s not so!” and “You’re joking!” and “Too right!” at all the appropriate intervals. In mid-story, Moira — that’s the flight attendant — brought me two scones, a tiny jar of jam, and a pot of clotted cream. “Put that inside you, it’ll do you a world of good” she said. “And here’s something to wash it down with.” More tea. I didn’t object.
I tried to imagine any young, hip girl in New York insisting that I eat a dense sugary bread roll spread with the creamiest, fattiest, sweetest ambrosia anyone’s ever tasted on this earth. For those of you who’ve never had clotted cream, I can only tell you that it must be mother’s milk from an angel. When I’d dug out all I could from the little foil cup using my plastic airline knife, I couldn’t stop myself from licking it clean.
“Good girl,” was Brian’s response.
My tray was cleared and I came to the end of my story. I took out the folder to show him Tom O’Grady’s photo.
“Ah, sure I know Tom O’Grady. He was in the papers not long ago, shaking hands with your president, and the prime minister, and all the rest. The missus and I stayed in Castle Stone on our silver wedding anniversary, back before they refurbished the place. Lovely then, of course, with the horses trotting the paths, and the manicured gardens, and the old chapel for mass, but I’ve heard it’s splendid now.”
“Care for some dinner?” Moira interrupted. “Would you like the pasta, the chicken, or the beef? Pasta, chicken or beef?” The cart had made it down to our row. Brian took the beef, so I figured, “when in Rome.” We arranged our trays and tore the tops and wrappers off of all our little packages. The second the smell of the gravy hit my nose, I was ravenous. It was like the scones never happened. I was thrilled to see chunks of carrot and potato nestled in with the cubes of roast.
“Care for something to drink? Sparkling water, beer, wine, a cocktail?”
“Orange juice for me, please,” Brian said. “Car’s parked at the airport. I don’t live far, only on the north side of Dublin, but I never risk it.”
I almost ordered a vodka and soda with lemon, just out of habit, but I really didn’t want a drink. I liked chatting with Brian, and I was feeling sharp. I felt better than I had in weeks. “Orange juice for me, too, please.”
“Full of vitamin C,” Brian declared. “Won’t do you a bit of harm.” I liked the way he said ‘vit-amin,’ rhyming ‘vit’ with ‘bit’. We ate our meals companionably.
“I understand your man Tom gave up the high life in London to go home and help out the old Lord.”
“He’s not my man!” I corrected, shocked. “I’ve never even met him.”
“Turn of phrase,” Brian explained. “Anthony Stone, Earl of Wexford’s the name. I read something in one of my girls’ tabloids about the place falling to ruin, the family not being able to keep up with the taxes or what have you. You see that kind of thing more and more these days. The titled losing vast tracts of land that’s been with them for centuries.”
“So what does that have to do with Tom? Tom O’Grady, I mean.”
“That part I can’t tell you. The magazine was one of them girly jobs. Only paper I had with me on the train one day, so I read it cover to cover. It talked more about him splitting with that girl he had the television show with. Something about her demanding a yellow diamond for an engagement ring, and him leaving London heartbroken, barely able to lift his head. Said he took to the drink. To tell the truth, I’m embarrassed to know all this. Those papers are pure gossip and lies, all. I shouldn’t be repeating what they say.”
I finished every scrap of my dinner, including the little Bakewell tart in a cup, topped with custard. Brian and I chatted comfortably while the meal was cleared. We took turns excusing ourselves to go to the lavatory, and stretched our legs by standing in the galley with Moira for a while. He showed me pictures of his wife and daughters and I told him what it was like to grow up with a famous father. “But don’t tell anyone, please,” I entreated.
“Your secret’s safe with me, pet.” When I thought about it, it kind of was. Brian though my name was Sheila. He hunkered down in his seat, and in that way old men have, dropped off to sleep almost immediately, snoring softly. This time I didn’t mind his arm on my armrest.
Careful not to awaken him, I took out my journal and cracked the stiff spine open to the first creamy blank page.
Dear Mags, I watched my hand write. Strange. I’d kept journals over the years, but I’d never written “to” anyone. I’d never even used the salutation “Dear Diary.” Oh well, I was writing in ink, so I decided to go with it. “I owe you an apology. I’ve been thinking vile thoughts about you all day, and I’m so sorry. All during the ride to the airport, I convinced myself that you’d cooked up this scheme to get rid of me. In my head, you’d jettison me to another country, go into HPC and laugh about me over cocktails at my desk with Matty, and move in a new roommate who is more fun and who actually has a job, like maybe Carly the Intern. I’m so bad! If you hated me, would you have stayed up all night straightening my hair so I could look like a modern, urban writer? All you did was try to dig me out of a hole, lend me money, and throw in the most perfect gift I’ve ever received in to boot. On second thought, you really are trying to show me up, aren’t you? Kidding! Thanks for wishing me sex, too, though that prospect is highly unlikely. If what I hear about Ireland’s climate is true, even Colin Farrell would have to cut me out of my long underwear using scissors! Anyway, my parts must be frozen from lack of use. Whatevs! Totally unimportant because I’m going to be in and out of there like a cat burglar. I plan to find O’Grady, get him to tell me a few colorful stories about leprechauns or shillelaghs or potato famines, or whatever, and get this book written. I will not be long in the land of flat caps and frizzy hair. Boom! Brenda will kvetch and kvell, I’ll be her hero, and there will still be plenty of time to call Ray Diablo on his personal number before he hires another writer. Uh oh! They’re calling for seatbacks and tray tables. I’ll call T O’G (how do they do initials with apostrophes??!) in the morning from your aunt’s house. Today’s the 20th and you have me coming home on the 24th. I know your aunt offered to keep me the whole time, but I think after I nail this, I might treat myself to a hostel in Dublin and do a little sightseeing. I’d tell you to wish me luck, but you already have. Love, Shay.”
I patted myself on the back for not having checked luggage. In reality, I had Maggie to thank for that. She’d edited a book about packing and organization, and she’d internalized all the flight attendant’s tips. Besides, I’d only be here a few days. She brutally cut out all but the essentials, but tucked every manner of jewel and accessory one could imagine into the toes of shoes, the inner circle of rolled up belts, and between layers of flat, folded clothing.
When Brian and I parted at customs, I felt sadder than I expected to.
“You look after yourself, Sheila,” he said. “I don’t like the thought of you being on your own. If you need anything, anything at all, you ring me.” He gave me his card. “Brian Lynch, GlobeCo, Director of Sales and Distribution, Ireland-UK-US.”
“Anything at all, hear? I couldn’t bear the thought of one of my own daughters wanting for anything in a strange country. I’m as near as the telephone.”
I gave him a hug, not the sort of thing I usually do, but I really didn’t want to let him go. His kindness had shone a spotlight on my loneliness. He patted my back in a fatherly way.
“Thank
