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
