Authors: Vanessa Fox
Caroline caught her breath, an unconscious stab of homesickness laced with alcohol blending with her anger to produce a toxic mix. Anger and disappointment. Peter had dumped her and she was being made a total fool of by Alex Bloody Perfect Curls Ryan. The gamekeeper’s daughter for God’s sake. Well there was just no way she was going to stand for that. No way anyone was going to make a fool of her.
Caroline wasn’t the only person knocking back doubles in Foley’s.
In the public bar on the other side of the pub, Peter was nursing a double Scotch. A double Scotch and an anger so fierce that it was threatening to explode at any moment. The bitch journalist had wimped out. WIMPED out, despite all the hints he’d given her, all the pointers. And now the key player in the consortium he’d put together had pulled out, had been offered some deal to buy up property for half nothing in Dubai. Dubai? The country was bankrupt, or if it wasn’t, it soon would be. No amount of oil revenue could balance the crazy spending that had been going on there for the last ten years.
Peter swirled his Scotch around his glass. He’d been here all afternoon, drinking coffee, trying to get his head clear while he worked out his next move. He’d already checked out his exit, had parked his hired Land Rover Discovery in the back alley behind the pub, driven through the fields to coat its spotless paintwork in a thick layer of muck. It would be a bit tricky to get out through the pub’s tiny toilet window, but it wasn’t anything he hadn’t done a hundred times before back in the days. Once he got his shoulders through he’d be home and dry. The question now was timing. Peter smiled to himself, every operation was about timing; timing and planning. And he had this one planned right down to knowing which chef was on tonight. So now it was just a matter of waiting...
THIRTY FOUR
‘
I’m not staying.’
Alex’s voice was definite, her eyes hard. It was a struggle; this was ridiculous, but she couldn’t lose her dignity now, couldn’t laugh. This was one of those moments in books when the heroine pinches herself. Right now Alex needed to pinch herself, needed a jab to remind herself of the pain of seeing that picture, of hearing the truth about her dad. She’d made a complete fool of herself, had drunk too much to drive, and must have, like a total girl, driven over a nail somewhere and got a flat, and on top of that, she’d left the spare in her garage.
Sebastian shrugged, his hands back in his trouser pockets.
‘
Try for a cab if you like. The phone book’s inside.’
They moved together, both heading for the door, both realising they couldn’t make it up the steps simultaneously without the risk of collision, stopped, awkward, shuffled back like a pair of stags about to lock horns. Sebastian cleared his throat, pretending he wasn’t embarrassed, took his hands out of his pockets with a sweeping gesture,
‘
After you…’
He was right of course. There weren’t any cabs, at least none prepared to travel all the way to Kilfenora House and take her back to Dalkey.
Alex shivered, looking around the study. It was cold, dark now that daylight had faded, the fire unlit, the only light, tinged green, falling from the Tiffany desk light Sebastian had switched on to find the phone book.
Alex had hovered in the doorway as Sebastian had crossed to the desk, even in the gloom hating this room, hating everything it represented. But the telephone was her lifeline, her only way out of this mess, and yet again she found herself in this book-lined room overlooking the drive.
Dear God, Alex thought to herself, she didn’t want to be here in Kilfenora House, hadn’t wanted to cross the threshold, let alone stay the night.
So what the hell was she going to do now?
She didn’t have anything with her, not even her makeup bag, never mind pyjamas or a hairbrush. Not that any of those things were what was bothering her. How could she spend a night under the same roof as Sebastian? How could she wake up and come downstairs and talk to him across the breakfast table? She’d promised. More than that, she’d sworn she’d never come back.
There was no question that the stakes had changed, that everything Alex had based her promise on had shifted, like sand in a dessert swept along by a wind of change. But she had promised. And who knew what might happen, what had been set up to ensure she kept that promise? Whatever about coming back to restore the ballroom, staying the night was an entirely different thing, the exact thing, in fact, that she’s sworn she’d never do.
Maybe she could sleep in the car? Alex dismissed the idea as soon as it materialised; now she was being ridiculous. Running her hand through her hair, tugging at the loose curls that were already starting to spring from her pony tail, she closed her eyes. She really had no choice. It would take her well over an hour to walk to her father’s ancient cottage on the other side of the estate, which, locked up and empty would be damp and inhospitable to say the least. And it was an even longer walk into the village; in these boots she’d be crippled before she even got to end of the drive.
‘
More wine?’
Alex started, her hand still on the phone. She hadn’t heard the door open behind her, turned to see Sebastian framed by the doorway, his face in shadow, a dark shape against the darkness of the hall. A dark shape that brought with it the scent of sandalwood and spices, of the open air, of nights under the stars.
‘
Where’s your grandfather tonight?’
Sebastian, his hand on the door jamb, looked surprised. ‘He’s moved to the west wing. He made a huge fuss but we had the drawing room converted into a suite.’ Sebastian nodded his head in the direction of the hall. Not that Alex needed reminding where the drawing room was, ‘He’s self-contained and his nurse lives in, so he’s happy enough, although you’d never think it from the amount he gives out. He goes to bed early these days, sleeps late.’
Alex nodded, not looking at him, focusing instead on the leather top of the desk, her mind locked in the past. Then she shivered, like something small and black with lots of legs had run down her spine.
‘
Come on, it’s warmer in the kitchen. And I lit the fire in the den.’
Alex almost smiled. The den was a series of tiny rooms off the back kitchen, had originally been the housekeeper’s lodgings, her bedroom and parlour where she could entertain or interrogate, a place to store precious dry goods, tea and spices, where she could keep a close eye on them. Windowless, buried as it was in the bowels of the house, it had become Sebastian’s domain when Gráinne had arrived as housekeeper. With her own house in the village, she had no need to live in, had been happy to let Sebastian move in his canoe and his drum kit and his collections of model planes; all the clutter that was overflowing from his bedroom. And she had given him as much privacy as he needed.
‘
Here you go…’ In the den, Sebastian handed Alex a glass, their fingers touching for a second, his eyes meeting hers then darting away.
Hovering beside the fireplace, unsure where to sit, unsure where to look, Alex was sure her face was as hot as her legs, warmed by the flames licking at the logs and pine cones piled in the grate. The tiny sitting room had been redecorated since she was last here, the posters replaced by watercolours in modern frames, a comfortable burgundy corduroy sofa and easy chair in place of the bean bags. Sebastian fell into the easy chair, taking a sip of his wine, trying to look relaxed.
God this was awkward.
Trying to fill the silence, Alex said the first thing that came into her head.
‘
That painting’s lovely.’ She gestured towards a large canvas running along the back wall behind him; then she cringed. Glancing at what she’d thought it was a landscape, rural, rolling hills and forest, as she looked at it more closely she realised it was the estate, the artist’s focus on the Mill House nestling at the turn of the river only a ten-minute walk from her father’s cottage. The Mill House.
Thankfully, Alex was saved by a frantic clattering sound, softened and distorted by the thick walls of the house, but loud enough to distract them both.
‘
What on earth is that?’
Sebastian took another sip of his wine, obviously unworried.
‘
Dodo after a rat.’ Another crash. He groaned, ‘She’s at the bins again. She’ll have the whole place in a heap.’ For a moment he looked like he was thinking of getting up, calling her in, but then shook his head and shrugged, ‘I’ll get her in a minute. She gets fed up cooped up here; it’s no harm to let her have some fun. She’s a menace though. Last time she chased a rat into the logs and she had the whole pile over.’ Right on cue, there was another rally of crashes. Sebastian winced theatrically, as if the ceiling was coming down, playing the fool. Just like he used to. Alex fought to keep the laughter from her voice, ‘Remember when she got the pantry door open and stole that leg of lamb, and Gráinne went after her with the sweeping brush?’
But outside it wasn’t a brush making the racket; or a dog; or a rat for that matter.
It was Caroline. And the more she banged, the madder she got.
After her third brandy Caroline had forgotten that she’d gone to the pub to use the telephone, could focus only on that scarlet briefcase on the front seat of Alex’s car. And as she’d shot back down the drive like a missile, skidding around the last bend, the twin beams of her headlights had lit up Alex’s car like a searchlight. And the car was in exactly the same place as it had been the last time she’d seen it.
Gripping her cigarette between her teeth, Caroline gave Kilfenora’s huge front door another whack, swaying with the impact, a suede Jimmy Choo in her hand, the imprint of a stiletto heel visible on the ancient oak.
Still no answer.
Caroline cursed and hit the door again. BANG, BANG, BANG. Each blow heavier than the previous one. And a whole lot angrier.
THIRTY FIVE
In Foley’s pub, Peter put down his glass and pulled back the cuff of his waxed jacket to check his watch. Right on cue the street door opened, accompanied by a blast of chip-scented air from the take-away next door. A grizzled grey-haired man shuffled in, his shoulders stooped, his tattered sweater splattered with white paint, shadowed with plaster dust. Letting the door fall closed with a bang, he greeted the room as a whole.
‘
Evening.’
Peter turned and acknowledged him with a stiff nod. Now the ball was rolling.
‘
Evening Shamie, usual?’
Shamie pulled a chair over close to the roaring fire and collapsed into it,
‘
Reckon it is Dan, reckon it is.’
‘
Be about twenty minutes, the Eye-tie’s on tonight.’
Shamie shook his head, pursing his lips in disapproval. ‘Suppose that’ll have to do Dan, can’t get the local lads to work these days can you, hanging about on street corners...’ A slow smile formed on Peter’s face as Shamie embarked on his evening rant. God Bless habit. God Bless the working man.
As Shamie’s speech drew to a temporary halt, Peter nodded to the barman,
‘
Any chance of your Eye-tie throwing up a steak?’
The barman rolled his eyes, shaking his head like it was unlikely, ‘Be at least forty minutes.’
‘
No problem.’
Behind the bar a phone began to ring, the loud jangling cutting through the quiet. The barman reached for it, his face turning from bored to interested as the caller spoke. He held the receiver out towards Peter.
‘
It’s for you. American guy says he’s calling from New York.’
‘
Great. Thanks.’ Peter slipped off his stool and leaned across the bar, put the phone to his ear, ‘Morning Bill, yep I’ve everything. I’m here now. I’ll get them back to you as soon as I get to Dublin.’
Peter handed the phone back. There’s no way they’d forget he’d been here now.
He checked his watch as the street door swung open and the two girls appeared, both thick with makeup, skirts barely covering their arses. Shamie let out a clucking sound that would have done a hen proud and the barman’s eyes lit up. Peter’s face twitched. The girls worked in the supermarket down the road, knocked off at the same time and called into Foley’s two nights a week like clockwork.
‘
Evening Dan.’
‘
Evening ladies, what can I do you for?’
Delighted with the chorus of giggles his efforts at wit produced, the barman didn’t notice Peter trying to attract his attention. Fine by him. The girls had pulled up a couple of stools and draped themselves provocatively over the bar before he finally looked Peter’s way.
‘
Put another one in there, in your own time. Where’s the jacks?’
The barman nodded to a door at the back of the bar, reaching for a couple of glasses for his new customers.
Slipping off his stool, Peter disappeared through the door to the men’s toilet. A moment later he’d locked the stall door and had the wire-glass window open. It was recessed; the steel frame set into crumbling plaster, lumps missing above the tile work like someone had lost their temper and tried to kick it out, though quite how they’d got their boot up to head height, Peter wasn’t sure. From the thick black muck in the corners it looked like it hadn’t been cleaned since it had been put in.
Peter quickly pulled a pair of latex gloves from the pocket of his Barbour jacket and hoisting himself onto the narrow tiled windowsill, stuck his head out into the evening air, exchanging the stink of pee for the stink of rubbish. Eyes darting, he checked around. The backyard of the pub was tiny, crowded with overflowing bins. The rapid dart of rats was all Peter needed to be sure that there wasn’t anyone else around. Squeezing through the steel frame, he got his hands onto the outside wall and levered himself through the tight gap. There was no room to turn, his only option to drop head first onto the filthy concrete below the window. The drop was about five feet, hard; but he’d done worse from higher. He landed on his shoulder in a parachutist’s roll, was up in a crouch in moments, on his feet, swinging open the peeling back gate.