The Kinsella Sisters (24 page)

‘What did I get up to?’ said Shane, drowsily. ‘I tried on your clothes and read your private email.’

‘Yeah? What did you think of the mail?’ asked Río, reaching for a jar of teabags.

‘That’s what sent me to sleep. God, you have a dull life, Río.’

‘I’m very glad you think so. You clearly didn’t access the encrypted files to do with my double life as an undercover agent.’

‘For whom?’

‘Ann Summers. D’you want a cup of tea?’

‘Yes, please. I’d love one.’

Shane reached for the carrier bag on the coffee table and looked inside. ‘Hello? What’s this? Are you
really
an Ann Summers agent?’

‘Excuse me!’ said Río with hauteur. ‘That stuff is
way
classier than Ann Summers.’

Shane looked uncertain. ‘So, did you go shopping today as well as have lunch?’

‘No. That was just some stuff I’d left behind.’

‘Left behind where? At the Villa Felicity?’

‘Well, no. Well, yes. Oh, it’s too complicated to go into.’ Río filled the kettle and switched it on, then moved to the cupboard to fetch mugs. One of them bore the legend ‘I
MUM’. It had been a present from Finn for her thirtieth birthday. The other mug had the Celtic logo on it, and was chipped. Río imagined serving builder’s tea in mugs to Isabella Bolger, and found herself laughing.

‘What’s so funny?’ asked Shane.

‘Oh, nothing really. I’m just comparing the perfection of the Bolger household to my slum.’

‘It’s not a slum, Río,’ Shane told her. ‘It’s a real home. LA is full of soulless palaces–the kind you’d see on
Second Life.
You’ve got yourself a very cosy little nest here.’

‘I guess I have, and I’m grateful for it, really. I just wish I had a garden.’ She handed Shane the Celtic mug. ‘Still, I guess gardening by proxy’s the next best thing. I can’t wait to get my hands on the garden of Coral Mansion.’

‘You’re doing Adair Bolger’s garden for him?’

‘Yes. I’m getting the house ready to go on the market.’

‘He’s selling up?’

‘Yep.’

Shane gave her an interested look. ‘I was there this afternoon.’

‘Where?’

‘Coral Mansion. Didn’t you get my voice mail?’

‘No.’

‘Have a listen.’

Río retrieved her phone from her bag, and accessed her mail box. When she’d finished listening to the message, she looked at Shane and smiled. ‘So while I was sitting in Coral Mansion having lunch, you were standing singing in the orchard?’

‘Yeah.’

‘How did you get in?’

‘I vaulted the old gate.’

‘Yikes. Just as well Miss Isabella didn’t see you. She’d have had the law on to you before you could have said son-of-a-gun.’

‘I wonder what old Bolger would do if he knew we used to make out under his apple tree?’

‘Less of the old, Shane. Adair Bolger can’t be that much longer in the tooth than you.’

‘Hm.’ Shane took a thoughtful sip of tea.

‘What are you thinking?’ asked Río.

‘I’m thinking that the next time I trespass, I should change my tune. Maybe instead of singing Duran Duran, I should sing the old Glenn Miller classic’

‘Which one?’

‘“Don’t Sit Under the Apple Tree (With Anyone Else but Me)”,’ said Shane.

‘Sit?’

‘Oh, all right. Make out.’

‘We didn’t just make out,’ she told him with a smile. ‘We made Finn.’

Later that evening, Dervla picked up the phone to Río.

‘Hi,’ she said. ‘Just to say that I’ve Jpegged the pics of the Villa
Felicity to you. The interior shots are all fine, but I don’t want to put any of the garden ones up on the website until you’ve appro-ed them.’

‘OK. I’ll have a look in the morning.’

‘Has Finn arrived yet?’

‘No. He should be here any minute. Oh, by the way, Dervla, we’ve booked a table in O’Toole’s for dinner tomorrow night. Would you like to join us?’

Dervla hesitated. ‘By “us”, I presume you mean you, Finn and Shane?’

‘Yes.’

‘Hell, why not? It would be an experience to have dinner with a real live movie star–even if he is only Shane. What time?’

‘Eight o’clock.’

‘I’ll see you there.’

Dervla put down the phone, picked up her glass of chilled Sancerre, and moseyed onto the roof terrace that overlooked Galway city. The notion of seeing Shane again after all these years intrigued her. How people changed! She had been so gauche, so naive, so
young!
After Shane, Dervla had grown up very fast. Having had her heart broken at such a tender age, she had taken to wearing a tough emotional armour, and had never allowed herself to fall in love since. Unless you could describe as love the feelings she harboured for the Old Rectory…

Below her, the streets were teeming with people on their way to pubs and clubs and cinemas. The sky was darkening, but instead of that rich, dark, velvety blue that would now be descending over Coolnamara, a jaundiced night sky was draped slackly over the cityscape. Instead of the call of curlews, the sound that rose up to Dervla’s twelfth-storey penthouse was a cacophony of traffic.

Leaning her elbows on the balustrade, Dervla allowed her mind to go back over the events of the day. It was a real feather in her cap to have acquired Adair Bolger as a client, she knew.

However, upon recceing the Villa Felicity a second time, she was even more uncomfortably aware that the property might not prove easy to shift. She had asked Río for her thoughts, but Río had been uncharacteristically glum, saying that the place had about it all the hallmarks of an aesthetic that was alien to her. Well, those weren’t her exact words. She had actually said that Coral Mansion (as she insisted on calling it) had been so self-consciously designed that it had disappeared up its own arse, and there was nothing Río could do to make the house feel like a home that any sane person would want to live in. There was absolutely no point in her bringing any of her vision to bear on the interior, she insisted, and her remit could go no further than the garden.

Dervla wondered now if it hadn’t been a mistake to offer to sell the Villa Felicity for Adair. She already had several overpriced properties on her books, some of which had not attracted a single viewer. Celtic Tiger Ireland had lost all its teeth and been declawed and was moulting like something diseased. Every day she heard rumours of other estate agents downsizing or going under or suffering nervous breakdowns. Just how was Dervla going to get through the recession that was forecast to run for at least another eighteen months?

Christian had come up with an interesting idea today. He had phoned to say that he had been singing her praises to a friend of his who worked in publishing, and his friend had asked if Dervla might be interested in writing a book. ‘Don’t knock it!’ Christian told her, when she’d laughed at the idea. ‘Everyone wants to know how to go about making their property saleable. If you pitch an idea to a publisher, you could win yourself a book deal.’

So, since this afternoon, Dervla had been thinking about it. It wasn’t the first time that she’d been approached about writing something on the Irish property market. An editor of one of the major property supplements had asked her, at the height
of the boom, whether she’d be interested in penning a weekly column for him, but at that time Dervla had been just too busy. Now she’d have given anything to be able to while away the time waiting for no-shows by jotting down ideas for newspaper articles.

Dervla eased into a stretch, took another sip of Sancerre and headed back inside, where her laptop with its Taj Mahal screen-saver was shimmering on the breakfast counter. Setting her glass down and going to ‘My Documents’, she opened a file and stared at the screen for a minute or two, rallying her thoughts. Then she typed in:
‘Selling Your Home–What Every First-Timer Needs to Know’
, and pressed ‘Save’. ‘Save To?’ the computer prompted her. And instead of automatically saving the file to her documents, Dervla clicked again and opened a brand-new folder upon which she bestowed the moniker ‘My Bestseller’.

Izzy was sitting on the sea wall, where she had joined the only friend she had in Lissamore, Babette, the bichon frise. She was filling the dog in on where she’d been on her holidays, and lamenting the fact that she’d ended up in hospital in Koh Samui after stepping on a shard of broken beer bottle in Tao, when she became aware that someone was standing too close to her, looking directly at her. Immediately on the defensive, thinking it might be one of those horrible local boys who had jeered at her at Frank Kinsella’s wake, Izzy looked up with a supercilious expression.

‘Hi,’ said Finn. ‘Why are you looking so cross?’

‘I’m not cross. I’m–um–thinking.’

‘Thinking about what?’

‘About what I’m going to have for dinner this evening. I’m meeting my dad in O’Toole’s in half an hour.’

‘What a coincidence. So am I. Eating there, obviously,’ he amended, ‘not meeting your dad.’ Sitting down beside Izzy, he reached over and scratched Babette under her chin, making her close her eyes and smile ecstatically. ‘Hello, Flirty-Paws,’ he crooned. ‘Have you missed me, Babushka?’

‘You’ve been away?’ Izzy asked.

‘Yep. Just got back yesterday.’

‘Where were you?’

‘New Zealand, Australia, Thailand. Where did you end up? I remember last time we met, you told me you were going travelling later in the year.’

Izzy was just about to tell a lie about not having been away anywhere, when she remembered that her dad had already told the Kinsella sisters that they’d taken a holiday to Thailand together; what would happen if Río twittered about it to Finn? So she took a deep breath, and said with affected casualness: ‘Oh, I was in Thailand too.’

‘No shit! Where?’

‘Koh Samui.’

‘Just south of me. I spent most of the summer on Tao.’

‘Nice.’

‘Very nice. Do you dive?’

‘Yes.’

‘To what level?’

‘Master scuba-diver.’

‘I’m impressed.’

For form’s sake, the question had to be reciprocated. ‘You–erm–you dive too, do you?’ asked Izzy, feeling ridiculous.

‘Yes. I’m a master instructor.’

‘Oh! So you certified while you were over there? Congratulations!’

‘How did you know that?’ asked Finn, looking puzzled.

Izzy thought fast. ‘Er–Mrs Ryan in the corner shop told me,’ she lied.

‘Oh God. I suppose my ma has been blabbing her mouth off all over the village about it. Even the dogs in the street will know by now. Did you know, Babushka? Did you know that Finn was now officially a fish?’ And taking both of Babette’s little ears between his hands, he started to tickle them, whereupon the dog looked as though she might swoon with rapture. ‘If you were in Samui, it would have made sense to get your arse up to Tao,’ resumed Finn, as Izzy cast around wildly for some way of changing the subject. ‘I actually had a close encounter with a
whale shark there–even got a photograph to prove it. Some of the best diving in Asia is off—’

‘Oh, look!’ said Izzy, abruptly. ‘There’s that film star. I
thought
I saw him on the beach earlier! I wonder what he’s doing in Lissamore.’

Shane Byrne had just come out of Ryan’s corner shop, and was standing shooting the breeze with one of the village elders.

Finn tore his attention away from Babette’s ears. ‘Oh,’ he said, dismissively
‘That
arsehole. Shane Somebody or other.’

‘Shane Byrne. There’s a feature about him in this month’s
GQ
magazine. Do you really think he’s an arsehole?’

‘Anybody who features in
GQ
magazine has to be an arsehole. He’s in some new television series, isn’t he?’

‘Yes. It’s called
Faraway.
I’ve seen a couple of podcasts, and he’s actually very good.’

‘Why don’t you take a photograph of him?’

Izzy shrugged. ‘I wish I could. I left my phone in Dad’s car.’

‘I’ll take one for you, if you like.’

‘Oh, would you? I’d love that! My mate Lucy’ll be
so
jealous. She got a picture of herself standing next to Johnny Depp once.’

‘Hm.’ Finn gave her a speculative look. ‘How about if you go one better?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘How about if you get a picture of Shane Whatshisname with his arm around you? I’ll ask him for you if you feel too shy’

‘You wouldn’t! Would you?’

‘Sure. But it’ll cost you. How much would you be prepared to pay for a picture of you in a clinch with this Shane Thingy?’

‘Um. Say–five euro?’ hazarded Izzy. Five euros would be worth it to see the expression on Lucy’s face.

Ten.

‘Seven fifty’

‘OK,’ Finn conceded with a shrug. ‘It’s a deal. How about if I ask him for an autograph, too? How much would that be worth?’

‘Um. Another five?’

Finn gave her a scornful look. ‘Get real, princess! Have you any idea how much autographs go for on eBay these days? You could double that, no problem.’

‘OK, then. How about twenty, all in?’

‘Done deal. Show me the money.’

Izzy reached into her bag and produced her wallet. Sliding a crisp twenty-euro note from it, she handed it to Finn.

‘Thanks, Isabella,’ he said, grinning at her and getting to his feet. Then he put his fingers to his lips and blew. The whistle could have stopped traffic. A couple of women gossiping on a doorstep broke off mid-sentence and Shane Byrne looked up from his conversation and raised an interrogative eyebrow.

‘Hey, Dad!’ hollered Finn. ‘There’s someone here I’d like you to meet.’

As Shane began to stroll down the street towards them, Izzy turned to Finn and gave him an incredulous look. ‘Is this some kind of joke?’ she asked.

‘No. He really is my dad,’ said Finn.

‘What? You’re telling me that an überdude like him just happens to be—’ And then Izzy remembered how Finn had signed her logbook in Tao: ‘Finn Byrne’. She clamped her hands over her mouth. ‘Oh. Oh God. This is totally embarrassing.’

‘What’s so embarrassing about it?’

‘I don’t know. The fact that he’s your dad is–it just makes things different. It makes me feel like even more of a tool.’

‘I wouldn’t worry. The novelty of being an overnight success hasn’t worn off yet. Sure, he’d love to have his photograph taken with a fox like you.’

There was no time for further protest. Shane was within earshot.

The film star greeted his son with a mock punch on the arm and a ‘Hey, Finn,’ before turning his attention to Izzy. She felt herself blushing as he looked down at her and said with a smile, ‘Introduce me.’

‘Dad, this is Isabella Bolger—’

‘Izzy,’ said Izzy.

‘Izzy,’ amended Finn. ‘And this is my father, Shane Byrne.’

‘Pleased to meet you, Izzy,’ said Shane.

‘Likewise.’

‘Izzy was hoping to get a picture taken with you, Dad,’ said Finn.

‘What? No, I wasn’t!’ The ‘Hello?’ look that Finn bestowed upon her obliged Izzy to backtrack fast. ‘I mean, I certainly didn’t mean to intrude or cause you any inconvenience…’

‘What’s inconvenient about posing with a pretty girl?’ asked Shane. ‘Fire ahead, Finn. Where do you want us?’

‘Against the sea wall would be good,’ said Finn, taking his phone from his pocket.

‘Like this?’ Shane slung his right arm around Izzy’s shoulders.

‘Yeah. That’s good.’ Finn took aim. ‘Smile, Izzy!’

Izzy forced a rictus smile as Finn happy-snapped away. ‘Good, good,
good!’
he exclaimed. ‘Hey, Dad, you’ve become a real pro at this. Izzy, d’you think you could look a bit more relaxed? Put your arm around Dad, or lay your head on his shoulder or something.’

Izzy cocked her head and smiled some more, hoping she looked carefree and spontaneous, and feeling like a klutz. As soon as Finn lowered his phone, she took a step backwards and said: ‘Thank you very much, Mr Byrne.’

‘Shane!’

‘Shane.’

Izzy practically genuflected in gratitude, and made to move away, but Finn stopped her in her tracks: ‘Hey! You’ve forgotten the autograph.’

‘Oh, it doesn’t matter,’ said Izzy, wishing she’d never made the stupid deal with Finn. ‘I don’t want to take up any more of your time—’

‘I’m a man of my word,’ said Finn, rummaging in his jacket
pocket and pulling out a crumpled flyer. ‘You paid me good money for an autograph, and an autograph you shall have. Here, Dad. Sign that.’

Shane produced a pen and was just about to sign, when Finn snatched back the flyer and said, ‘No, wait. I’ve a better idea. Hang on a minute.’ And he tore off up the main street, leaving Shane and Izzy looking at one another.

‘What did he mean, you paid him good money? I hope the little shyster hasn’t been fleecing all and sundry by promising them autographs?’

‘Oh, I’m sure he wouldn’t do that!’

‘I’m sure he would,’ said Shane.

A passing tour bus rumbled past, and Shane saluted the passengers, who were all plastered up against the windows, gawping at him.

‘You could become a tourist attraction. Do you come from Lissamore originally, Shane?’ Izzy asked, seguing smoothly onto another subject.

‘No. I was born and reared in Galway But I used to spend a lot of time hanging around here in my misspent youth. You’re from Dublin, right? Do you come down a lot?’

‘No. My dad would love to spend more time here, but it isn’t really feasible.’

‘I understand he’s thinking of selling up?’

‘How–how did you know that?’

‘Finn’s mother told me. You know each other, I think. Río Kinsella.’

‘Oh, yes. She and her sister had lunch with us yesterday.’

So. Río Kinsella was in all likelihood spreading the news round the village right now that the Villa Felicity was up for grabs at a bargain price, and that the garden was a shambles. And there Río was now, wafting into Ryan’s corner shop in her hippy threads, arm in arm with Fleur, doubtless looking forward to a good old yak. And then–yikes!–Izzy remembered that she had
told Finn earlier that the corner shop was where she’d heard about his certification, and–oh double yikes!–what if the shopkeeper
didn’t
know about it, and was just now hearing the news from the horse’s mouth, a.k.a. Río? And what if Finn was in there going, ‘But Izzy Bolger said she heard it from you, Mrs Ryan,’ and…oh God, oh God, this was awful–like an episode in an afternoon soap. How right Lucy had been that time she’d told Izzy that she tended to complicate things.

Shane was smiling down at her, and she remembered how, when she’d first seen his photograph in
GQ
, he’d reminded her of someone. She knew now, of course, that that someone was Finn. And she thought that she’d never seen a more attractive smile in her life, and she couldn’t help but return it.

And now Finn was back, brandishing a copy of
GQ.
‘Here, Dad–sign this!’ he instructed, before turning wicked eyes on Izzy. ‘A much classier option than an autograph on the back of a pizza parlour flyer, don’t you think? Although I’m afraid I’m going to have to add an extra six euro something to your bill. That rag is scandalously expensive.’

‘You
have
been charging people for my autograph, you little shit!’ said Shane, mock-punching him again, but this time more forcefully.

Finn looked injured. ‘Hey! What’s a man to do?’ he said. ‘I’m just back from Thailand, penniless after forking out all that money for my training and my kit. I’ve got to earn a few bucks somehow. I’ve a loan to pay off.’

‘Well, I won’t have you paying it off by suckering people.’

‘I only suckered Izzy.’

‘How much for?’

‘Twenty euros.’

Shane pulled a wallet from his pocket, peeled off a twenty, and handed it to Izzy. ‘Please allow me to apologise for my son,’ he said.

‘No, no, I can’t take your money!’

‘I insist.’

‘No,
I
insist.’ Izzy knew she was turning puce.

‘OK, then,’ said Shane, directing a black look at Finn and sliding the banknote back into his wallet. ‘In that case, you might do me the honour of joining me for a drink?’

‘Oh! I’d love that,’ said Izzy. She was suddenly feeling very glad indeed that she had accompanied her father to Lissamore this weekend.

Shane crooked an arm and extended it to Izzy, who linked it and beamed up at him.

Loping ahead of them across the road, Finn pushed open the door to O’Toole’s. ‘Mine’s a pint, Dad,’ he threw over his shoulder.

‘Get lost, buddy,’ said Shane. ‘I don’t drink with con artists. What’ll you have, Izzy? Champagne? Yes, of course you will. Michael! A bottle of your finest champagne, please.’

‘Finest?’ said the bartender, ambling in from the back room. ‘We only run to one brand.’

‘Whatever. I’m sure it’ll be grand. Take a seat, madam.’

Izzy hopped up onto the barstool he pulled out for her, and then Shane sat up on her right while Finn straddled the stool on her left.

‘Wouldn’t you love to have a shot of you and my dad quaffing champagne together?’ said Finn in an undertone. ‘Special price. Ten euros.’

‘Con man, hie thee hence,’ said Shane.

‘OK. I’ll hie off up to Dervla’s and put some new pics of you up on the internet.’

‘What pics?’

‘I got some great ones of you this morning while you were still fast asleep. I thought they’d come in handy for blackmail purposes.’

‘What are you on about?’

‘Well, you were snoring, so your mouth’s wide open and there’s some drool—’

‘OK, OK,’ said Shane. ‘You can stop right there, buster. Michael?’

‘Yep?’

‘Make that a bottle of champagne and a pint of Guinness, please.’

‘Coming right up,’ said the bartender.

Río was sitting at a table in the first-floor restaurant of O’Toole’s, gazing unseeingly at a menu, trying to ignore the sounds of laughter that came floating up from the bar below every time the door swung open. Shortly before eight o’clock, Dervla arrived.

‘Where are your beloveds?’ Dervla asked, kissing her sister on the cheek and sitting down opposite her.

‘They’re downstairs in the pub, slugging champagne,’ said Río, testily.

‘So why aren’t you down there, slugging champagne with them?’

Río looked around the restaurant and lowered her voice. ‘Because they’re with that spooky Isabella.’