True Colours (8 page)

Usually, Alex arrived home from work, she set herself up in the kitchen, a glass of wine at her side, as she pulled together the events of the day, making notes on her meetings, getting the last of her work over and done with so she that could spend what little was left of the evening relaxing, curled up in front of the TV or reading a book. But not tonight. Tonight, her heels clicking on the polished wooden floors, she headed straight up the narrow stairs and into her bedroom at the back of the house. Slipping off her jacket and tossing it onto the bed, she pulled out the tails of her linen shirt, kicked off her shoes and reached for her black velvet track pants and sweatshirt. She pulled out the band tying her ponytail. Right now she needed to relax and unwind.

As she unbuttoned her shirt, she took a moment to look out the tiny sash window and down at the wild garden that hung on the edge of the hillside before falling away to the sea. The water was boiling around the rocky outcrop of a beach below, the crescent moon already high in a sky filling with an invading army of heavy cloud. Alex couldn’t remember whether she’d heard the weather forecast, but it looked stormy, the wind whipping the unkempt rhododendron and wild buddleia at the end of the garden into a bizarre dance. Waving or drowning? Running her hand through the strands of hair that had escaped her ponytail, pulling at the roots, Alex sighed. Was she waving or drowning? She wasn’t sure, but at least she was home.

It had taken her a while to find this house in the picturesque seaside village of Dalkey, ideally located only thirty minutes from Dublin city centre. From the moment Senor Marquez had called with the news that he was retaining Impromptu to design the Cultural Institute, she’d started looking for somewhere suitable to stay. She had considered hotels and apartments, but after she had got the call about her father’s accident, a house seemed a more sensible, more economical proposition in the long run. She knew she needed a property on the DART train line, needed the freedom to leave her rental car at home if she had a meeting in the city. She wanted to spend as much time as possible with her dad, rather than wasting time sitting in traffic jams.

From the moment she had started clicking on the McKenna and Co website, and spotted the two-bedroom house, it had seemed perfect. Sitting in her office in a very cloudy Barcelona, she could almost hear the chill waves of the Irish Sea breaking on the shore behind it, the birds calling through her open bedroom window each morning. Wonderful.

In her parents’ tiny cottage on the estate in Kildare, she’d woken up every day to a cuckoo heralding the dawn, joined by blackbirds and thrushes in a cacophony of sound that you couldn’t hope to sleep through. Not that she’d slept much that last summer, her mind and body awakened by much more than birdsong. She adored her apartment in Tarragona, its thick plastered walls rising from Roman foundations, but she missed the Irish songbirds, found herself grateful for the sound of pigeons cooing on the rooftops, their soft calls like the overhead conversation of old friends.

In Dalkey, as the letting agent had shown her around, the wood pigeons welcoming her enthusiastically from the top of the chimney, Alex had known for sure that this was the house for her. With its tiny front garden bordered by a low whitewashed wall, the tangle of wild roses, their blowsy heads magenta against the baby pink walls of the house, it had wooden floors, a warm reclaimed pine kitchen with a huge refectory table and an Aga; a log-burning stove in the living room, bright rag rugs flung between the mismatched squishy sofa and two formal wing-backed armchairs. A perfect place for her to hide out in peace after a busy day on the road, and a perfect place for her father to convalesce.

Thoughts of her father brought Alex back down to earth, to reality, with a bump.

Stripping off her shirt, pulling her sweatshirt on over her head, shaking out her curls as she retraced her steps to the kitchen, the fridge, and a large glass of Chardonnay. As she sloshed the wine into the glass, her mind focused on her dad, on St Vincent’s Hospital and, more importantly, on exactly what they were going to do when he came out of hospital. He’d hardly be able to go back to work.

He was on sick leave at the moment, but Kilfenora needed a gamekeeper who was fit and healthy and able to manage the estate and its workers, and from what the doctors had implied, Tom Ryan’s knee was going to be dodgy for a long time, if indeed he ever recovered completely. Plus it was spring, one of the busiest times on the estate. The sheep would be lambing soon; after that they would need dipping and shearing – hard physical work where everyone was expected to lend a hand. The shooting season would be underway before they knew it; someone had to settle the chicks into the rearing pens, check them every night, ensure the foxes were kept out and that the valuable birds were kept disease-free and healthy until they were fully grown when the season began in November. Who would organise the beaters? Take the guns up to the shoot? Spend the day managing the corporate eejits who paid through the nose for a day’s activity, their kills more often than not bagged by her father and his men? Alex knew Tom hated to see a bird wounded by a bad shot – like every sportsman he ensured that the injured birds winged by the paying guests were tracked down and killed cleanly. But that took a lot of time, sometimes requiring his staff to spend hours trudging across the estate with their dogs searching for the injured birds.

Deep down, Alex knew her father could never go back to work in his previous capacity, and what use was a part-time gamekeeper with a limp to Lord Kilfenora? Deliberately stopping short of dwelling on Sebastian’s notoriously tough grandfather, Alex swirled her wine around her glass and took a large sip. It was time her dad faced the issue of retiring seriously this time. But how on earth would he cope without work? And, more importantly, where on earth was he going to live? The cottage he’d called home for almost twenty years was tied to the estate. If the job went, so did the cottage. And with property prices the way they were in Ireland, his army pension and savings wouldn’t be sufficient for him to be able to buy anything anywhere near the estate, near the friends he had made since he’d begun working there. The rent on this house in Dalkey would be too high for him on his own when she went back to Spain. Alex took another mouthful of her wine.

There was one obvious solution: persuade him to go with her, move to Spain, live with her until he found somewhere of his own nearby. Pulling a stray curl behind her ear, Alex grimaced at what she knew would be her father’s reaction. She could hear his objections now: he didn’t speak Spanish; didn’t know anyone in Barcelona, or Tarragona for that matter; and the English speakers who were already there, ex-pat Brits, weren’t his idea of company, wouldn’t know how to enjoy themselves if you gave them a numbered guide.

Leaning on the kitchen counter, Alex refilled her glass. This house was ideal; it would do them both for a while. There was a study on the ground floor that could be converted into a bedroom, a shower in the downstairs bathroom, plenty of space in the kitchen and conservatory ideal for two. With thoughts of the size of the house and how they would manage jostling for attention, Alex suddenly realised she was starving. She knew she’d better eat something before she had any more wine; otherwise she’d wake up with the headache from hell.

Ten minutes later, a saucepan of fresh pasta bubbling on the stove, Alex leaned back against the counter again and took a long sip of her wine; it was hitting the spot, just what she needed to loosen her up. What a day. For the first time since she had come face to face with Sebastian that morning, she felt safe, secure, the tension in her shoulders dissipating but leaving behind a dull ache, a reminder, if she needed it, of everything that had happened.

Everything.

Lord Kilfenora’s rugged scowl materialised before her, his cut-glass British public school accent echoing like a foghorn through the mists in her mind. Damn him. Even here she couldn’t get away from him, couldn’t get away from the grip he had on her life. Her hatred rose like bile, knotting her shoulders all over again. Determined not to let it get the better of her, she put down her glass with a crack and hauled open the freezer, grabbed a handful of frozen peas and slung them into the saucepan with her pasta. She watched the water calm and swirl for a while, before it began bubbling again. Just like her life – periods of turmoil punctuated by periods of stasis. She should have known her life in Tarragona was too good to be true, that things were going just a little too smoothly.

In the sitting room Alex reached for the TV remote. Pulling one foot in underneath her, she sat back on the worn navy sofa resting her dinner on her knee, trying to lose herself in a repeat of Friends. No good. As she twirled her fork through tangled strands of tagliatelle liberally dusted with black pepper, a knob of butter melting over them, she could feel the dull ache of worry growing, not helped she was sure by the pasta. It was really too late to eat. Too late for a lot of things. Like apologies. Like turning back the clock. Like telling Sebastian Wingfield she was too busy to take on his job. She ran her hand over her face, pulling her hair back, twirling it around into a knot at the nape of her neck. The truth was they needed the work, weren’t in a position to turn down anything in Ireland. They were investing a huge amount of money in opening an office here, and after all their hard work over the years, Alex couldn’t afford to let the business suffer because of a glitch in her past.

A glitch? What an understatement.

Suddenly, her phone rang. For a second, the sound didn’t register, then realising what it was, she leaped off the sofa cursing and dived for the kitchen counter where she’d left it. Despite her best intentions, she’d completely forgotten to phone Marina back.

‘
Alex, how are you? I was worried.’ At the sound of her Spanish accent, Alex suddenly longed to be back in Tarragona, sitting at a table in their favourite restaurant eating tapas and tiger prawns laced with garlic straight from the oven, still bubbling in a round terracotta dish.

‘
I’m grand, just had a long day. I was going to call you.’ Forcing herself to sound upbeat, Alex twiddled with the ties on her sweatshirt as she continued, ‘I’m only in from the hospital.’

‘
How’s your papa?’

‘
Better I think, definitely much better. They’re talking about letting him out next week.’

‘
Ooh that’s great Alex. And you’ve found a nurse for him?’

‘
I’ve found an agency who can supply someone part time – they’ll be able to change his dressings every day and make him a cup of tea. He’s going to go nuts if he has someone fussing about him much more than that. He’s putting on a brave face, but the nurses are driving him mad in the hospital. He’s used to his space.’

Marina laughed; she’d met Tom Ryan several times when he’d visited Barcelona, and knew exactly what Alex meant, ‘The nurse you find will need to be very thick-skinned. Have you thought about getting a male nurse? Someone he can do the crossword with and talk about the rugby?’

Alex couldn’t resist a smile. She knew it was a stereotype, but the few male nurses she’d met had all been ‘rear gunners’ as her dad would have put it; she could imagine the fireworks now. ‘I’ll ask them. I’m going to interview whoever they suggest early next week.’

‘
Very sensible. I’ve been in touch with a couple of recruitment agencies to see if we can get someone to help you out as soon as possible. I’ll narrow it down and email you the CVs; you won’t have time to do any of that.’ Alex could hear a note of excitement building in her voice. ‘I got a fax from Venture Capital this morning. Jocelyn was very impressed with you. They want you to start immediately.’

Alex knew the fax was just a formality, legal confirmation that the contract was theirs. She cleared her throat, ‘they want preliminary ideas by Monday.’

‘
Good God, that only gives you the weekend, and…’

Alex interrupted her, trying to sound reassuring, despite her stomach tying itself into a knot that would have held a liner securely to a quay. How was she going to face him after that kiss?

‘
I know, they want the colour scheme to reflect their corporate colours, so that takes the pain out of it. And I was at the fabric wholesalers this afternoon. I’ve got some really strong samples, florals and geometric prints. I’ve already got carpet samples for Senor Marquez, so I don’t have to traipse about collecting them. I’m sure they’ll go for a neutral colour scheme. I was thinking cream with aubergine maybe with some navy highlights. I’m going make up some mood boards on Sunday.’

‘
You mustn’t work too hard Alex, you must leave time for yourself you know.’ Marina paused, saying brightly, ‘At least you’ll have more time to do the apartment.’

Alex was about to reply, but stopped as panic flared in her chest – was there another project she had forgotten about, her mind so occupied with her personal problems? Rapidly back-tracking through their last meeting in Barcelona, through her last meeting with Senor Marquez, she couldn’t think of anything. So what on earth was Marina talking about?

‘
What apartment?’

‘
The Venture Capital MD’s apartment. What is he called?’ Alex could hear Marina searching through her file for the fax, knew the answer before she said it, ‘Wingfield, Sebastian Wingfield. Jocelyn said in her fax that they want us to include it in our quote. He’s getting married at the beginning of June but he wants to surprise his fiancée, so the actual work needs to be carried out while he’s away on his honeymoon. He’s going to discuss the details with you at your next meeting.’

For once Alex was lost for words.