by Eoghan Egan
‘Have your coffee first, Madeline.’ Dorothy poured tonic into her gin, eyes on Adam Styne propelling Madeline away. ‘Recherché. Is that a compliment or an insult, dear?’
Chapter 7
Sunday, 13 January
Morning
Breakfast in the Pavilion restaurant was a restrained affair.
Diners accepted they’d already squandered the day ahead. They shuffled forward for juice in a vain attempt to quench raging thirsts. Hugh glanced at the paper: record-breaking heatwaves in South Australia, record low temperature gripping America’s Midwest. Overnight, a tropical storm had battered Thailand. A double murder in Dublin West dominated domestic headlines. The Roberta Lord article was reduced to a single inch below-the-fold column on page twelve.
Outside, Ferdia strolled around the hotel gardens. Smoke circled from the cigarette clamped to his lips and hung above his head in the shape of a cartoon bubble. He was still wearing last night’s clothes, crumpled now, and minus the bow tie. Hugh joined him.
‘Did I insult anybody last night?’ Ferdia asked.
‘I’d bet you did. You didn’t come back to the room.’
‘Nah. Stayed up—’
‘Rock star lifestyle.’
‘—chatting people I haven’t seen in a while.’ Ferdia rubbed his forehead. ‘Christ, I’ve a headache and a hangover. Must’ve drunk my body weight in whiskey and beer, plus spent three month’s wages on a feckin’ vase at the auction. Haven’t a clue where I left it. Think I’ve something for thirst in the car. I’m parked over here.’ Ferdia searched underneath the seats, found a mineral can, yanked off the tab, chugged the contents in long glugs, and burped. ‘Ahh, nothing beats full-fat Coke to cure the after-effects of a rake of pints. Riddle me this: How come no matter how much drink I consume, I always start the next morning parched?’
‘Because,’ Hugh said, ‘alcohol decreases the body’s production of anti-diuretic … never mind.’
‘Thanks, professor. You’ve replaced the brain cells I drowned last night.’ Ferdia pushed the cigarette butt into the can and crunched the aluminium container into a ball. ‘Ended up chatting up a Kerry woman. Killarney. Melinda, Miranda, something like that. She’s either a meteorologist or a gynaecologist. Couldn’t figure out half what she said, the racket that band made. ’Twas loud enough to loosen teeth. She wanted me to … whoa, step outta this fella’s way.’ Ferdia pulled Hugh onto the grass verge as a dark blue 530d roared by. ‘Feck sake, take it easy,’ Ferdia shouted. He pointed an elbow at the departing car. ‘Wasn’t that yer man? The art dealer?’
‘Yeah. Styne. Adam Styne.’
Brake lights flashed, and the car swerved by a taxi on its way in.
‘Nice car,’ Ferdia said. ‘Span new. Won’t have it long if he keeps driving that way. Business must be good in the art world. That’s what you need.’
‘What?’
‘A new car. Get rid of that auld banger. Someday when you need it most, it’ll—’
‘Yeah, yeah. What were we saying?’
‘No idea. I’ll head across to Charlie for a while, then pick up Master David. Give Ciara a break.’
‘I’m going home. Oh, has Charlie said any more about the loan shark?’
‘Not a word,’ Ferdia lied.
The taxi pulled up at the main entrance. A porter wheeled out luggage. Sharona and Dorothy followed. Ferdia and Hugh helped load the garment bags and cases.
‘Wasn’t that a gas gig?’ Sharona whispered to Hugh. ‘What’d you make of Dorothy?’
‘Only met her for a second. Wouldn’t want to cross swords with her, though. She rushed off when Madeline Hattinger appeared.’
‘Don’t take it personal,’ Sharona said. ‘Dorothy suspects everybody at the moment. Her faith in human nature has taken a deep dive. Still, glad I got to see Hattinger’s up close. Wonder what Adam Styne classes as “ordinary houses with too much security.” He reminded me of my neighbour’s cat, the way she scrutinises and surveys everyone. What’d you make of Ambrose?’
‘A licentious—’
‘Lewd—’
‘Louche—’
‘Self-opinionated boor,’ Sharona finished. ‘A coarse man in an expensive suit. Consultancy work for “an attractive young girlie”. Yuk.’
‘Who’ll be in touch when they get to the nice fluffy bits.’ Hugh watched Ferdia hug Dorothy.
‘Fluffed up with his own importance. And Adam Styne?’
‘Hmm. Cold.’
‘Yeah and callous. His eyes pierce through you,’ Sharona said, picking at a smudge of mascara. ‘Hope I get home tomorrow.’
‘Keep me updated.’
‘Sure.’
‘Slán,’ Ferdia waved. He threw the soft drink can into a litter bin. ‘If we don’t talk in the next couple of days, Hugh, I’ll chat to you Wednesday in Mullingar.’
‘Exit interview. Yeah. See you then.’
‘Tell Kathleen I’ll drop in for a mug of tea during the week …’
Halfway home, Hugh’s phone rang. He didn’t recognise the number.
‘Hello?’
‘Can I speak to Anthony?’
‘Sorry, wrong number.’
‘Is that 0865312 …?’
‘Yes?’
‘Anthony Harte?’ the voice asked.
‘Anthony Harte? He’s … was my grandfather. He’s dead. What’s this about?’
‘Garda Flanagan, here. Ganestown Garda Station. Sorry to bother you. Kathleen Fallon gave us your number as next of kin. Anthony Harte’s—’
Hugh’s blood froze. He rolled the car onto the hard shoulder, wheels crunching through packed slush, and slammed on the brakes. ‘I missed that. Say again? Kathleen Fallon’s my mother. Where—?’
‘It’s all right, sir. Mrs Fallon’s fine. An hour ago she parked her car in the middle of Main Street, locked her vehicle and walked off. Caused a minor traffic disruption. Took us a while to locate her in Meadow’s supermarket. Appeared disorientated, so we brought her to the hospital as a precaution.’
‘My grandfather was Anthony Harte. Her father … I don’t remember him; he passed away, God, twenty-five years ago.’
‘Has this happened to your mother before?’
‘Not to my knowledge. But she’s,’ Hugh hesitated, ‘got Alzheimer’s, and—’
‘Well, I’d say that’s the end of her driving. We towed the vehicle here. Can you pick it up?’
‘I’ll organise it after I’ve visited the hospital.’
‘Take your time. No rush.’
Hugh’s head swam. Guilty feelings burrowed into his brain. His throat tightened, making it difficult to breathe. He’d made a massive error of judgement. The doctor was right. He should have listened to and heeded the professionals, instead of railing against them. His mother could have crashed or caused a fatal accident. Hugh gunned the Lexus back on the motorway, the car fishtailing. He powered out of the skid and rocketed on to Ganestown.
Mid-Morning
Adam Styne drove through Ganestown and checked out the jewellery shop.
He’d allowed himself extra time to inspect potential restaurants for a follow-up date with Ciara. Two fitted the criteria: the Malaya and Via Leoni Ristorante, both located on the outskirts of town and neither had CCTV. He guessed she’d pick the Malaya.
Styne parked on a side street, fed a parking meter, wrapped a cashmere scarf around his lower face and walked to Gambadini’s. Inside, he kept the scarf around his face and asked for a seat near the entrance. His phone bleeped an incoming text. His heart sank.
Texting to say she can’t make it.
Adam, Paris flight cancelled.
Next one’s scheduled for Wed.
I’ll stay in Kilcormac until then.
M.
He deleted Madeline’s text, switched the phone to silent mode, and waited.
He recognised Ciara when she walked in. Refined. Much better looking than her profile shot. Her walk was brisk and confident. Pushed back shoulders exaggerated he
r breast size. The gym workouts were effective, he noted, his sweeping glance taking in the designer jacket, a capacious bucket bag and … were they Marni earrings? The total package suggested a liberated woman. He’d met dozens identical to her over the years: slags, who dressed in the latest fashion and worked their bodies to manipulate and distract male counterparts if they weren’t getting their way. He stood, lowered the scarf and smiled. ‘Ciara?’
‘Maurice?’ Ciara’s cheeks flushed. ‘Nice to meet you at last.’
‘Pleasure’s mine. It feels as though we’ve crossed paths before. What’s your surname?’
‘McGuire.’
‘McGuire? I heard that name recently. Mmm, doesn’t matter. Mine’s Piper.’ Adam pulled back Ciara’s chair, paused the conversation while she removed a jacket.
‘Ta.’
Adam was aware of Ciara’s covert appraisal. He spotted the waitress moving towards them, and used a handkerchief to hide his features while the waitress filled water glasses and rhymed off lunch specials.
First impression.
Vigilant after last night’s phone call, he made a conscious effort to relax his features and let the smile reach his eyes. He adjusted the shirt cuffs a fraction, let Ciara glimpse the Patek Philippe watch. She recognised it. Adam noticed the tension seep away, as his date moved the dial on her intuitive radar to “low.” He drank in the woman’s facial features, smelled her perfume—a combination of the gingery sweetness found in wildflowers, with a trace of coconut. Her self-conscious smile showed vulnerability, and the familiar trickle of expectancy swirled at the base of his spine. He waited, gave Ciara space to decide how she wanted to begin. The flush in her cheeks diminished. The waitress stood, pen poised.
Ciara said: ‘Quiche and salad, please.’
‘Salmon, please,’ Adam added and coughed into his handkerchief.
Ciara sipped water.
Adam copied.
‘Do you have business in this area?’ Ciara asked.
‘Yes, one of my people meets with the jeweller a few times a year.’
‘I didn’t mean you to drive especially—’
‘Dublin’s no distance now with the motorway. I’m glad to be here. Appraisals completed?’
Ciara laughed. ‘The groundwork’s done, but I’ve lots more paperwork.’
‘Ah, the dreaded paperwork.’ Adam’s eyes crinkled. ‘What area do you work in?’
‘Human Resources.’
‘So you’re involved in every evaluation?’
‘Yes. Bi-annually, for my sins. Those appraisal phrases you gave me will be useful next week.’
‘You’re welcome.’
‘Now’—Ciara smiled—‘I’ve to come up with suitable terminology for the not-so-notable performers.’
‘Hmm, how about: failed to, needs to demonstrate, has not made use of, must establish, unwilling to, avoids—’
‘Wow, that’s good from the top of your head.’
‘Result of a Trinity education.’
‘I’m impressed. I’ve made a mental note,’ Ciara said.
‘But you enjoy the work?’
‘It has its moments. I’ve excellent staff.’
‘So you’re the manager. A Head of Function.’
‘With the salary of a temp.’ Ciara tossed her hair back and leaned forward, inhaling the rich woody scent of Adam’s aftershave. ‘Do you find the constant travel draining?’
‘It’s part and parcel of my job.’ Adam topped up water and mimicked her pose. ‘Trips include an airport, a conference room and return to airport. It can become monotonous.’
Ciara rubbed the milky-greenish opal on her finger. ‘Travel, they say, broadens the mind.’
‘Indeed. I admire your ring, Ciara. Opals are most effective in contact with air and skin humidity.’
‘Oh?’ Ciara moved her hand, highlighting the stone’s colours. ‘I wear it because I love how it shimmers. Also, it gives me a sense of security.’
Adam reached out, touched the gemstone. His finger grazed Ciara’s skin. ‘Opals contain water, so they get brittle over time, and the colour fades. It’s normal.’
‘I’m so used to looking at it, I don’t know if it’s lost sheen.’
‘If you’re not wearing it, I suggest you place it in an airtight container with a damp piece of cotton. That prevents it from drying out. Or a jeweller can revitalise it if the stone gets dull or scratched.’
‘What’s the most expensive opal you’ve handled?’
‘I saw a black one in Antwerp last year. The price could have purchased a medium-sized island in the Indian Ocean. Sorry, Ciara, I promised myself not to mention work.’
The waitress arrived with food.
Adam sensed Ciara relax. The aftershave helped caress and lull her senses.
She wants to believe and trust. This’ll be easy.
‘Can I offer you a glass of wine?’ he asked.
‘No, thanks.’
‘You wrote in one of the mails that you’ve travelled extensively,’ Adam said.
Ciara nodded. ‘America. Hmm, this is delicious. I wanted to spend my life in San Francisco, but when I got pregnant, I moved back to my roots. My employer advertised for an HR manager in Ganestown, so it was a painless decision. I told you about the old cottage I bought?’
‘Yes.’
‘Twelve kilometres from here. Two minutes to school. Fifteen-minute drive to work. No traffic jams. Perfect.’
‘Was it easy to adapt after the frenzy of San—?’
‘I miss some things. However, Ireland has its advantages. I’ve got amazing friends and a fantastic family that’s prepared to help out. After the initial upheaval, it was an easy adjustment.’
‘Yes. It’s essential we have a support hub to fall back on. A contingency.’ Adam sipped water, waiting for the personal questions.
Ciara put her knife and fork on the plate, patted her lips with a napkin and placed a hand under her chin. ‘So, Maurice, when did you get married?’
He leaned back, stared at her, unblinking. ‘I’ve never married.’
‘Just testing. Where were you born?’
‘Tipperary. Between Cashel and Thurles.’
‘Brothers or sisters?’
‘I’m an only child.’
Ciara frowned. ‘Oh? What does your father do?’
‘He owned a jeweller’s shop in Thurles. He’s dead.’
‘You didn’t take over?’
‘Too slow for me.’
‘How long since your relationship broke up?’
‘Over a year.’
Ciara sipped water and looked over the glass rim. ‘How long were you together?’
‘Four years.’
‘Children?’
‘No.’
‘You didn’t want children?’
‘I did.’
‘She?’
‘No.’
‘Was that the reason you broke up?’
‘Somewhat, but not … well, why do any couple separate? Incompatibility, I guess. We grew apart. She went her way.’
‘What was her way?’
Adam remembered to flash a grin. ‘You’re very personal.’
‘You don’t have to answer.’
‘I can see you are good at your job.’
‘Yes.’ Ciara waited, eyebrows raised.
Adam leaned forward, made sure his hands stayed away from his face, and his eyes remained above Ciara’s neckline. ‘After our relationship broke up, she moved to Paris and, I presume, got on with her life. There’s no contact between us.’
‘What caused the breakup?’
Adam made a face. ‘People change. Not to suggest that I’m faultless. Nobody is. But work pressure …’
Ciara listened. Said nothing. Wanted more.
‘It takes two to cement a relationship,’ Adam added. ‘There was a lack of communication on both sides. I’m convinced my soul mate’s out there, but I’d prefer to be alone and content …’ he gazed into Ciara’s eyes, ‘… t
han be in a relationship and miserable. It’s difficult to form a connection when I’m away so much, but I believe in integrity and commitment, and the business trips won’t last forever. I joined the site two weeks ago, so I’ve just dipped my toe. You’re the first person I’ve met. I enjoyed the directness in your emails and our chats.’
Ciara nodded.
I can tell by the positive vibes and body language I’m getting through.
He wondered how many dates it would take to replicate Isobel Stewart’s demise.
Must buy lime. Need gloves too.
The waitress approached with dessert menus.
Ciara checked the time on her mobile. ‘Goodness, I’m sorry, Maurice. I’ve to pick up my boy.’
‘Oh? Are you sure—?’
‘I’d love to continue this chat.’ Ciara pushed back her chair. ‘Apologies for the rush. I enjoyed lunch, but I’ve got to go. Thank you.’
Adam paid and held Ciara’s jacket while she slipped her arms into the sleeves. ‘Will you say yes to a dinner invitation? The Malaya, or Via Leoni Ristorante? During the week if it suits? Or next weekend? Friday or Saturday?’
‘Ooh, a man of taste. I’ll get back to you.’
They walked outside.
‘Friday, perhaps?’ Adam asked again.
‘It’s been ages since I’d a night out.’
‘Or would Saturday suit better?’
‘I can understand why you’re involved in sales. You don’t give up, do you?’
‘Only when it’s something I want.’
‘Next weekend sounds great, Maurice, barring any unforeseen circumstances on the home front. I haven’t eaten Malaysian in ages.’
Knew it.
‘If you wish, I can collect you. That way, you can enjoy a drink and not worry about getting breathalysed.’
Must buy a Bach CD. It’ll help lower her reserve.
Ciara pursed her lips. ‘Or I could call a taxi.’
Too pushy.
Adam reined in. ‘Of course. You decide what works.’
‘I will.’ Ciara halted beside a red Nissan. ‘Oh, one other question.’
‘Yes?’
‘What play did you see last night?’
‘Pardon?’
‘Gaiety Theatre? You took clients, remember?’
Styne hesitated, forced a laugh. ‘You have me there, Ciara. It’s slipped my mind. I have the booklet …’ He fished through an inside coat pocket. ‘No. Must be in the car. I can’t remember the name …’
