by Karen Swan
‘Well done,’ she cried heartily as the runner approached, pen poised above her clipboard ready to record his time. ‘You’re doing great! Keep it up, number . . .’ She squinted to see as he drew closer. ‘Well, hello, number 69,’ she laughed. ‘Did you get that number especially?’
Bertie pulled to a stop and looped his arm around her waist. ‘What do you think?’ he panted. He was sweating heavily, his face pale rather than flushed. He reached in to kiss her. ‘Did I time it well?’ he asked, indicating how no one else was around to see them.
Ottie laughed as he swooped in to kiss her neck. ‘Oh, you have no idea!’ she giggled. ‘You timed it perfectly.’
Willow stared at the text, her hands feeling quivery as she reread the words over and over.
On consideration, I would be prepared to resubmit my previous offer of 2.75m euros. Please reply by return if interested. C. Shaye.
Two point seven five? It was far below the six million Hels had indicated to her. Far, far below. Out of sight below. He was having a laugh. No wonder her father had kicked him into touch. A low-ball offer was one thing but this was frankly insulting.
Offensive.
Ridiculous.
And what was it he had done – gazundered? Reduced his offer on the point of sale? Clearly he couldn’t be trusted. She threw the phone onto the bed and crossed the room, finger-tousling her dark hair angrily in the mirror. It shone in a way it never did in the city – the water was softer down here. She had some colour in her cheeks too – the onshore breeze always saw to that.
Her hand paused, mid-tease.
On the other hand, O’Leary had told her fixing the roof was going to cost half a million alone.
And the property market was dead.
And Brexit was a disaster.
And Hels had said six was ‘top whack’, ‘if they were lucky’, ‘with a following wind’, found ‘the right buyer on the right day . . .’
Probably five was the realistic number, four and a half if they wanted a quick sale.
‘Willow!’ Pip’s voice was loud, even with three-foot walls to penetrate. She typed quickly with her thumbs: Market list will be five but could be flexible on that if you can proceed immediately.
Before she could allow herself to hesitate, she pressed send, watching the screen to make sure the message went – then instantly regretting it when it did. She gave a nervous wince. She’d basically asked for almost double his offer when everyone knew what a bird in the hand was worth. She stared at the screen for another moment, feeling conflicted – angry, impetuous, reckless, defiant on the one hand; wary, hesitant, rueful on the other. She was out of her depth, that much was clear.
The minutes dragged and still the screen stayed dark. No doubt he’d shrugged at her crazy counter-offer and put his phone away. Whatever.
She bit her lip and tried to do the same, telling herself there wouldn’t be a quick fix to this. Seven-hundred-year-old castle estates didn’t get sold off the back of a single phone call and a couple of texts. This was business. They were discussing millions of euros. Like it or not, she was simply going to have to do this Hels’ way and be patient.
She grabbed her coat off the bed and was at the door when her phone pinged again.
If you can agree four, we have a deal.
Her mouth opened in amazement. He’d pay four million? Just like that? It was a third less than Hels had said she might get, but over a million more than his original offer. And for a speedy sale . . . She needed a quick, clean break, but this was almost surgical.
Her heart was pounding but she forced herself to slow down and take a breath. He was pushing hard, wanting to close on a deal without going through any of the usual preliminaries with her. Yes, he’d been here before with her father – he’d have had the particulars first time round, he’d know the intricacies of the estate and its relative merits and failings, they didn’t need to break new ground here. But . . . if he was this desperate to get it agreed remotely and quickly, then there must still be a little room for manoeuvre. Possibly?
She typed slowly. Was this greed or good business? Can’t agree four but can agree we’re close. Suggest we meet to discuss further.
She waited for his response, biting on her thumbnail anxiously. Come on, come on. Bite, man.
‘Willow!’ Pip hollered again.
‘Ugh,’ Willow groaned, doing a jig on the spot as she restlessly waited for his reply, knowing her sister was going to barge in here at any moment . . .
Fine, on the condition it stays off market and can proceed quickly. I’ll contact you next week. CS.
She squealed, slapping her hand over her mouth in delight. He’d tacitly agreed to four-something? Just like that, she’d made all their troubles go away? Pip had been sarcastic when she’d levelled the accusation at her the other night, but pragmatism had done what her father’s sentimentality could not: she had forged a path into the future. He had refused to sell on medieval principle to an Englishman who’d tried to undercut a deal, but she’d just kept it simple: Sell. To a Buyer.
‘Willow!’
Willow sighed.
‘Are you ready or what?’ she yelled.
‘What,’ Willow said with a sarcastic smile a moment later as she stepped out of her old bedroom and peered over the balustrades to find her sister lying sprawled on the bottom step, as though she’d been there for days.
‘Finally!’ Pip said dramatically at the sight of her.
‘How long have you been waiting for?’ Willow asked as she came down the stairs. She felt lighter than she had in weeks. No, years. She felt free.
‘Ages!’
‘Five minutes? Three of which you spent chatting to Mam?’
Pip rolled her eyes as Willow reached her. ‘Hmm. Not sure I’d call it a chat. She told me to drink responsibly and not stay out late – like I’m fifteen or something.’
Willow frowned as she looked properly at her sister’s outfit. ‘Is that what you’re wearing or are we stopping by the stables first?’ she asked with a wrinkle of her nose as she pinched the fabric of Pip’s shirt – it was one of their father’s old tattersalls, far too big on the shoulders and rolled up at the cuffs.
‘Is that what you’re wearing?’ Pip demanded back, pinching her leather trousers and making them squeak. They had been in the ‘emergency’ bag which Caz had packed for her – and which Hels had brought down – along with a sachet of her favourite whey powder and a surreptitious bottle of vodka with a Post-it note across the front saying ‘in case it’s all getting too much’. Pip laughed – her point made – shoving her little sister lightly as they wandered through the hall. ‘Bye, Mam!’ she hollered again. ‘We’re off now!’
They both waited a moment for a return shout but there was nothing. They looked at each other, flickers of concern in both their faces, before Pip shrugged and they walked out into the night. After the wild weather earlier, things had settled somewhat. It was still bitingly cold but the driving rain had ceased, at least for a while, and the gale-force winds had subsided into bad-tempered gusts. They climbed into Pip’s Land Cruiser and pulled away, the headlights shining up the grand formal drive, occasional rabbits pausing from their twitchy foraging under bushes to stare as they drove past.
‘You look chipper,’ Pip said, glancing over at her as they got to the gates and she checked for traffic.
‘Do I?’ Willow looked in the mirror and fussed with her hair for distraction. She wanted to tell her sister the good news, she really did – but would she see it as good news? Willow suspected not. Pip was only just getting her head wrapped around the notion of Lorne being put on the market. To hear it was almost a done deal already, that she had acted so decisively and swiftly . . . No, it was too soon. ‘I guess I’m just looking forward to having a bit of a blowout,’ she said instead. ‘Tough few weeks.’
Pip reached over and squeezed her affectionately on the knee. ‘Sure has been, kiddo.’ She pulled right onto the leafy lane, away from the villa
ge. ‘So how’s the Ultra been, do we know?’
‘The leaders are expected to finish about three in the morning, I think.’
‘Jeesht, mad nutters,’ Pip winced. ‘Who’d put themselves through that, running through the night?’
‘Search me,’ Willow muttered, searching her phone for her Spotify play list. ‘What d’you fancy? Indie list, Walk Like A Badass – hmm – or 90s dance?’
‘Dance, definitely. Let’s get some good tunes in while we can; God only knows what music Marie Mullane’s going to have lined up for us – Daniel O’Donnell on repeat?’
Willow groaned. It was true. Terry and Marie Mullane were their parents’ ages and though they might be amongst the richest people in the area, they were by no means the coolest. ‘Are we scooping up Otts too?’ she asked, hoping her voice didn’t sound odd. It had been days since she’d last seen her biggest sister. Since they’d learned their new fates, in fact.
‘Nope, she’s been stewarding the race all day. Started at crack of sparrows she said, and now she’s soaked and frozen and intending to binge Game of Thrones for the rest of the weekend.’
‘Has she still not seen that?’ Willow tutted. ‘My God, it’s like she’s living in the dark ages.’
‘Listen, you forget about our broadband out here,’ Pip said defensively. ‘It’s taken her almost a year just to download the damn thing.’
‘If you say so.’
Pip glanced across, as though detecting something in her tone. ‘Have you seen her lately?’
‘Nope.’
‘Yeah, not a surprise I guess. She’s been pretty flat out with all the race preparations. I saw Seamus earlier and he said it looks like Glastonbury for teetotallers over there.’
‘Sounds grim,’ Willow said, staring out into the darkness and feeling her momentary buzz begin to fade, ancient stone walls and skeletal trees rushing past the windscreen in a blur. Bunting had been strung up at the bus stop and laminated race arrows were fastened to tree trunks every fifty metres. A hand-painted sign pointing out Christmas trees for sale had blown over in the winds.
‘The clean-up will be, that’s for sure. It was a nightmare last year. As I said to her, Bertie Flanagan can’t keep just letting the event get bigger and bigger just to boost his profits,’ Pip tutted. Willow fidgeted on her seat at the mention of Bertie Flanagan. She hated the man. She knew exactly what he was. A liar and a cheat. ‘At a certain point he’s going to have to restrict numbers. The infrastructure can’t take it and, frankly, nor can the land. Can you imagine what that footpath’s going to look like after two and a half thousand ascetic maniacs have pounded along it in this weather?’
‘Nope.’
Pip glanced at her. ‘Well, you’d best have a look for yourself on Monday. You might be shocked – and it’s your problem now you’re the boss. You’re the one who’s got to find the cash to make the repairs.’
Only, she hadn’t. If there had been a dig in Pip’s words, she didn’t feel it, and a tiny smile flickered at the edges of her mouth again. ‘Okay then, I will,’ she replied lightly, resting her arm along the ledge and staring out of the window. She had just all but sold a castle. Was it real?
Pip gave a crafty wink. ‘Tell you what you should do – tell Bertie he’ll have to pay if he wants to use Lorne land in future. Dad thought about it often enough, but Ottie always talked him out of it.’
Willow felt another stab of jealousy at the casual way Pip talked about their father, her and Ottie’s daily discussions with him about the running of the place building a bond between the three of them she had never been able to forge. Willow may have inherited the estate, but it was Ottie and Pip who had come away with most – memories that could never now be replicated.
‘She told Dad it would affect their friendship,’ Pip continued, giving a scoffing bark. ‘As if that would stop Bertie if the roles were reversed!’
Willow glanced at her sister. Did Pip know what she knew? Did she know just how unscrupulous that man really was?
Pip gave a despairing sigh. ‘Yeah, Dad said, when push came to shove, he valued their friendship more than an opportunity to make a fast buck.’
‘Even though that buck was badly needed?’
‘You know Dad,’ Pip shrugged. ‘Always a softie.’
Willow looked out of the window, not trusting herself to hold her tongue. It was almost more than she could stand to hear her father had refused to take his slice from the friend who was not just profiting from his goodwill, but had betrayed him in the most terrible way possible. She hated that his secret was now somehow her’s. It burned her up.
They passed through sleepy villages and sped past dormant fields, the wind whipping through bare hedgerows, occasional badgers scuttling through the roadside undergrowth. Pip sang loudly – and badly – most of the way, trying to pitch herself into the party spirit (Willow knew her sister was a great believer in the ‘fake it till you make it’ principle), until eventually she heaved the car round sharply to the right and they turned into a drive marked by a pair of eight-foot-high red-brick pillars with scrolled ironwork gates. ‘Trelannon Manor’ was inscribed in gilt on a stone plaque set in one of the pillars.
Pip tapped the wheel in time to the music, head bopping to the beat as the electric gates automatically sailed open with a low whirr. They rolled slowly forwards, low lights either side of the drive lighting up like a Mexican wave as they approached, immediately dimming again as they passed by.
‘That’s mad, it’s like an airport runway,’ Willow murmured as they passed the post and rail fences, the paddocks behind them manicured and empty.
But Pip was quiet for once. Her chin was almost on the wheel as they drew closer to the house, a look of awe in her usually defiant eyes as they passed by the smart American barns where the horses were stabled. ‘Jeesht, would you look at that,’ she whispered, gaze on the spotless cobbles of the courtyard, the Mullanes’ logo picked out in a mosaic in the centre. ‘That’s when you know you’ve made it.’
‘Get you, fangirl,’ Willow said, wrinkling her nose. As far as she was concerned, a mosaicked logo in the stables was in the same bracket as a mosaicked dolphin in the swimming pool – but she thought better of saying it out loud. Mullane’s was arguably the most successful and prestigious stables in the whole of Ireland, and the pedigree of the horses kept here second to none. This was Pip’s dream and suddenly Willow understood why she’d been so keen to come along tonight.
They parked, the muddy, battered Land Cruiser standing out amongst the rows of gleaming Mercedes and Range Rovers, even a couple of Bentleys. Willow sent up a little prayer of thanks that she’d dressed up after all; seeing Pip looking dressed for a night at the pub had given her second thoughts back home, but her big sister didn’t break stride as she walked up to the house, eyes gleaming with bright ambition.
They knocked at the door, Willow looking around her as they waited for someone to open up. Would this be the sort of thing four-something million could buy her? It wasn’t to her taste, the perfectly cubed building dressed in a neo-Georgian style. It was all too neat and tidy; too shiny. Lead planters stood before decorative pillars by the front door, conifers clipped into smart twists and fairy lights threaded through the trees. Lights spilled from every single one of the floor-to-ceiling sash windows, as though sheer wattage alone could indicate the occupants’ wealth and power. But then again, maybe it could, given the level of high spirits coming from inside.
Pip rang again impatiently, just as the door was opened and Terry Mullane stood there wearing raspberry cords and a yellow cashmere sweater.
‘Oh good God,’ Pip muttered under her breath. ‘Terry, hi!’
Terry’s ready smile faltered as he registered them both: the recently bereaved Lorne girls. ‘Willow, Pip,’ he said, stepping out and placing a hand on each of their arms and squeezing them sympathetically. ‘You made it.’
‘We did,’ Pip said brightly, and Willow knew her sister was trying to ignore the pit
y in his eyes. ‘Thank you for inviting us.’
‘Nonsense. We were truly hoping you would make it.’ He peered over her shoulder. ‘Your mam?’
‘I’m afraid it’s still too early for her,’ she said quickly.
‘Of course, of course,’ he said looking pained. ‘Twas never expected.’
‘And Ottie would’ve come but she’s been working at the Ultra all day so she’s soaked through,’ Pip added.
‘Such hard-working girls, the lot of you. No wonder your dad was always so proud of you.’
Willow felt her smile freeze in place.
‘Listen, before we go in, I want you to know we were all set to cancel tonight, out of respect to Declan. He was a good friend.’
‘Joe told me,’ Pip said briskly. ‘And we’re glad you didn’t. Dad would have wanted it this way. You know how he loved a party.’
‘That he did! He was always the life and soul. It was such a terrible shock finding out he’d passed. We were in Dubai at the time.’
‘A successful trip, I heard,’ Pip said, and Willow could tell from the tone of her voice that she desperately wanted to move the conversation on. Pip and sympathy went together like orange juice and toothpaste ‘It’s been a helluva year for Mullane’s. We’re so pleased for you.’
‘Thanks, Pip, that’s kind of you,’ he nodded, seeming to get the point. ‘But come, you must come in. It’s freezing out here and there’s a party in there waiting to get started.’
‘It sounds like it’s already in full swing,’ Willow said politely as the door was opened again and the dulcet tones of Daniel O’Donnell drifted out. She swallowed her dread, wishing they hadn’t come. This was a mistake.
They walked into a marbled entrance hall, the black and white floor polished to a shine, an immense crystal chandelier glittering ferociously. A giant LED-lit blue Christmas tree stood in one corner, bedecked with silver and blue baubles.
Willow felt her heart sink further as she shrugged off her jacket. Daniel O’Donnell and V-neck jumpers did not make for a party in her opinion, and her leather trousers were suddenly feeling very risqué. No one batted an eye in Dublin, but glances were sliding her way like curling stones now. The black, nearly sheer blouse probably wasn’t helping either.
