‘I want a plasma TV in here too, Michael. For the nights when you’re not here.’
Maggie tried not to be judgemental but in the end could not help deciding there and then that over her dead body was she going to provide a hideaway love nest for the couple, which his wife would have no clue about.
The three young girls were up from Cork and were in first year in UCD. Nurses were one thing but students without accommodation a few months into the term another. God knows what they had done in their previous apartment!
The two guys were polite and easygoing and were very taken with the place, remarking on the stonework and lovely decor but after chatting to them for a few minutes Maggie realized she could rule out any possibility of them being potential husband material, as these two were most definitely not in the market for eligible females. They were nice guys but would only commit to a six-month lease as they were just killing time till their own new apartment in Stepaside was ready. The serious young single female lawyer with impeccable references who was entranced with the place seemed a very good prospect. The last applicant hadn’t appeared and she was fast coming to the conclusion that the young woman was her best bet as a suitable tenant. She was just about to phone her when the Scotsman finally made an appearance.
‘My flight was delayed,’ he apologized, ‘and then I got stuck in that awful traffic from the airport. I hope I’m not too late to see the place, it sounds exactly what I’m looking for.’
He was so enthusiastic that despite his being nearly two hours late she decided to show him round. She could see he was taken with the mews and asked her all about the restoration. He was small and thin and rather intense-looking with spiky black hair; he was wearing black jeans, a leather jacket and a T-shirt with the Red Hot Chili Peppers on it. Sarah had a poster of them in her bedroom. He looked more like a musician than a businessman but was definitely the arty type that appealed to her youngest daughter.
‘You should see the concrete box I’m staying in for the minute!’ he laughed. ‘I don’t know why anyone would build them like that. Give me a lovely old building like this any day of the week.’
‘I’m glad that you like it.’ Maggie smiled. ‘It was a labour of love restoring and modernizing it.’
‘I know I’ll be back and forwards to the office in Edinburgh regularly, but what I really would like is somewhere a little different to live during my time here in Dublin.’
‘The sockets in the kitchen will be replaced before anyone moves in,’ she promised.
‘Don’t bother on my behalf,’ Angus Hamilton said, his thin face serious. ‘I can do it myself. I’d probably like to connect up to broadband or wireless if that’s OK, and hook myself up to digital TV.’
She must have looked slightly baffled because he reassured her, saying that he had studied engineering before specializing in computers and designing software.
‘What do you do?’ she asked, curious.
‘I design programmes for computer games,’ he told her. ‘It’s a huge business. We work with animators and designers and come up with concepts and games that people want to play. We’re working on a game with leprechauns!’
‘Really?’
‘No, I’m joking, but it’s not a bad idea. Our company has offices here and in Edinburgh and I’ll be going back and forth between them.’
‘So it would be just you living in the mews.’
‘Yes.’ He grinned. ‘I’m on my own.’
That night as she sat watching the television Maggie weighed up the candidates. The thirty-year-old female lawyer Celine Heaney worked in one of the city’s smaller law firms and was busy studying at night for the Law Society exams in Blackhall Place; she certainly didn’t look the type to give wild parties. The charming young Scotsman seemed open and friendly and determined to enjoy his time in Dublin. Without a qualm Maggie decided on Angus Hamilton. The house was already far too full of single females. Having a man around the place again would make a very pleasant change and the fact that he was an eligible bachelor was a definite bonus . . .
Chapter Ten
Grace had endured a hell of a day. She’d discovered during a pitching session with a possible new client that projection figures prepared by a new junior colleague were almost two hundred thousand euros out. She was snowed under with work and her enthusiasm was getting her into trouble as she found it almost impossible to say no to any of the innovative and exciting projects that were coming her way: converting a derelict warehouse in the heart of the city into a contemporary restaurant and gallery space; designing a house for one of Ireland’s young rock gods; and coming up with an appropriate scheme for elderly tenants who were being rehoused in the Liberties. Her boss Derek Thornton had called her into his office only twelve days ago and told her that she was being considered as a junior partner: there was a solid block of support for her and the work she was now attracting to the company. She could hardly believe it but was determined to prove his faith in her ability.
It was good to get some recognition for her hard work, but since her chat with Derek she noticed that Shane had been a little bit distant in the office. It was crazy but at the moment they were both so busy with various projects that they scarcely had time to see each other. Shane had already cancelled going to the cinema tonight citing a deadline tomorrow.
After work Grace planned to go home, get into her pyjamas and veg out on back-to-back episodes of CSI, when her mother phoned asking her over for dinner.
‘I’m making mushroom risotto with parmesan,’ she coaxed, knowing well that it was Grace’s favourite meal in the entire world.
‘OK, OK,’ she gave in. She guessed it must get lonely for her mum at times with them all caught up in their own lives and careers. Since her dad had died it seemed as if her mother had only half a life. Her parents had been so close, a great couple, always together, talking and laughing and arguing and making up, mad about each other. Her mother didn’t complain but they all knew how much she missed him and how lonesome and sad she got at times. To lose the man you love must be the hardest thing.
‘I can’t stay too late though, Mum,’ she warned her, ‘as I’ve some work to do when I get home.’
‘That’s fine, Grace; I’m going to my book club meeting with Kitty later, at about nine.’
Pulling up on the square Grace couldn’t believe the amount of equipment around the place. There was a huge builders’ skip blocking the footpath outside the O’Connors’ old place. The workmen were gone, finished for the day, and she stopped outside the house, curious, trying to read the application notice attached to the gate. She hoped that they were not damaging the original door and architrave or the skirting boards. The planning application was for quite a lot of work and she wondered if some of it had already begun, which was technically illegal. Since the house was obviously empty she decided to take a look. She walked along the gravel path and up the granite steps. Leaning across the wrought-iron railing she stared into the front living-room window, noticing straight away that the magnificent Adam fireplace was missing. What kind of savage would take out one of the finest design features in the house and get rid of it! she fumed. God knows what else this new owner was doing to the place, she thought as she tried to look at the ceiling plasterwork.
‘Can I help you?’ asked a male voice.
Embarrassed, she turned around to face a man in a navy business suit carrying a laptop. Tall and heavy-set, his dark hair in need of a cut, he didn’t appear particularly friendly.
‘I was just having a look at the house,’ she said in her best professional manner, pulling herself up to her full height, aware that technically she was trespassing.
‘Everything is in order, I can assure you.’
‘I would hardly say that,’ she said frostily. ‘The magnificent Adam fireplace that was one of the house’s main features has been removed. It’s a disgrace.’
‘And you are?’
‘I’m Grace Ryan. My family live in number twenty-three.’
‘I’m Mark McGuinness, the owner,’ he said slowly looking her up and down as if she were the local nosy parker out snooping. He seemed to be mentally pricing her black work suit, expensive taupe-coloured shirt and Italian black soft leather shoes.
Grace cursed silently to herself. She was standing on his property and had most definitely crossed the boundary line of professional behaviour.
‘I’m actually an architect and I work in Thornton’s,’ she explained, seeing he was not the least impressed by her professional opinion.
‘I always use Linden O’Donnell,’ he replied. ‘They’ve worked on most of my projects.’
Nothing he could have said would have annoyed Grace more. Everyone in Dublin knew that Graham O’Donnell had worked for Thornton’s ten years ago, and had left saying he wanted to set up a more innovative practice, taking two or three major clients with him. His firm was now their biggest rival.
‘I’m curious as to why you would take out the fireplace and destroy one of the house’s best architectural features!’ she continued defiantly.
‘This is my house now,’ he reminded her, ‘and I can do with it what I want.’
‘But that doesn’t mean you can flout standard planning regulations,’ she argued, her temper rising.
‘Miss Ryan, I can assure you that no laws have been broken,’ he said. ‘While the house is listed, it doesn’t have a total preservation order on it.’
‘Are you telling me that you have dumped that Georgian fireplace?’
‘Relax, the fireplace is in good hands,’ he assured her. ‘There was a crack in it which I’m having repaired by an expert and then it’s going to be stored safely so no further damage can occur to it during the renovation.’
‘I see,’ said Grace, suddenly feeling very foolish. ‘I’m sorry, it’s just that I can’t stand watching these type of old houses being destroyed.’
‘It is not my intention to destroy anything,’ he replied angrily.
‘All I meant was that a beautiful old house like this is in need of a little TLC,’ she said, becoming ever more aware of his expensive suit, gold cufflinks and watch – and the amazing flecks of green in his brown eyes.
‘The house is a wreck!’ Mark McGuinness said flatly. ‘It needs a great deal of work – new heating, plumbing, wiring, part roofing and a kitchen, decent bathrooms and a proper master bedroom. And I’m putting a large extension on to the back.’
Why would someone like him buy a wreck of a place unless he intended making a fat profit on it!
‘I believe the investment will be worth it and should add substantial value to the property,’ he said, almost reading her mind.
‘Excuse me,’ Grace said politely. ‘I have to go. My mother is expecting me for dinner.’ She cringed, it sounded pathetic, as if she were some old maid going home to her elderly mother. What must he think! She could see the laughter in his eyes. Embarrassed, she tried to manoeuvre past him and escape.
‘Are you Sarah Ryan’s sister, by any chance?’ he asked, stepping out of the way.
‘Yes,’ she mumbled, wondering how on earth he knew Sarah. Her sister had never mentioned meeting him.
‘You would never guess that you two were sisters,’ he said casually. ‘You’re completely different.’
Grace reddened as it was clear which one he preferred.
‘Enjoy your meal,’ he said sarcastically as he turned away from her and began to open his front door.
Grace had worked herself into a fury by the time she found her mother busy listening to the news on the radio as she cooked.
‘That McGuinness man is so bloody arrogant and full of himself!’ she said. ‘He thinks he’s better than everyone else. He’s just storming ahead gung-ho stripping the O’Connors’ house and putting in everything new!’
‘It’s his house,’ her mother reminded her. ‘Detta and Tom had let it go to rack and ruin. You should have seen the damp patch on the back bedroom wall and the basement is full of an awful mould! God knows how Detta ever put a foot in it.’
‘I was talking to him outside and he’s so rude and unfriendly!’
‘Well, you two certainly got off on the wrong foot.’ Her mother was clearly puzzled. ‘I think he’s rather attractive and Sarah likes him too. He drove her to the Vincent de Paul shop in Ranelagh to get rid of the O’Connors’ old boxes and bags of clothes and stuff.’
Grace set the table for two as her mother talked.
‘He’s very eligible – by all accounts wealthy, and he’s single,’ continued Maggie.
‘Mum!’ she protested.
‘I’m just saying that Mark McGuinness is the kind of man a girl should be interested in,’ she said, passing her a plate of creamy risotto. ‘Maybe I should invite him to lunch or dinner here.’
‘Don’t you dare,’ warned Grace, knowing full well her mother was likely to ignore her.
‘He’s our new neighbour, after all, and we should make an effort to be friendly. Besides, he might enjoy a bit of company and it would be a chance for you and Sarah and Anna to meet him properly.’
‘Mum, we don’t even know if he’s going to move into the house yet. He could be planning to resell it in a year’s time.’
‘I doubt it, I see him in and out of the place most days and if you ask me he’s here to stay.’
Grace sighed. Her mother had turned into some kind of crazy Irish mammy obsessed with marriage and weddings and assessing men’s potential ‘husbandability’ as Sarah called it. All she wanted was for one of them to get married. She only hoped she wouldn’t set her sights on that awful McGuinness man for one of them.
The risotto was perfect, and Grace found herself having second helpings as her mother regaled her with the search for a new tenant, her worries about Oscar Lynch’s worsening arthritis, and the bloody awful book that they were reading at her book club.
‘We all hate it, it’s dire and depressing but very literary!’ she explained. ‘Still, we’ll argue about it, have a few glasses of wine and a bit of a chat after. Maybe you should think of joining a book club, Grace. It’s fun!’
‘Mum, I don’t have the time,’ she protested. ‘I never get the chance to read unless I’m on holiday.’
‘Then maybe you should make the time, Grace. Seriously, there’s more to life than work. If you wanted to join our book club I could ask the girls if they’d mind.’
The thought of sitting around with her mother and Aunt Kitty and their middle-aged friends discussing the kind of books they read filled her with horror.
‘Mum, I am not joining a book club!’
‘It was only a suggestion,’ Maggie said, starting to clear away the plates. ‘I worry about you being on your own and working so hard. You’re in Thornton’s all day and then you go home to that empty apartment. It must get lonely. I know you have a busy life and a wonderful career, but I do know what it is like to be lonely, Grace.’
‘Honest, Mum, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t get time to be lonely. And besides, you’re forgetting I’ve got a boyfriend.’
‘Of course you have,’ said her mother, raising her eyebrows slightly and barely able to mask the disapproval in her voice as she went to put on the kettle and make two mugs of tea.
Grace decided there was no point getting into an argument with her. Her mother had had it in for Shane ever since he’d missed that stupid Sunday lunch and Orla and Liam’s party. She had no idea of the pressure on a relationship when you both worked long hours and had so many commitments and project deadlines to meet.
By the time she returned to her empty flat an hour later, Grace had decided that her mother had in fact gone mad. Imagine wanting to invite Mark McGuinness to eat in their home! She was such a schemer. She’d phone Anna and Sarah and warn them what Maggie was up to. She checked her messages first, disappointed that there was no word from Shane.
And as for her mother’s suggestion that she was lonely and should join a book club . . . it was just daft. At alm
ost thirty years of age she certainly didn’t need her mother meddling in her affairs.
Chapter Eleven
Irina Romanowska started off the morning with a three-hour early shift in the Spar shop, near the estate where she lived, unpacking newspapers and milk cartons and bread deliveries as the first customers trooped in. Mr Delaney, the owner, was in bad form as he’d had a row with his wife. Irina made him a mug of tea and put an extra spoonful of sugar in it, hoping that it would sweeten him up so he wouldn’t growl at his customers or for that matter at her.
Afterwards, having taken off her blue and white uniform and fixed her short blond hair, she got the bus into the centre of town and then took the Luas tram to the stop near where Mrs Ryan lived. She had worked for Maggie Ryan since she had first come to Dublin, doing ironing and a bit of cleaning on Wednesday mornings. In the afternoon she worked in the Dunnes’ big house in Rathgar. She hoped that Caroline Dunne was out today as the thirty-two-year-old tended to follow her around checking everything and inspected her work every day before letting her go.
Mrs Ryan was in the kitchen and made her sit down and join her for a cup of tea before she started.
‘Did you have a nice weekend?’ asked the Irish woman as she passed Irina the jug of milk and a packet of chocolate chip cookies.
‘I worked on Saturday in Spar shop but on Sunday I was free.’
‘We all need our day of rest, Irina.’
‘I had a rest, because on Saturday night I went dancing and to the pub with my friends.’
‘Did you meet any nice Irish boys?’ quizzed Maggie Ryan, curious.
Irina shook her head and laughed. All mothers asked the same question. ‘My friend Marta said that there are no nice Irish boys, or maybe we just have not met them.’
‘I think sometimes my daughters might agree with you.’
Irina liked Mrs Ryan’s daughters. Sarah, the youngest, had a little girl called Evie, who sometimes came to play when she was working. She found Irish people were for the most part friendly and welcoming to strangers like her.
The Matchmaker Page 5
