A Taste for It

by Monica McInerney

  She had felt chilled to her heart, knowing in that moment it was over. She had driven in a daze to Gemma’s house.

  Her friend had taken one look at her face and pulled her indoors into a hug. “It’s about time you left him,” she had said firmly. “I’m not even going to attempt to be kind. God only knows how it lasted this long.”

  Gemma had soothed her, shielded her from Richard’s abusive phone calls, even given her work in her own small bistro. Then The Diner’s OzTaste review had had a devastating effect on their trade.

  Overnight the numbers had fallen and within a fortnight Maura had given Gemma her notice. She knew her friend was struggling financially and she also knew it was last on, first off. And she had also had a sinking feeling that Richard had somehow arranged the OzTaste review.

  Gemma snapped her fingers in front of Maura’s face, bringing her back to the present with a start.

  “Sorry, I was miles away,” Maura said, looking over at Gemma. “It’s weird, when I think about that time it’s like remembering someone else’s life, like I was my own silly little sister then, or something.” She tried to laugh.

  “I’d still like to give him a taste of his own medicine,” Gemma said. “But it looks like everything’s not wine and roses for him in London after all.”

  Maura’s interest was pricked, despite herself. “What’s happened? Last I heard he was the toast of the town. There was a whole segment on him on one of the radio food shows about six months ago.”

  “When he was at Dray’s?” Gemma named one of the hippest London restaurants.

  Maura nodded. The radio segment had featured the current vogue for Australian chefs in London and highlighted Richard’s rapid career rise as a prime example.

  “Well, it seem Mister Hillman got a little too big for his boots and a little too fond of the marinating wine, and he and Dray’s have parted company.”

  “Really?” Maura said, surprised. “They sacked him?”

  “Officially, no, and he apparently got work at another of the owner’s restaurants very quickly, but the word from my friend over there – and this is all hush-hush – is that he’s just too erratic, especially when the drink is involved. And maybe not just the drink.”

  Maura wasn’t surprised to hear it. Richard had been very fond of a drink when they had been together, and she’d seen a different side of his personality the times he had overindulged. It hadn’t been a nice sight. “So is he about to come slinking home, with his tail between his legs?”

  “I’ll let you know,” Gemma said. “Then you can sharpen your best knife, meet him at the airport and cut that tail right off.”

  “Gemma!”

  “No, really, it would be the perfect situation. You can cause a stir in Ireland just as he falls from grace, and then you can slip over to London and take his position. And I can stay here in country bliss and keep little old Lorikeet Hill bubbling along. Perfect.” Gemma took a determined sip of wine.

  Maura laughed. “You’ve got it all sorted out then? I’m not sure I can imagine you permanently in the country, a flash Sydney girl like you.”

  Gemma went solemn. “No, actually I mean it, and this isn’t just the wine talking. I’m getting a bit sick of Sydney. The business is doing well but, each time I come here, I just feel so much better and much more relaxed.”

  “Well, if I get snapped up by Terence Conran while I’m away,” Maura said, naming the famous London restaurateur, “I hereby bequeath my tiny four-ring stove and all my cracked plates to you, my friend.”

  Their glasses clinked again.

  Chapter Four

  Maura opened her eyes as the captain announced that her flight from Heathrow would shortly be arriving in Dublin. After a long and uncomfortable flight from Adelaide to London, and the flurry at Heathrow as she ran to make her connecting flight, she had fallen asleep almost as soon as she found her seat on the Aer Lingus flight to Dublin.

  Nick and Fran had seen her off at Adelaide airport, still laughing at her pale face. They had been decidedly unsympathetic when they had collected a quietly hungover Maura from her cottage early Saturday morning, in plenty of time for the two-hour drive south to the airport.

  Gemma had surfaced just at the last minute, coming out in her pyjamas to give Maura a big farewell. Maura had laughed to see her. “I can’t believe I’m trusting this reprobate in my kitchen, I must be mad,” she had said, shaking her head.

  The excitement had banished her slight headache by the time they reached the airport.

  “Just think,” Fran said, as they hugged each other goodbye, her pregnant stomach making it quite a feat. “Next time you’re here there’ll be three of us to meet you.”

  Smiling at the memory, Maura looked out of the window as the plane began the descent into Dublin Airport.

  So this is Ireland, she thought. She cast her mind back to her conversations with Nick, his urging of her to use her time here to continue her search . . .

  She half-expected her heart to begin beating stronger, or her skin to goosebump, or some familiar spirit to call through the ages to her. But all she felt for the moment was excitement about seeing another country and the trade trip starting at last. A sudden gap in the clouds beneath the plane allowed a glimpse of bright-green landscape. The travel books were right, she admitted. It was a different shade of green, like nothing she’d ever seen in Australia.

  She leant back against the seat, shutting her eyes again. She wouldn’t have a lot of time to get over any jet-lag. The cocktail party tonight was the start of the busy schedule. She was looking forward to that, not only because she’d be meeting Bernadette, but it seemed like such a celebratory way to start the trip.

  She had been through a lengthy immigration process at Heathrow Airport in London. But there didn’t seem to be any security check at Dublin Airport, just a broad smile from a man behind a desk, waving her through. Her baggage was among the first off the plane, so with a trolley loaded high, she moved out into the airport.

  Dozens of expectant faces looked up as she came through the door then fell in disappointment when they realised she wasn’t their visitor. Rita Deegan from the Wine Society had assured her in her final e-mail that she would be collected at the airport and taken to her hotel, so she dutifully found her way to the Meeting Point in the terminal.

  Twenty minutes passed and she was the only person left standing under the Meeting Point sign. She began to worry slightly that the plans had gone awry. Not that she minded too much – she had changed some traveller’s cheques at Heathrow and had an adequate supply of Irish punts. She was perfectly able to hire a taxi and she could see that there were plenty outside.

  She had decided to wait for just five more minutes when she heard footsteps running across the lobby and turned in time to see a young man running up to her, red-faced and with a worried expression.

  “Oh God, I’m sorry – are you Maura Carmody here from Australia?”

  Maura nodded.

  “I’m so sorry, I’ve kept you waiting, haven’t I?” the young man apologised again. “And there’s you probably exhausted after the long trip and dying for a long bath and a cup of tea or maybe a drink – this is hardly any welcome to Ireland at all, my name is Aidan by the way, you’re very welcome to Dublin, Miss Carmody. Céad Müe Fáilte, that’s Irish for a hundred thousand welcomes, and they’re better late than never!” His words poured out in a tumble, punctuated by a wide grin and a proffered hand.

  Maura grinned back, warming straight away to his accent and enthusiasm. “Thanks for the welcome, Aidan, it’s very nice to be here. And please call me Maura, not Miss Carmody.”

  “You’ll feel right at home here with a name like that,” Aidan spoke in a rush. “You look quite Irish too,” he added. “You must have some Irish blood in you.”

  “Me and a few million other Australians,” Maura said with a laugh. She almost ran to keep up with him. Coming out of the airport she gasped as the chill February air hit her. She pulled h
er coat in tight around her body. Aidan kept walking as fast as he spoke, reaching a car parked illegally just outside the main doors of the airport building.

  After settling Maura and her luggage into the car, Aidan kept up a torrent of chatter as they drove out onto the road heading into Dublin. Maura tried to take in the scenery around her. It was certainly greener than South Australia, and the road signs were in English and Irish, but she was amazed and slightly disappointed that her first proper view of Ireland didn’t immediately match up to her expectations.

  Though I was hardly going to see rows of thatched cottages and dancing maidens on the main highway, was I? she scolded her own imagination. Enya videos had a lot to answer for. She pulled her attention back to Aidan as he explained that his family had been wine merchants in Dublin for years, and still ran a wine store not far from where she would be staying in Dublin.

  “I’m actually studying for a marketing degree at UCD – that’s University College Dublin,” he added kindly, “but I’m working part-time for the Wine Society this year and finding out how the export markets work. You Australians seem to be leading the pack here in Ireland, it’s brilliant isn’t it?”

  Maura nodded, smiling at his enthusiasm. She was really looking forward to seeing bottles of Lorikeet Hill wine on sale in the shops here. Some of the other winemakers on this trade trip had been exporting for years, and would be blasé about their Irish sales, but she was thrilled at the prospect.

  She’d promised Nick she’d take a whole roll of photos of his wine at the different outlets around the country. He’d protested that it wasn’t worth the film, that a bottle of wine looked like a bottle of wine whether it was in Australia or Ireland or on Mars, but she knew that secretly he’d love to see it.

  Aidan was still chattering away. “Now are you exhausted after that long flight – what is it, forty hours or something, unbelievable, bring on time-travel I reckon – or will I take you for a quick spin through the city or perhaps you’d like to go straight to the hotel? There’s a cocktail party on tonight to welcome you and all the other winemakers but luckily it’s in the hotel where you’re staying so there won’t be any bother finding your way there. And it’s not until seven so you’ve about five hours to yourself if you want to have a look around. Anyway, I’ll leave it up to yourself.” He took a breath and grinned at her engagingly.

  She blinked, trying to remember what his question had been. “Maybe I should go straight to the hotel?” she said.

  “No problem,” Aidan smiled across.

  They were soon driving right into the middle of Dublin city, with Aidan keeping up a relentless stream of tourist-guiding anecdotes and pointing out landmarks at a rapid pace. Maura let most of it wash over her. She planned to explore the city as much as she could herself, on foot, with a guidebook to hand, the best way to see a new place. For the moment she was struck by the age of the buildings, by the crowds, even on a Sunday, and by the misty winter light that seemed to give everything a softer edge.

  “That park there’s called St Stephen’s Green,” Aidan said as they drove beside a big park enclosed in an ornate iron fence. “It was a gift to the people of Dublin from the Guinness family. Your hotel is just up here, the Shelbourne, one of the grandest hotels in Dublin, only the best for our Aussie guests.”

  As Aidan deftly pulled the car into a tight spot right in front of the hotel, Maura certainly felt very grand as two uniformed men came onto the pavement, one to take her luggage, the other to open the car door. She stepped through the ornate revolving door into a very plush foyer and immediately felt as though she had stepped back in time.

  Waitresses smartly dressed in black and white uniforms were bustling around a room to her right, in which small groups of well-groomed people were sipping tea and talking in low voices, all the while keeping a close eye on every new arrival.

  Maura followed Aidan and the porter to the reception desk where she gave her name to the smiling woman behind the desk.

  “Ah, Miss Carmody, part of the Australian winemakers group – you’re very welcome to Dublin. We’re very fond of Australian wine here in this hotel!” As she was handed her room key, Maura suddenly felt a wave of tiredness sweep over her. What she badly wanted was a shower and a change of clothes.

  Aidan noticed her sudden weariness and with a warm handshake headed off, promising to see her at the party that night.

  Her room was lovely, cosy and old-fashioned, and the bed looked very inviting. But she had read all the travel tips and knew the best thing to do was stay awake as long as possible until as close to the local bedtime as she could manage. She decided to shower and change, and go for a walk around the centre of Dublin to get her bearings.

  The rush of water felt lovely as she washed the grime from the flight out of her long hair. She shook out the formal dress she had bought especially for tonight’s function and was pleased to see the creases fall easily from the rich red fabric. She didn’t bother to unpack everything, but hurriedly pulled on a pair of her favourite jeans and a close-fitting floral shirt. Too impatient to wait for her hair to dry completely, or to use her hairdryer, she wound it up into a loose bun on her head, allowing a few tendrils to escape around her face. She’d pay for it tonight, she knew – her hair sprung into an absolute riot of curls if she didn’t dry it properly.

  Revived again, she picked up her long coat and set off down the stairs, passing several elegant women heading into a beauty salon. The foyer was full of little groups of people chatting or waiting for friends and she peeped into a tiny curved bar. She flashed a smile at the smartly dressed porter who once again gallantly held the door open for her.

  She stepped from the relative quiet of the hotel into a cacophony of traffic sounds. Cars, vans, buses, taxis and cyclists were speeding past. Maura joined the flow of pedestrians and quickly found herself at the top of Grafton Street, which seemed to be the main shopping area. It was teeming with people.

  She had been expecting the Irish accents but couldn’t believe all the other accents and languages she was hearing. It was like the United Nations on parade. She let the flow of people guide her route, avoiding the temptation of actually going into any of the shops, but making mental notes of inviting-looking jeweller’s and bookshops.

  Standing by a tall sculpture depicting Molly Malone and her cart at the bottom of Grafton Street, Maura stopped to catch her breath and check her guidebook. She had a list a mile long of places she wanted to see, and souvenirs she’d been asked to bring back. Waterford crystal for Fran. Irish poetry for Gemma. And Irish knitwear for herself.

  Enjoying a cup of coffee and a break for her exhausted feet at a sidewalk café she looked at her watch and realised she’d been walking around for almost two hours. If she didn’t hurry she’d be late for the function. As she stood up to make her way back to the Shelbourne Hotel, a wave of tiredness came over her again.

  She was looking forward to the party, knowing she’d get a second burst of energy once she’d showered and changed again. She’d met some of the other winemakers before at other industry functions in Australia. Some were terrific and down-to-earth, some not so down-to-earth. There was an old joke that had more than a ring of truth in it, she’d always thought. ‘What’s the difference between God and a winemaker? God doesn’t think he’s a winemaker.’

  Most of all she was looking forward to meeting Bernadette and setting off on their trip. Bernadette had assured her that their week driving around to the wine merchants in the west of Ireland wouldn’t be too strenuous – “One part hard work to five parts fun, my girl, that’s the secret of a good business trip.”

  And then the three weeks in Bernadette’s beautiful old country house would begin. It would be her first experience of teaching at a cooking school, and she was looking forward to it, especially knowing she’d have Bernadette’s back-up. She was particularly looking forward to the weekend restaurant nights. The ideas for menus of Irish produce cooked with Australian innovation had been crowdi
ng her head for weeks. She’d had to stop her exploring several times that afternoon to jot down an idea or two in the little notebook she always carried with her. Some of Lorikeet Hill’s most popular dishes had come to her suddenly like that. She and Bernadette could use the time spent in the car driving around in their first week to fine-tune the menu even further.

  * * *

  Maura pulled on the red dress. It was much closer-fitting than most of her clothes, but the deep rich colour and the soft fabric had made it impossible to resist. It was an off-the-shoulder design and showed plenty of her pale skin, and she dressed it up with a shimmering wrap in a richer shade of the same colour.

  She was certainly paying for her earlier impatience with her hair-drying – the curls were out of control. There wasn’t time to sort them out, she decided, quickly winding them back into a loose bun. She applied a dusting of powder to her face and a bold-coloured lipstick, finished with a quick spray of perfume, and decided she was ready.

  The invitation in her welcome folder from the Wine Society included directions to the function room, just a floor down from her bedroom. As she came into the corridor she was pleased to see Aidan just ahead of her. He gave her an admiring look, and a low wolf-whistle. “You’ll be the belle of the ball, Maura, well, the peach of the party at least.”

  He brought her into the party which was already in full swing. In seconds she had been introduced to the trip organiser, Rita Deegan from the Wine Society, before she was swept up into a flurry of quick conversations.

  Aidan introduced her to the other winemakers in the delegation. The couple from one of the Tamar Valley wineries in Tasmania had also arrived just that day, on a later flight, and they swapped stories with Maura on their jet-lag. Maura spoke briefly with the Victorian and Western Australian winemakers, who she knew slightly from the bi-annual Wine Expo in Melbourne. The final members of the party she recognised immediately –William and Sylvie Rogers of The Glen winery in New South Wales were well known in wine circles, their reputation far preceding their formidable presence.