Chapter 9
9
Margaret and I hurried down the stairs to marvel at Brigit’s radically short blonde hair. “I cut it myself, it’s a mess.”
“No, it’s iconic!”
Her dropped-crotch leggings were “Sully’s old GAA tracksuit bottoms.” And her bouncy yellow clogs were “Made of sugarcane, I got them in Mumbai.”
“You’re amazing!” I declared. “As always.”
Only then did I realize Brigit was atypically subdued.
“Can we sit?” Rachel seemed anxious to move this forward.
“Sure,” Margaret said. “Go into the conservatory. Can I come too?”
In the conservatory, Holly, her gaze fixed on her own feet, served drinks and homemade lemon cake. “Ring for me if you need anything,” she whispered, then withdrew discreetly. It felt like living in a home for distressed gentlefolk.
“Okay.” Brigit’s chin began to tremble. “My little girl, Queenie, you know she hasn’t been well?”
“I thought she was getting better!”
“So did we. But on Wednesday she couldn’t move her legs. Paralyzed. Turns out she has a tumor on her spinal cord. Cancer, I mean.”
“Oh God, Brigit, I’m so sorry!” Queenie was a gorgeous kid: wild, charming, mad about animals. This was horrible news.
“At least we’ve a diagnosis now.” Brigit’s blunt delivery was at odds with the tears which flowed freely down her face. “Colm’s been useless, though. Just fallen apart. Hasn’t left home in weeks.”
That didn’t sound like Colm. The man I knew would talk to a literal stone.
“I’d kill him but I’m too busy,” Brigit said. “I’ve been driving Queenie up and down from the hospital here in Dublin, but now they’re keeping her in while they figure out what treatment has the best chance of…of.” A bout of wild sobbing followed. When she could speak again, she said, “I’m not leaving her, not for one second. I’ll sleep on the hospital floor if I have to.”
“Oh, Brigit .”
Brigit spoke again, her voice thick. “My mind hasn’t been on anything but Queenie for the last ages. And there’s no way I can think about work now. Anna, I’ve lived in M’town for fifteen years. Colm was born there. His family goes back generations. Our kids go to school there. The townspeople, they’re our community, our friends. I thought everyone was fine with the plans for the retreat”—she fixed me with a look of despair—“I don’t know what’s gone wrong, but last night the builders had their work vandalized and machinery disabled.”
“The investors have frozen funds,” Luke said. “The builders have had to stop work, they’re not allowed back until this is fixed. Brigit has to find someone to talk with the locals, find out their exact issues, so they can be made right.”
No way was I kicking someone who was down but this should have been done before the work started.
“A PR person was sent.” Luke had read my mind. “Few months ago. Apparently he was a patronizing arse in a suit who talked down to everyone. If there were concerns, no one told him.”
“Anna.” Brigit’s tone was urgent. “If this falls apart, Colm and I are wiped out financially. We’re utterly fucked. We need a nice PR person to fix this. You’re nice, Anna, really nice.”
My mouth was dry. I wanted to do this, not just because Brigit’s pain had now become mine, but because I needed a job. However, the fear of failing was enormous. As was the thought of being run out of Maumtully, pelted with turnips.
“But I’ve never talked down an entire town.”
“You’re good with upset, angry people,” Rachel said. “Look how you got that Yemoja shitshow under control. Different product, same job. People need to feel heard and respected.”
“What’s causing the upset?” Margaret asked.
“A quick look at Facebook has some people annoyed that high-net-worth individuals will be coming to the area but staying away from the town,” Brigit said.
“And will they?”
“They won’t be using the hotel or the B and Bs. But there’s nothing stopping them going up and having a pint or buying an Aran sweater. Others think the place will be overrun with limos stealing their parking space outside the vape shop.”
“Which is nonsense,” Rachel said. “Because M’town already has plenty of famousers.”
Maybe because of its astonishing beauty, the hinterland of Maumtully was home to a fair few creatives. One or two were bona fide celebrities, the director Ben Mendoza being the best known.
“But they pretend they’re one of us,” Brigit said. “Downplaying their huge success. Saying ‘Jayzus’ and ‘Grand.’ Never wearing coats. But…” She squirmed. “The tilers, joiners and decorators we’ve hired aren’t local.”
That was a rookie mistake.
“We’re using local lads for the construction work but the interiors spec is too high. We need specialists.”
“Another thing,” Luke said. “Someone let it slip that the staff, like cleaners, drivers, chefs, will have to sign NDAs.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“M’town thrives on gossip,” Brigit said. “Swearing people to secrecy is an insult. Anna, what’s your thoughts on telling the cops?”
“No. It would only escalate divisions.”
Margaret sounded worried. “Sorry, but is Anna likely to be vandalized?”
Brigit shook her head. “Lenehan—you know, my eldest lad?—sent photos this morning. The damage is amateur hour. People are upset, they’re not dangerous.”
“If something else happens, maybe you should rethink going to the cops,” I said. “But as of now…”
Brigit managed a small smile. “Agree. The investors let me have this one.”
“Who are these investors? Which one is your point of contact?” Because they’d be my point of contact now.
“None. Communication is always through the broker.” There was surprise, perhaps even disappointment, in Brigit’s tone, as if I should know this. But I’d spent the last eighteen years flogging skincare. How was I meant to know the ins and outs of feathery-strokery venture capitalism?
“Okay,” I asked. “So who’s this broker?”
“What? Don’t you…? It’s Joey.” She seemed astonished. “ Joey Joey.”
Did she mean…“ Narky Joey?”
“Joey Armstrong,” Rachel clarified.
Helpfully, Luke said, “You know Joey.”
Oh, I definitely knew Joey.