Chapter 13
13
Back on the main road, the route hugged the Atlantic, revealing a muscular expanse of green-gray water, stretching to a far-off horizon. Closer to shore, waves rose and crashed, then fizzed out, flinging swathes of white lace onto the pale sand. A few surfers were out there—hardy creatures. By which I mean lunatics. You wouldn’t catch me at it, not at this time of year.
A sharp turn had me driving inland, to the town. I half expected jeering crowds to be lining the roads, armed with cans of red paint. But nothing to report.
Dominating Main Street was the Broderick, the town’s only proper hotel. An institution, according to Brigit, it boasted a function room, a fifties-style diner and a bridal suite.
It was a good idea to be right in the thick of things. If I’d stayed in Brigit and Colm’s Airbnb, I’d seem aligned with them, instead of being “a neutral presence.” It also meant that if anyone needed to speak with me, I’d be right on the spot.
I pulled up outside the hotel, then discovered I was in an actual parking place. How about that for luck!
But that was because it was only March. Maumtully’s permanent population was tiny but apparently, from Easter onwards, the tourists swelled the numbers to approximately eighteen million.
The reception desk at the Broderick was deserted. A small, silver-nickel dome sat on the mahogany counter but it was only for foreign tourists. If I “binged” it to summon the receptionist, as soon as they discovered I was Irish, I’d be flagged as entitled.
There was nobody around, so I continued to sneak looks at the bell. No. It was better to just wait it out. After a while a woman in a navy skirt suit zipped past, all business, carrying a tray of drinks. “I’ll be with you in two ticks.”
Within seconds, she was sliding behind the counter. “I’m Courtney Burke. How may I help?”
“Can I check in?” I asked. “My name’s Anna Walsh.”
Speedily she clicked, watching her screen, giving off highly efficient vibes, from the top of her short brown hair to the tips of her comfortable block heels. “There you are. Seven nights, is that right? No need for a credit card, all your expenses are covered by Mr Joseph Armstrong.”
This was a relief. After Luke said the investor funds had been frozen, I’d been unsure about who was paying for what.
Courtney looked up and smiled. “You might as well order yourself a magnum of Mo?t, so.” She whipped a key from a row of hooks and grabbed my suitcase. “Room Seventeen. Let’s go.”
“There’s no need.” I was embarrassed by another woman carrying my bag. I tried to wrest it from her but she was as strong as she was efficient. “And I can find my own way.”
“I can promise you now you most certainly can’t.” She flashed another smile and we were off. Up a flight of stairs, down a short corridor, through a fire door, up a half-flight of stairs then along a hallway. The hotel was bigger than it looked from outside, going back, around and up for a long way.
“Minnie Driver slept in that room there.” Courtney kept up a stream of chat. “When she was here for the Good Thinking Festival. So did that man who wrote that book. But not at the same time. Right, here’s yours. It’s just been redecorated, en suite and all.”
She swung the door open to reveal a bland space boasting a double bed, a faded painting of a stag and a window offering a view of the bottle bins. The bathroom was a nice surprise: pretty tiling and a second window.
Courtney stepped in behind me and clicked a switch, illuminating a round mirror. “A magnifying makeup mirror. My idea. Trying to make the place more women-friendly. Although you’d swear I was asking for the Atlantic Ocean to be dyed pink.” She shook her head. “Moving on, the minibar’s complimentary.” She rattled it open. “Because there’s nothing in it except water and Sprite.”
No complaints from me. I’d much prefer a basic minibar to the flavored lube and multi-packs of condoms you got in newly opened, black-lacquered hotels. I hated the assumptions implicit in those wares. Like, Oh yeah, you’re so cool, we’re so cool, all of us groovy fuckers, having nonstop sex, hey, we get it.
Because what if you didn’t want to have sex? What if you and your partner hadn’t even touched each other in two months? And if you were honest with yourself, it was more like five months. Or perhaps eleven or twelve.
Something on Courtney’s person beeped. “I’ve to go. If you need anything, ring zero for reception. Although no one will be there.” She flashed a smile. Then it was just me and the stag.
Too much had happened today and I was still catching up with myself. I’d woken in mild despair in suburban Dublin; five hours later, I was in an unfamiliar town in Connemara, having committed to a job that was daunting the daylights out of me. So far I’d kept ahead of the sheer unlikeliness of pulling it off, but now the full fear of failing hit me. This wasn’t just professional, it was personal: I cared about Brigit, Colm, Queenie, all the Kearneys. I was powerless in the face of Queenie’s terrifying diagnosis. The only way I could help was to try my best to tidy up this mess.
It was five twenty. Even though I might crash and burn spectacularly, I had to give this a go. So, I’d better find—who had Brigit said?—Ziryan in the hardware store and Ferne O’dowd in a knitwear shop.
My case overflowed with a smash-and-grab selection of “relatable.” I threw on jeans, a hoodie and a pair of Converse which sported a small but much-appreciated platform sole. Next came tinted moisturizer, cream blush and pink-tinted gloss, then I gathered my hair up into a ponytail. Perky, I’m sorry to say, because the unpalatable truth is that the world is more likely to reward Attractive People. And I was somewhat at a disadvantage: a scar ran the length of my right cheek.
Over the years it had faded. It was only when I met someone new that I remembered, because they couldn’t stop sneaking glances. In one big way it was actually useful—it distinguished me from Helen. We were both short and slight, pale-skinned and dark-haired; until I’d acquired the scar, there were times we’d actually been mistaken for each other. Helen, a person of singular frankness, made enemies with ease—which could lead to awkwardness. There was a time I was asked to leave a funeral because Helen had offended the widow some months previously; on another occasion a glass of Pimm’s was yanked from my hand at a summer fundraiser because Helen had flirted madly with the yanker’s husband at some other do.
Protesting that I wasn’t Helen but an entire other person had never worked. But once my face was marked, well, all of that changed! So you could call it a positive. (Claire had once described me as an Instagram platitude made flesh. Which is a terrible thing to say. But we all have our ways of making the unbearable bearable and I’d prefer a positive spin than a negative.)
Into the mirror, I said, “I am nice. I am on your side. You can trust me.” And I believed myself. I lacked the characteristic weapons-grade confidence of your average PR. Surprisingly this often worked in my favor because people forgot to be suspicious of me.
Reluctantly, I eschewed my beautiful, warm puffer coat in favor of an anonymous navy anorak I’d borrowed from Margaret and went downstairs.