Chapter 21
21
Dan Kilcroney was still behind the reception desk, engrossed in a screen. My throb of wounded fury was followed by a flare of courage, so noiselessly I moved to stand before him, like a creepy child in a horror movie.
It was a while before he felt my presence, then his face flashed white with terror. “Jesus!” With effort, he managed a smile. “Ms…ah Walsh. I didn’t see you there. My apologies.”
Apologize all you like, Arse-brain, I know your true nature. You could gift me the entire hotel as a show of remorse and I’d still know that you’re an arse with the face of a brogue.
“How can I help?” he asked.
“I want to switch rooms.”
There was a hiccup of time as he gave one of his calculating looks. “Is your current one not to your liking?”
“It’s over the bottle bins.” I withheld any apologies or further explanations. He had the facts.
How efficient things would be if I was always this blunt. Probably a full seven years of my life had been wasted constructing complaints in a manner which made the fucker-upper still like me. Same with over-apologetic, explanatory emails of refusal. It was definitely a woman thing. Meanwhile, men tap out a flat, “Can’t do. Enjoy.” And carry on about their business without worrying, Was I too abrupt? Have I offended them?
Much as I’d love that freedom, the only time I pulled it off was when an acute hormone shortage overrode my bone-deep social conditioning to “be nice.”
Dan Kilcroney delivered a blank stare, then lifted a key from a hook and said, “There’s a room. Come and take a look. If it suits you, we’ll move your belongings over.”
Up three flights of stairs we went, right to the top of the house. Brogue-face unlocked the door with a metal key and pushed it open. I was braced for something smaller and dingier than my current set-up but there was no bed at all, just two couches.
“The bedroom’s through here.”
It was a suite?
I followed him in. The bed was a four-poster. There was a dressing room, two fluffy robes and real-world-sized bottles of shower gel and shampoo.
On the wall was an actual painting, a cutesy domestic scene of children’s wellingtons outside a door—quite a step-up from the stag.
Your man lifted a lace curtain. “You’ll see it doesn’t overlook anything. You won’t be disturbed.”
I needed to bite the bullet. “It’s bigger than my current room. How much more does it cost? Because I’ll have to okay it with Joey. I mean”—I laced my words with fake respect—“Mr Armstrong.”
I bet he knew who Mr Armstrong was. I bet he would never subject Mr Armstrong to the same disparaging treatment I’d received.
“No extra charge,” he said. “Does it suit you?”
“I’ll miss the painting of the stag, but it’ll do.”
—
Back in the lounge, I decided to check the email account. Nothing had arrived when I’d checked earlier so it was a relief to see nine fresh arrivals.
From: [email protected]
My friend’s partner wanted a job driving the visitors but they’re only employing asylum seekers. Irish people needn’t bother applying.
This was horrible. It was also nonsense.
From: [email protected]
What about the runoff from this hotel going straight into the seawater? Dolphins swim in that bay. There’s diverse ecosystem along the shoreline and you’ll kill it off. That’s a terrible thing. All in the name of making money.
If this was true, it had to stop. I’d pass it to Joey and ask him to check it out.
From: [email protected]
Fuck off back to where you came from, you filthy slut
I swallowed hard. But I guess this was all part of being a woman. I moved on to read the next—and oh, hello! ProudIrishPatriot1916 was back with another missive.
From: [email protected]
The Kearneys are only a front. A Nigerian crime lord is the real owner.
Is that so , I thought. If he—and I was certain it was a he—had stuck to just one crank email, I might have taken it more seriously. But he’d lost any credibility now.
From: [email protected]
What about my cattle? If there’s going to be helicopters bringing in the rich people and they fly over my field, they’ll upset my herd. I’ve 20 head and they’re milkers.
Another one for Joey. There probably would be helicopters. But something could— must —be worked out.
From: [email protected]
I’d fuck you if you had a bag on your head covering that face. What did you do to it? You ruined it.
Instinctively I lowered the lid of my laptop. Perhaps a break was in order. I focused on my breath, taking a long, slow inhale, holding it for four seconds, then exhaling on seven, waiting for my heart rate to return to normal.
Joey burst into the lounge, all business. Speedily he scanned the tables, until he found me. “There you are.”
I made myself smile. “Here I am.”
He hauled a low stool close to me. “One fewer job for you—I’ve checked the emails. Mostly baseless rumors, one about asylum seekers, another about runoff into the sea. I’ll look after them.”
“I’ve checked the emails too.” Our eyes met.
Awkwardly he shifted. “I’ll take them over.”
“It’s my job.” I was embarrassed: I didn’t want his pity.
“Some of them were…personal. Mean.”
“I can handle it. And it’s true. My face is scarred.”
I watched him press his lips together. He’d never tell white lies to make a person feel better. “You’d barely notice it. Just some anonymous dick going for the easy target.”
“I know I don’t need a bag on my head for someone to fuck me.” At the start of the sentence my tone was jokey but by the end I sounded sad. Maybe because I felt sad.
“Listen, I was thinking about Lenehan,” Joey said. “Would it be good optics to have one of the Kearneys here tonight?”
“Joey. Lenehan’s only a child.”
Whenever I thought of his Adam’s apple, of how he was trying to be the man of the house while his little sister had cancer, his mum was absent and his dad was laid low with depression, my heart caved in. “I don’t want him here, listening to his family being trashed. We can’t put him through it.”
“I hadn’t thought of it like that. You’re absolutely right.” He focused on me with evident respect. Then, “About the abusive emails, we could report them.”
“Joey, no . It would be like reporting the rain for raining. Look, these emails are helpful. The sincere ones, we can deal with, no bother. The trolls like the racist IrishPatriot, we ignore for now. If things escalate, we’ll take another look.”
“Anna!” Here came Courtney, with a bunch of wilted flowers, wrapped in sad-looking cellophane. “You’ve an admirer. There’s a note.”
Intrigued, I unfolded the large sheet of printer paper. In blue biro was scribbled, “Thanks for sorting out the money. Very decent of you. Hal Mahon.” Underneath he’d included his address and phone number.
“From Hal Mahon,” I said. “How nice is that?”
“Who?” Joey asked. “And why’s he sending you flowers?”
“One of Kearney’s crew. The foreman’s brother. Saying thanks for fixing their pay while the work is stopped.”
“Technically, it was me who fixed it.”
Immediately I passed the flowers to Joey.
“I was joking.” He pushed them away. “You were meant to say, ‘But it was my idea.’ Anna! No ‘bants’? You’ve changed.”
That made me laugh.
—
Courtney said, “Kilcroney says I’m to help you move rooms.”
“I can do it myself.”
“D’you want to get me sacked? Come on. Let’s get it over and done with.”
Upstairs, as Courtney rattled my clothes off hangers, she said, “I’m sorry for giving you a noisy room. I let you down. I was too excited about the redecoration, especially the makeup mirror with the light. And the rooms out the front get the racket from the street. Although up on the third floor, you won’t be troubled.”
“Courtney, no . You’re the best person in Maumtully, I won’t hear a bad word about you. Listen, should I be saying ‘Maumtully’? Or ‘M’town’?”
“Whatever you like. Both work. Oh, wait, I’ve news. You’re in at six thirty on Wednesday with Dr Olive. They offered Dr Drew but I said no, on account of him having a dick. Dr Muireann would be ideal but she’s out the door with patients. Dr Olive is a woman but young .” Said with disdain. “All over Gen Z issues—acne, social anxiety.” She wiggled her fingers. “?‘It’s good to talk.’ But a prolapsed uterus? Grit your teeth and keep walking, Granny. What I’m saying is, she mightn’t really ‘get’ menopause. So go in all guns blazing.”
“I owe you big,” I said.
“Let’s see what you come out with before you start thanking me.”
“But thank you for even trying. So. What’s the story with Dan Kilcroney?”
“Why? Do you fancy him?”
At my evident horror, she collapsed into wheezy laughter. “You didn’t take to him,” she said. “Nothing new there. Ah look. He’s a tough customer. But he does plenty for this town. Provides a lot of work.”
“Hardly! Only you, Emilien and the mad chef are employed here.”
“And her ladyship. Because we’re offseason, I keep telling you. But big changes tomorrow, an influx of staff. And Dan owns other businesses—the coffee place and the Big Blue, that’s the bar on the cliffs. Then there’s the Banshee art gallery, Mike’s Bikes. A right empire.”
“Is there a Mrs Kilcroney?”
“I knew you fancied him! There was a wife, once upon a time, the lovely Olivia, but she left years back. Would you believe he’s only forty-two? There’s something about him, like he’s always been fifty-seven, that he was born looking like that.”
I could believe it. “So tell me about her ladyship.”
“Rose? Nice enough but keeps her distance. Not a penny . Living in that massive old mansion on the cliff, up beyond the Big Blue. They say it’s colder inside than out. She had a useless husband. A few years back he took up with a woman in Galway because, according to Vivian, he just wanted a hot bath. He enjoyed it so much he moved in.”
“Is this her ladyship’s only job?”
“Good God, no. She’s an essential part of the festival mafia.”
“Doing what?”
“You’ve met her—a good-looking, well-turned-out woman who can chat about Greek myths, Mozart, the Berbers…Fluent in five languages. She raises the tone. A big hit with the dusty old intellectuals. Catnip, is that the word? They all fall in love with her. Vivian throws her a few quid for the festival stuff. At the moment she’s also the town taxi driver and she caters dinners in people’s houses. As well as covering breakfast here whenever Steve quits.”
“Steve is—”
“—our chef.”
“The mad one?”
“The only one. Before the husband left, Rose and him tried one hare-brained scheme after another. Few years back they had a small zoo in the grounds but a child tripped on a hidden hoop in the overgrown croquet lawn and broke their arm. That put an end to that. Then they opened a few rooms for B and B but breached too many regulations. She’d sell that house in a heartbeat for next to nothing but it needs too much work. Only Zuckerberg or the like have the money to sort the place out.”
“Maybe he’ll come to one of the festivals and fall in love with it?”
“Maybe he will! She’s resourceful, I’ll tell you that. Don’t let that perfect diction fool you. Rose is always looking for an angle—more power to her.”
I found myself wondering, when all of this was over, if Courtney and I could be proper friends—my automatic thought whenever I met a woman I liked.
I was still trying to replace Jacqui. As with any loss, I’d learned to live with it. And, of course, other relationships had worked hard to camouflage the lack: Angelo had done a lot of the heavy lifting; I’d become closer to Teenie and Jennifer from work and because I had four sisters, I had oodles of overfamiliar interaction with other women.
But nobody ever measured up to Jacqui: sunny, supportive and hilarious, she’d been a one-off. We’d been so close our connection was almost psychic and even now I missed her. Well, the way we’d once been.
She made regular appearances in my dreams, nearly always the same scenario: to our delight, we bumped into each other. All the awkwardness was gone and we were instantly friends again.