Chapter 6
PATRICK
‘Did I tell you about Kate, Niamh’s friend?
’ said Seán, brightly. They had turned off the motorway and were now weaving their way through the outskirts of Dublin.
‘She’s gorgeous. Great personality. Nice-looking.
Not that I have noticed, of course. But purely for information’s sake. And she’s single.’
‘You setting me up?’
‘Might be. It was Niamh who suggested it. Says Kate deserves someone nice.’ He looked at Patrick. ‘God knows why she suggested you.’
Patrick smiled back at him.
‘Weren’t you seeing someone?’ asked Seán. ‘Who was the latest one?’
‘Ashley. She dumped me.’
Seán shook his head. ‘Why on earth did she do that?’
‘Something about not being emotionally available…’
Seán laughed. ‘Yikes.’
Patrick smiled. ‘So I said that I’m sorry for being emotionally crap, but there’s not much I can do because of my dysfunctional childhood and leaving it all behind is harder than it looks.
And coming to Boston is not far enough to run away from my past…
’ He had meant it to sound amusing and to make Seán laugh again, but Seán was giving him a double take.
‘Did you really say that?’
‘No, of course not.’ Sometimes Seán was still so innocent. ‘I said that I was going to finish with her, but she got there first and I wasn’t that into her anyway.’
Thankfully Seán laughed properly. ‘I think I might have used that particular line over the years.’ He glanced over at his older brother. ‘So, what about Kerry-Anne Daly? When are you two finally going to get it together?’
Patrick thought of what she’d asked him the night before. He didn’t really want to think about it, knowing his answer but not wanting to hurt her.
He did sometimes wonder if he could love Kerry-Anne.
It wasn’t impossible. She was beautiful, clever and interesting and, best of all, he liked her.
They’d be a good team, which they already were.
And he wanted children and a family. He wanted to prove to himself that he could be a better father than his own ever was.
Yes, there’d been girlfriends over the years, but they never worked out.
He was too stubborn, they’d often say, married to his job, always working.
And then his last night in Boston, and her proposal.
Not marriage, no. But something else. He’d told her he’d think about it.
Kerry-Anne was only a couple years older than him, but she was a million years ahead socially and emotionally.
Kerry-Anne had been hanging out with grown-ups all her life, had gone to an expensive girls’ Catholic school in Boston and then to Harvard.
She knew her way round a wine cellar and could talk to anyone – from congressmen and women and benefactors to her team at the Kerry-Anne Daly Foundation.
She had a fecking foundation, for God’s sake.
When she first came to the Boston Business School searching for young people that the Kerry-Anne Daly Foundation could invest in – especially anyone on a full scholarship like he was – she seemed already a grown-up aged twenty-four and he was two years younger and felt like a kid.
She never wavered when entering a room full of people, never looked anything but immaculately dressed.
She had boyfriends and partners, men from her social class, men with big, bright teeth and year-round tans, who wore their collars up, who disappeared into their city jobs during the week, reappearing for weekends of sailing.
Kerry-Anne would bring them to Fitzgerald’s – introducing them and their double-barrelled names, always with a something-something the third.
There was even a something-something the fifth once.
Kerry-Anne had taken him sailing out on Nantasket, along with her gang of friends who all seemed to have a yacht or the right shoes to wear or know how to make small talk.
Patrick’s mind wandered, thinking of that summer, when he was back in Ireland for his placement from the Boston Business School, and Kerry-Anne Daly had called him.
‘Where are you?’ That refined Boston accent, that confidence, that knowledge that you belong in the world.
‘I’m in Dublin.’
‘Well, I’m calling to say that I would like to mentor you and see what we can do with your business plan?’ She paused. ‘Will you accept?’
‘Yeah…’ He could remember starting to hyperventilate.
‘Wow… Amazing… yes…’ This was it, this was the beginning.
He had tried to collect himself. ‘Kerry-Anne, I’d be honoured to accept your investment…
’ The blood was pumping in his body, his stomach was churning, his mouth dry.
This was it, he was leaving Ireland for good.
Carried on by an insatiable drive to prove himself in the world, he was determined to be someone and make his mark.
He’d worked hard, early starts, late nights, he’d poured everything he had into Fitzgerald’s, and with Kerry-Anne’s money, he felt there was nothing he couldn’t do.
He could feel the energy and adrenaline fizzing inside him.
Some days, he thought he would bubble over, trying to keep a lid on his drive.
It was exhilarating. He’d crawl into the cool sheets after a day on the floor of his restaurant, a day of ordering people around, interviewing new staff, rolling up his sleeves and dealing with leaks or electrical issues, staff not turning up.
He’d be the first one in every morning, the restaurant dark and quiet and perfect, the places laid already for lunchtime.
It was intoxicating. It was like he’d left everything behind, all the things that had been clawing at him, dragging him down. A fresh start.
Those first couple of years there were a glorious whirl.
After finding a small bar that used to be an old Portuguese grocery and wine bar, Patrick had gone about transforming it into a small, sophisticated Irish bar, serving oysters and brown bread, along with proper pints of creamy, cold Guinness.
They’d started to be written about in The Boston Globe and soon they had to rethink and expand, leasing the place next door, major refurb job, new menu adding more seafood and cold beef sandwiches to become what it was now, incredible food with an unpretentious menu and an Irish welcome.
People got what he was trying to do, a slice of high-class Ireland in Boston.
The menu was tweaked and improved every day, from the freshest scallops to oysters to Irish pure-bred beef, the best Irish cheeses and breads.
The most sublime desserts made from Irish cream.
It was finding suppliers that he initially struggled with, not wanting to import so much, but he found a balance, building a list of local farmers and producers, some Irish people, like himself, who were making new lives in the States.
Provenance, quality, authenticity, and above all taste.
He wanted people to stop what they were doing when they tasted an oyster on brown bread, the tang of lemon, or the anchovy butter or the sea salt ice cream.
He wanted his pints to be better than one you might have back in Dublin.
They weren’t. Not quite. But it didn’t stop him trying.
It had consumed him, the details, the decisions, the minutiae.
And it had absorbed his very being, helping him to remake himself and leave the past behind.
Kerry-Anne’s proposal had taken him by surprise.
But now, thinking about it, he understood why she’d come to him.
She was lonely, just like him. She was always so busy, working and playing hard.
And yet she’d lost a close friend the year before and could barely talk to anyone about it.
He’d tried to tell her that it gets better and to keep on going and if she needed to talk, then he was there.
But what did he know about grief counselling, he was hardly Oprah Winfrey for openness and showing your vulnerability. Kerry-Anne was the same.
It had been just after 10 p.m. when she had turned up at Fitzgerald’s.
Diners had moved on to the digestifs and the desserts, the Irish coffees, the brandies.
Kerry-Anne often called in at this time of the night, on her way home from some gala dinner, some reception at the art gallery, some dinner party.
She was his mentor, but it was she, through her foundation, who had found investors in his business.
Without Kerry-Anne and her unwavering belief and enthusiasm for him, he wouldn’t have anything.
He’d probably still be dreaming and not doing.
Without her, his running away to Boston might have gone the way that most emigrants’ ambitions went, withering away, fading from the mind as the years moved on.
Kerry-Anne was remarkably beautiful. Tall, willowy, with long blonde hair which fell on her shoulders.
She rarely wore dresses or heels but trousers or jeans, expensive knitwear tied around her shoulders, crisp shirts, their sleeves rolled up, minimal gold jewellery.
She held herself with a proud demeanour, like a queen.
Boston was her fiefdom and he a mere courtier.
But this evening, she looked different, the expression on her face serious, and a look in her eyes which he had never seen before… fear. ‘Kerry-Anne?’
‘Could we talk?’
He had nodded, leading her to a booth, one where he placed his VIPs, those with money, power and influence who wanted complete privacy or didn’t want to be seen.
She sat, her Chanel bag tucked on the seat beside her, her hands on the table.
She looked at him, and then glanced around, to make sure they weren’t being overheard.
And then, for some reason, he knew exactly what she was going to say.
And he didn’t want her to say it. Before she could speak, he interrupted.
‘Would you like something to drink? A Martini?’
She shook her head. ‘We’ve been friends for how long…?’ She tried to smile.