Chapter 6
O’Mara’s door opened and Bronagh peered around the reception desk to see what the wind had blown in. Along with a few scattered leaves, a woman whose old-fashioned suitcase was so full the latches looked in danger of pinging open and spilling its contents all over the floor stood there.
Bronagh, phone pressed to her ear, lips curving a greeting, simultaneously mouthing that she wouldn’t be a moment as she dealt with the Swiss man making a reservation for mid-November.
Unfortunately, she momentarily forgot she was a consummate professional as she said, ‘Yes, the peacock is available, Sir.’ What she’d meant to say was, ‘Yes, the seventeenth is available, Sir.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ echoed down the phone line in clipped English.
‘Hello there. I’m Bronagh Hanrahan. Welcome to O’Mara’s.’
‘Thank you. I’m delighted to be here. I’m Patricia Harte. I’ve a reservation with you for the next five nights.’
‘So you do, so you do,’ Bronagh murmured, half to herself, as she pulled out the ring binder and opened it to retrieve the booking sitting on top of the pile.
‘You’re over from London?’ She peered at the piece of paper and then back at their new guest. Patricia sounded as Dublin-born and bred as she did.
‘Yes. Although I’m from here originally.’
Ah, that explained that then, Bronagh thought, admiring the turquoise-blue coat and the emerald-green dress peeking out from beneath it with a magpie’s eye. ‘Grand. How’s the weather been treating you in London?’
‘Oh, autumn. You know what it’s like. Fine and warm one minute, freezing the next.’ Patricia waved her hand airily.
There were no rings on her fingers, Bronagh noticed.
She noticed details like this since Leonard had slid the engagement ring she treasured onto her finger.
It was sparkling now as she gestured toward the door.
‘Well, you’ll be pleased to know we’ve been having glorious weather lately here.
We only had thunder, lightning and hail once last week.
The hail was the size of golf balls too, according to one of our guests.
She was caught out in the open in the Green across the way and couldn’t make a run for it back here on account of her shin splints.
Why she didn’t shelter under a tree, I don’t know.
’ Bronagh shook her head, causing her Cleopatra-style bob to swing back and forth.
‘She’d a bruise the size of an egg on her head after being pelted like so. ’
‘I did read somewhere that under a tree is not the place to be if there’s lightning. It’s something to do with the lightning looking for the closest connection once it’s moved through the clouds, and trees being tall are often it.’
‘You don’t say.’ Bronagh rubbed her chin thoughtfully and then wished she hadn’t as she felt something short and bristly that had no right to be there.
She’d taken to carrying a pair of tweezers with her everywhere she went these days because she’d no sooner pull the wiry hair out than another would take its place.
She’d have liked to have downed tools and got her compact and tweezers out to deal with the situation immediately, but she’d a guest to be checking in, so she put the rogue hair to one side and swiftly tip-tapped some information into the computer.
‘We’ve got you booked into Room 8 on the third floor, Mrs Harte. You’ve a grand view over the Green.’
‘A room with a view,’ Patricia said dreamily. ‘And please, call me Patricia.’
‘Oh, I know that film, Patricia,’ Bronagh beamed, looking up from the computer like she knew the answer on a television game show.
‘I watched it on video a while back with my friend Maureen O’Mara.
Her and her late husband used to run the guesthouse, but it’s her daughter Aisling who manages the place these days with a little help from young Freya,’ she explained.
Her mind flitted back to the girls' night in she and Maureen were after having, with Donal doing a freelance Kenny gig in Goatstown and Leonard across the water in Liverpool seeing to his house. As the hostess, Maureen had chosen the one film she’d not seen featuring her heartthrob, Daniel Day-Lewis: A Room with a View.
The verdict, as the credits rolled, was that while Florence looked to be a lovely sunshiny city to visit, and it went without saying that Daniel was a very good actor, they’d both preferred him in The Last of the Mohicans.
Maureen had gone so far as to say that if his character in A Room with a View had only loosened up and donned a loincloth in Surrey, where he resided, he’d have wound up with your Helena Bonham Carter.
Personally, Bronagh had thought the other fella in the film was a bit of alright.
She’d not voiced this to Maureen, though, and of course he wasn’t a patch on her Lenny.
Shelving all thoughts of leading men and Lenny, Bronagh pointed out the guest lounge. ‘You’re very welcome to help yourself to tea and coffee and make yourself at home in there, Patricia.’
‘Thank you. I’ll just take a look if you don’t mind.’
‘Of course not. Go for your life.’
While Patricia disappeared into the lounge next door, Bronagh fetched her room key from the cubbyhole on the wall.
‘It’s a gorgeous room,’ the newly arrived guest gushed upon her return. ‘So in keeping with the era of the building.’
Bronagh was pleased. Maureen had been determined to work with the Georgian architecture, not against it, when she refurbished O’Mara’s. It was years back now, but the furnishings and fittings she’d chosen had weathered well. Quality always did.
‘I hope you’ll be comfortable here at O’Mara’s.’ Bronagh passed over the key. Her smile faltered, however, as she looked at Patricia’s suitcase.
‘That looks heavy, so it does.’
‘It is rather.’
‘I’m afraid we don’t have a lift at O’Mara’s.’
‘Oh. I hadn’t thought of that.’ The woman’s blue eyes darted anxiously to the stairs.
The famous PG Tips television advert line sprang to mind as Bronagh bustled out from behind the desk.
‘Dad, do you know the piano’s on my foot?
’ The case likely weighed the same as a baby grand, but Bronagh was undeterred.
‘Sure, I’ll give you a hand with it, Patricia.
Between the pair of us, we’ll have it up those stairs in no time.
’ Her voice packed more conviction than she felt, but she was in the hospitality game and the guest’s needs were paramount.
Patricia could hardly be expected to troop downstairs to reception to fossick in her suitcase each time she needed a change of underpants. ‘Just let me do a few warm-ups like.’
Bronagh would have done a few lunges, like those Maureen was fond of for limbering up, but her pencil skirt was too tight for that sort of carry-on.
Instead, she rolled the sleeves of her blouse up and flexed her arm up and down like she was doing weights at the gym.
Just then, as though he’d been sent from Him above, and with another flurry of fresh air and fallen leaves, Quinn burst through the door.
Bronagh caught their guest’s gobsmacked expression and quickly put her right.
‘I know what you’re thinking, Patricia. We’ve Ronan Keating staying with us at O’Mara’s. Am I right?’
Patricia nodded. ‘I’m a big fan. My feet take on a life of their own whenever “Life Is a Rollercoaster” comes on the radio.’
‘I’m the same, and I’m sorry to disappoint you, but this is Quinn Moran, not Ronan, and he’s no relation.
He’s the manageress Aisling’s husband. He’s not much of a singer either, although he’s nifty on his feet since he did salsa classes with Aisling a few years back.
Oh, and he’s a chef. A grand one at that.
You can’t go wrong with a meal at his bistro round the corner there on Baggot Street if you’re after somewhere for lunch or dinner.
I always recommend it to our guests, not because of any favouritism, but because I know they’ll have a meal to die for and great craic. ’
‘Bronagh, I am here, you know.’
‘I know, and I’m glad about it too because you’re in the nick of time, so you are. You can help our guest Patricia with her suitcase. She’s in Room 8.’
‘I’m sorry to be a bother,’ Patricia said apologetically.
‘Sure, it’s no bother. It’s nice to meet you, Patricia.’ Quinn did his best to mask his dismay as he sized up the case. ‘But now that I think about it, my back’s been playing up lately.’
‘Ah well, we could just wait for Tom to come home. He’d lift it with his little finger,’ Bronagh said slyly, aware the two men partnered to Aisling and Moira had developed a penchant for marathons. They also had competitive spirits.
Quinn sprang into life and, picking it up, was instantly lopsided and bow-legged as he carted it to the foot of the stairs. ‘Sure, it’s light as a feather. I’ll have it up those stairs and in your room in no time, Patricia.’
‘Thanks a million, Ro—I mean, Quinn.’
The two women watched him struggle towards the stairs.
Thud-thump, followed by groaning, bounced back down them along with some muttering.
‘So, is it business you’re back in Dublin for then?’ Bronagh asked.
‘No. It’s a break I’m after. I’m a costume designer.’
‘What? Like for the films?’ Bronagh had met people from all walks of life in her job at O’Mara’s, but she’d never met a costume designer.
‘And television and stage, yes.’
‘That sounds a very glamorous sort of career.’
‘I don’t know about glamorous so much as hard work, but I do love it.’
‘So, you sew the costumes yourself like?’
‘I do. Well, myself and my team. We’ve just finished working on a wartime drama, so the fashions were all forties style, and before that I worked on Cats, so you can imagine the costumes for that.’
Bronagh nodded. She could. She also knew she would now have Barbra Streisand’s “Memory” stuck in her head for the rest of her shift.
A sudden cry echoing down the stairs followed by an almighty thudding saw both women leap into action.