Chapter 8
Aisling and Freya jumped at the banging on the apartment door, causing the dregs of Aisling’s tea to slosh in the cup.
Their eyes met across the table, on which a plate with a solitary Ginger Nut biscuit and a sheaf of papers sat between them, at the unexpected intrusion.
Aisling pushed her chair back and stood with a frown.
‘What’s that all about?’ she muttered. Then, looking towards her twins, who were having mighty craic pulling the entire contents of the kitchen cupboards out, she added, ‘Freya, would you keep an eye on those two for me while I get that?’
‘I will, yeah.’
Freya reached forward and began tidying the paperwork away. ‘We were finished here anyway.’ She eyed Aisling and then stuffed the last biscuit into her mouth.
‘I’m coming,’ Aisling called as a second round of banging echoed down the hallway.
She tucked her reddish-blonde hair behind her ears anxiously and flung the door open.
She didn’t know who she’d expected to see standing there, but it wasn’t Bronagh, Quinn and a strangely, very colourfully dressed woman.
She registered that Quinn had an arm draped over each woman’s shoulder and that they appeared to be propping him up.
Her lips pressed together and her frown deepened.
‘Quinn Moran, have you been day drinking?’ Aisling placed a hand on either side of an ample hip and gave her husband the look usually reserved for when the twins or Kiera had done something naughty—like crayoning on the wall behind the television or posting toys into the VHS.
The twins and Kiera, with their cherubic faces, were too cute to be annoyed with for long.
Unfortunately for Quinn, in his current dishevelled state, he was not.
Aisling leaned forward and sniffed her husband like the little red fox who raided the bins out the back of O’Mara’s was apt to do when he appeared in the courtyard.
There was no whiff of anything untoward, although she’d told him time and time again not to be so heavy-handed with the aftershave.
Had he mentioned a meeting with a drink company representative over their cereal at breakfast?
Or was there a lunchtime function for those in the restaurant business he’d told her about as she spooned up her cornflakes?
Had she nodded like she was listening when she was, in fact, running through her mental list of things she had to do that day?
Quinn’s response to her question as to whether he’d been tippling was a groan and something about his back.
‘He’s not had a drop, Aisling,’ Bronagh jumped to his defence. ‘The poor man is after putting his back out just now on the third-floor landing.’
Aisling was none the wiser. ‘How?’
‘It’s my fault. I’m so sorry,’ the colourful lady jumped in. ‘He was being a good Samaritan by carting my suitcase upstairs to my room. It’s rather heavy, you see.’
Reading Bronagh’s expression, Aisling deduced this was an understatement.
‘Quinn, you eejit.’ She directed the remark at her husband before turning to Bronagh again and then the colourfully clad woman, whom she now understood to be a guest. ‘He tweaked his back changing a barrel at Quinn’s last week.
He’s not supposed to be doing any heavy lifting and should have known better. ’
‘Ash, I’m in pain here,’ Quinn stated feebly.
Bronagh appeared contrite. ‘Blame me, Aisling. It’s my fault. I challenged him when I told him Tom would find it a doddle to cart the case upstairs.’
‘Bronagh! You know he’s got a thing about Tom being half a foot taller than him.’
‘Two inches, Ash,’ Quinn rebutted indignantly through gritted teeth.
‘Don’t blame yourselves, ladies. It’s me and that overpacked case of mine that’s to blame. I’m terribly sorry for your troubles,’ Patricia told Quinn.
‘’Tis alright,’ Quinn mumbled graciously.
‘I’m Aisling O’Mara, by the way.’ Aisling took a proper look at the woman. She reminded her of a peacock in her emerald and teal.
‘Patricia Harte. Over from London for a much-needed break. I’m booked into Room 8 for five nights.’
‘Patricia’s a costume designer,’ Bronagh leaned towards Aisling and confided.
‘That sounds an interesting job, Patricia.’
‘Never a dull moment,’ Patricia agreed.
‘You’re in Room 8, you say?’
‘I am.’
‘Grand. You’ll have a lovely view this time of year of the Green. Autumn’s my favourite season. I don’t take the heat well.’
‘For fecks sake,’ Quinn snarled.
‘Quinn! Apologies, Bronagh, Patricia. My husband is not at his best when he’s in pain. He’s a little like a cornered mouse when he’s suffering.’
‘Jesus wept.’
All three women ignored him.
‘Will we settle him on the sofa, Aisling?’ Bronagh asked.
‘I think that would be for the best.’ Aisling led the charge, and the sound of clattering emanating from the kitchen grew louder as Quinn, with the support of Bronagh and Patricia, hobbled into the living room.
‘Quinn’s after having a mishap on the landing just now,’ Aisling explained to Freya, who was still sitting at the table but had angled herself towards the kitchen and was watching the twins.
The clattering was down to Aoife and Connor joyfully tossing out the contents of the last cupboard they’d yet to deal with. They were too busy to pay any attention to their poor injured father as he was escorted into the room.
Patricia and Bronagh finished each other’s sentences as they filled Freya in on the suitcase incident while Aisling removed the pile of folded washing from the sofa.
She’d put that away once Freya had gone.
She plumped up a cushion for Quinn to rest his head on and then patted the sofa. ‘Right, ladies. Ready when you are.’
Quinn hobbled forward with assistance. There were cries of ‘Ooh, ow, agh!’ as he gingerly lowered himself onto his side.
‘I can take it from here,’ Aisling assured Bronagh and Patricia. ‘Shall I fetch you a blanket, Quinn?’
Quinn mumbled something.
‘What was that you’re after saying, Quinn?’ Bronagh leaned down to catch what he’d said.
‘Don’t leave me with Nurse Ratched.’
‘He’s hilarious,’ Aisling chortled. ‘I’ve a grand bedside manner, so I have. Here, let me take those shoes off for you.’
‘Aagh!’
Quinn yelped as Aisling tugged off the trainers he always wore while chefing in the kitchen at Quinn’s.
‘I’ll leave you to it, Aisling, and give Bronagh and Patricia a hand getting that suitcase into Room 8. I’m sure we’ll manage between the three of us.’
Freya got to her feet. ‘I hope you feel better soon, Quinn.’
There was no response.
Once the apartment had emptied out, Aisling fetched a blanket and draped it over Quinn before shooing her children from the kitchen.
They scuttled out on their nappy-clad bottoms like crabs.
Then she picked up the phone to do what she always did in a medical emergency when Tom was nowhere to be seen.
She hit speed dial for Mammy.