Prologue #2
‘Hello?’ he called.
‘In here,’ she said.
He stepped into the kitchen, looking both delighted and surprised. ‘It’s you! Finally!’ He was out of the suit and wearing a blue cotton shirt, the sleeves rolled up. ‘I was beginning to think I’d imagined the mysterious Rosie.’
‘And you’re the mysterious Patrick.’
He grinned back at her. And it was at that moment that everything changed. Everything. Rosie’s life was never the same again because it was as though in the week since they’d first met, he too had been spying remnants of her, their bond forming even before this late-night meeting.
He pulled out a chair and sat across from her.
‘Not so mysterious,’ he said.
And he was and he wasn’t. Sometimes she felt as though she knew everything there was to know about Patrick Power and then, especially at the end, she thought he was perhaps the most unknowable man in the world.
He was deep, like the sea, and just as you thought you were at the bottom, there was another trench, a depth which took you by surprise.
‘I knew you existed,’ he said, ‘because there was a navy cardigan on the landing which didn’t look quite like Smoggy’s. And there are better-quality mugs in the cupboard.’
She laughed. ‘How do you know Smoggy doesn’t wear navy cardigans?’
‘Because it wasn’t in the Limerick colours,’ he said, making her laugh, but he was eyeing what she was eating. ‘Is that what I think it is?’
‘Depends what you think it is.’
‘Proper cheese on toast. Not a toastie, or a melt, not anything but cheese on lightly toasted bread, grilled until golden brown?’
‘Correct. That’s exactly what it is.’ She couldn’t help smiling back at him.
‘In Boston it’s impossible to just have normal food. The bread is like another species altogether. And the cheese is just wrong. We’re dairy farmers and we take our cheese very seriously.’
‘Would you like one?’
‘You sure?’
‘I think I can spare some bread and cheese…’
He talked all while grating, toasting and grilling, telling her more stories about the awful food he’d eaten in the States and how he wanted to have a place one day which just served perfectly done, simply cooked Irish food.
He made a fresh mug of tea for her and a new one for him and again sat across from her. And that was it.
The night ticked on, as they talked and laughed.
He was handsome but wore it lightly, it was the smile that drew you in, the big shoulders that looked like he could barge a door down.
Not that she wanted him to barge a door down, but she liked knowing that he could, if she needed him to. But, really, they just clicked.
‘I need to pay you back,’ he said, eventually. ‘For the cheese on toast. When are you next not working?’
‘Tomorrow… well, today…’
‘Today?’ He was smiling. ‘Well, perhaps I could take you for something to eat. You know…’ He paused, trying to find the right word. ‘Recompense? Reparation…’
‘Makes it sound like I tortured you.’
‘Retaliation.’ He grinned at her and she realised she liked this man very much indeed. And that the feeling was entirely mutual. The balance of the summer suddenly shifted from one of work to one of endless, sunset-stretching fun.
Their first dinner together was a little sushi place in Ranelagh, followed by pints sitting on the banks of the Royal Canal, just beside the lock in Portobello, sitting in the evening sunshine and learning everything they could about the other, as well as making each other laugh.
And then, soon, every spare second of every day and every night was spent together. Rosie, Patrick; Patrick, Rosie.
In the evenings, when he’d finished work, he’d walk across town to the Shelbourne and chat to her manager Bertie while waiting for Rosie to finish.
She’d find them both in deep conversation, Bertie usually talking about his obsession, which was orchids, and Patrick talking about his, which seemed to be mainly how Cork were doing in the hurling finals.
‘We just need to beat Tipperary,’ he would say, ‘and then we’ll be All Ireland Champions.
’ Bertie’s eyes might have glazed over a little, but he was nothing if not fastidiously polite.
And he seemed to adore Patrick, just as everyone else did.
It was a breathtaking summer, the happiest she’d ever been.
They explored the city together, or saw films at the Screen, pints in Grogan’s, late-night Asian food in Camden Street, swimming on Sandymount Strand, walking the cliff walk to Howth, discovering the city anew.
She was too busy to bring him back to Sandycove, and anyway, she was enjoying herself, as well as working hard.
They went to gigs at Whelan’s, including a raucous Waterboys gig, and even ten years later, whenever Rosie heard ‘The Whole of The Moon’ she was transported to that hot, sweaty night with a thousand people screeching at the top of their voices, ‘I saw the crescent, you saw the whole of the moooon!’
They had walked home that night, arm in arm, the song in their ears, the sound of the fiddle which had soared and whooshed making them feel just as happy, just as free.
And why wouldn’t they be? They were young, carefree, happy…
and falling in love. Nothing else mattered, just them, the certainty of their feelings for each other, the fun they had.
The joy of seeing him when she finished work, or waking up together, the sun streaming in through the window and knowing you’d found your person – nothing else mattered.
Some evenings, they would swim at one of the city beaches.
Sandymount Strand was a vast golden stretch of beach, the sea often so far out that they would be walking for miles to reach it, their feet splashing over the wet rivulets until they finally sank into the cold of the sea.
‘This reminds me of Garretstown Beach,’ he’d told her once.
‘Back in Cork. Mam would bring us sometimes. We’d spend all day there.
Seán and I would just be in the sea from as soon as we got there until when the sun was going down and the tide would be coming in and then there was always a big rush to gather everything together and get back to the car.
’ He had his arm around her, their skin wet, the air cooling, the sun sinking.
‘Seán lost his special bucket once. Yellow with a red handle.’ He’d shaken his head, smiling.
‘The poor thing. Devastated. But we couldn’t go back for it because the tide was swirling around us, coming in at all angles and I remember seeing my mother standing on the beach, her eyes fixed on us, waving us in, and we couldn’t worry her. ’
Seán was in university in Cork, he’d told her, living his best life.
‘I miss him,’ he said. ‘He’s one of those people who are just easy-going, you know?
The forgive-and-forget-the-bad-things type and remember-the-good-things type.
But I doubt he’s forgotten that bucket.’ He pulled her towards him and he kissed her, properly, the kind of kiss that tells you that this person loves you and they want you to know quite how much they do.
She felt as though the two of them were shining with a honeyed glow.
The days flew, June slipped into July and then August. Patrick was returning to Boston to continue his studies.
Rosie was staying to run Cliff Top and they would make the long-distance thing work.
She would fly over to him, he would fly home to her and there’d be emails and phone calls.
They’d find a way. Of course they would.
They were too good a thing to give up on, they both knew it.
One evening, he had held her hand as they walked home from a swim on Sandymount Strand. ‘I don’t want to go without you and I was thinking you could come with me. Boston is a beautiful city. It would be an adventure, both of us away from Ireland, just the two of us.’ He’d smiled, a hopeful smile.
Rosie had stopped in the street. ‘I need to be in Sandycove, you know that. Why don’t you stay?
You could do everything you need to do there, here?
You don’t need to go. I need to stay. Not just for the hotel but Dad as well.
He’s been managing the hotel this year. I promised him once I’m qualified, I’ll be back to take it over. ’
He shook his head. ‘I’m not staying.’ His eyes met hers. ‘But I want to take you with me. I mean it. Think about it. It would be fun. And I have this investment opportunity. You know the woman I told you about, Kerry-Anne Daly, she emailed to tell me that I won my pitch. I’m going to open a bar.’
So it was to be long distance, the decision on their future on the long finger.
A week before he was due to leave, she’d brought him to Cliff Top.
It was just outside of Sandycove, a few miles along the coast from Dublin, and they travelled out from the city centre by train and then walked up the coast road to the hotel, which looked beautiful that day, the pink of the hawthorn trees hanging low over the entrance, the tangle of honeysuckle rampant in the garden.
She’d shown him around, excitedly bringing him to the garden and the grounds, showing him the steps leading to a long, beautiful lawn which swept to the edge of the cliff, the sea glittering like diamonds.
Her father had been away that day, but he met her aunt, Lucinda, and everything had gone perfectly.
Surely he saw how much she loved the place.
And then things changed. With two days before his departure, he seemed to shift and to drift. He waited to tell her it was over at the airport.
It was packed with summer holidaymakers, and they had a coffee together before it was time for him to go.
He would be back, she told herself, and if he couldn’t, she’d fly there.
We’ll keep it going and then there’s Christmas soon enough and then…
It was going to be okay. Rosie thought about how much she loved him and she’d see him soon. But he was distracted and distant.
‘I’m going to miss you,’ she said. ‘When you come back, we can just pick up where we left off. And we can email all the time. And the distance won’t be anything.
Will you come back for my birthday in October?
’ She beamed at him, like a desperate puppy.
This isn’t right, she thought. She hadn’t had to fake enthusiasm all summer but now was feeling like a spare part.
Patrick was busying himself checking the departures board and checking and rechecking his bags were still there.
Her emotions were beginning to bubble over.
She couldn’t cry, not here in the airport, not when she was trying to catch Patrick’s eye for some reassurance.
But her smile was beginning to die a slow death on her lips.
A large pack of Spanish schoolchildren swarmed around them.
‘I’ll email you tonight,’ she said, eagerly, now in the last-chance saloon. ‘You will email me too? Tell me you arrived safely? We can FaceTime as well?’
He looked at her. ‘Rosie…’
And then she knew what he was going to say. She just knew: from the look on his face, the way his eyes couldn’t meet hers, from his behaviour the last couple of days, since they’d got back from Sandycove.
‘What?’ Her voice wobbled, and it wasn’t just because those rambunctious Spanish students had knocked her elbow.
‘I’m not the person for you.’
‘You are the person for me.’ She spoke carefully and slowly. She needed him to understand that he was exactly what she wanted, needed and loved.
But he shook his head. ‘I’m sorry. It’s not going to work. We’re going in different directions.’
‘You don’t want to continue?’ She couldn’t quite believe what he was saying.
He was ending it? Like this, right here, in the airport with a million people swarming about.
He’d waited until this moment? Tears sprung into her eyes.
Patrick had been her great hope, her joy, her reason for believing in the world again after the dreadful loss of her beloved mother.
‘It’s not going to work.’ Now he had tears in his eyes and she was torn between feeling incredibly sorry for him because he was doing something she knew he would hate doing, and feeling sorry for herself because she had to hear these awful words.
She decided to feel more sorry for herself.
‘You’re never going to leave Ireland,’ he said.
‘But leaving Ireland is all I want. I can’t stay. ’
‘I can’t leave,’ she had said, through tears. ‘You know that.’
He’d shrugged, resolute. ‘There you go then.’ He’d softened for a moment. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘So am I.’
‘We’re on two different paths…’
He was right. Surely Patrick should be the one to compromise.
Perhaps she didn’t know him as well as she had imagined.
She had the hotel to run and the thought of being out there, in the world, roaming about, made her feel practically seasick.
She needed to stay where she was, where she was safe, retain, maintain and improve the hotel and keep it going.
Both were stubborn about their own wants and needs.
Both weren’t for turning. He’d just been braver to cauterise them before they fizzled.
Rosie stood for an interminable amount of time after he walked away, unable to move or turn away, hoping he might somehow come back through the departure gates and say it was all a mistake and he was sorry and that he’d FaceTime that night and he’d be back in October for her birthday and then there would be Christmas.
But finally, she was concerned that perhaps someone might report her to security like they did with abandoned rucksacks, and she had to leave.
In the fraction it had taken Patrick to land his bombshell, she realised she no longer had love in her life and someone who loved her.
Patrick Power was gone and not coming back.