He is perched at the edge of the horseshoe-shaped bar on a velvet-backed stool, a drink that looks suspiciously like a mojito in his hand. He is chatting to – nay, flirting with – a much older lady who is working behind the bar. There are a few other customers dotted around at tables, but Michael has her complete attention.
I ignore the I-told-you-so look that Belinda is giving me and join my cousin. Truth be told, a mojito really wouldn’t go amiss right now. He lets out another peal of laughter as I settle beside him and Belinda sits on the other side.
‘I’ll have what he’s having!’ I say, wondering if anyone will catch the When Harry Met Sally reference.
‘Oh that’s one of my favourite films!’ exclaims the bar lady, clutching a tea towel to her ample chest. ‘That bit near the end, at the New Year’s party, where he says he loves the little crinkle above her nose? Makes me cry every time!’
Bernadette, as her name tag tells me she’s called, is easily into her mid-sixties, but clearly still has a girlish side. Her hair is dyed black and piled into a huge bun, and her eye make-up is perfectly smoky with heavy black liner. I’m guessing she was quite a party girl in her heyday, and can probably still party me under the table now.
She starts to gather together her mojito essentials, patting Michael on the wrist as she walks away.
‘So,’ I say, tapping my fingers on the bar top as though I’m angry, ‘working hard, are we?’
‘Or just getting pissed?’ adds Belinda.
He looks from me to her and back again, with his very best haughty expression.
‘One can both get pissed and work hard at the same time,’ he replies seriously. ‘It’s simply a matter of multitasking, which my generation has mastered by using their phones to google answers during pub quizzes. Now, mommies dearest, are you going to let me speak before you send me to bed without any supper?’
Belinda pokes him in the ribs, and he continues: ‘Bernadette here has worked at this hotel since 1982, when she was fresh from being named the winner of the Miss Tiny Irish Town Whose Name I Can’t Remember beauty pageant. She’s had an interesting life – but the part you might be most interested in is that she remembers Joe. And she’s happy to talk about him.’
He takes in our surprised expressions, smiles smugly, and adds: ‘You’re welcome.’
Bernadette returns with our drinks, and lays them in front of us with napkins and a small bowl of peanuts.
‘This is my cousin Jess, the one I was telling you about,’ he says, grabbing a handful of nuts and nodding in my direction.
She looks at me, and immediately grins.
‘Oh! You’re the lucky girl then, are you? The one Joe was still mooning over?’
I nod, and think it is weird, being called a girl in my late thirties – and even more weird to think of Joe being here, in this very building, mooning over me.
‘He was a cracker, that Joe. He never did tell us what had gone wrong between you, but he always carried a bit of sadness with him, you know? All tortured and mysterious. Had us ladies in a bit of a tizz, he did.
‘I was old enough to be his mother and I did feel a bit maternal towards him … but he couldn’t half flirt as well. I could walk in here with a hangover looking like the bride of Frankenstein and he’d still always find something nice to say, a way to cheer me up. He was good with his hands as well. That’s how he got the job, isn’t it?’
I am momentarily dumbstruck by the last comment – something about the way saucy Bernadette delivers it manages to imply that he worked as a masseur who specialised in happy endings.
‘He worked with the maintenance team, didn’t he?’ she clarifies, happily wiping glasses, her eyes sparkling at the memory. ‘He wasn’t here long, but he was the kind of man who leaves an impression. He showed me the ring as well – lovely it was.’
She glances at my fingers, obviously checking to see if I’m wearing it.
I only found out myself that Joe was intending to propose to me over the last few days, from Belinda. She’d told me carefully, as though worried I might break. Told me how he’d been meaning to do it that night – the night of the accident. I didn’t think it was possible for that night to be any sadder, but I realise now that it was.
I’d obviously not been in a fit state, physically or mentally, for him to go ahead with that plan. Undoubtedly he wasn’t either. He’d been treated for cuts and burns at the scene, and I’d been in hospital, sedated. I’d dislocated my shoulder trying to get to Gracie in the back seat, and the impact of the crash had damaged one of my kneecaps. It didn’t help that I became hysterical and started thrashing about every time I was clear-headed enough to remember what happened.
Once I was physically well enough to come home, the longer-term effects started to show up, and the rest is very sad history.
Now, all these years later, I bizarrely find myself chatting over mojitos to a complete stranger about the engagement ring I never saw.
‘I’m sure. He always had great taste, and knew exactly what I liked,’ I reply, reminding myself that this bright and breezy lady has no idea of the tragedy that led Joe to this hotel, where he was good with his hands and cheered the bar staff up. ‘Do you have any idea where he went after he left?’
She leans forward, elbows on the bar, face resting in her hands, frowning as she delves into her memory banks.
‘Well, like I say, he was popular, and good at his job. He could’ve made a go of things here, but I don’t think he ever planned to stay. He had that look, you know? Like he needed to wander. Heal his broken heart maybe – but that’s probably me being over-romantic. I’m told it’s one of my many flaws.’
‘No such thing as being over-romantic,’ Michael intercedes, reaching forward to pat her cheek. She blossoms with his attention, and I can just imagine how much she enjoyed Joe’s company. Joe was knee-tremblingly good-looking – at least in my opinion – and did indeed always know what to say to make a woman feel good about herself.
‘Bless you,’ she replies. ‘The next round’s on the house!’
I’m feeling slightly impatient by this stage – unbearably excited about almost finding something important out – but I tamp it down. Michael’s flirting and charm has got us this far.
‘I think,’ she says slowly, as though dragging sleepy thoughts into daylight, ‘that it was County Wexford.’
I sigh out loud. I can’t help it. We knew that much already, because of the postmark on Gracie’s birthday card in October 2005, my birthday note just before that, and some of the other postcards. I’d been hoping for more, and look at Bernadette expectantly.
‘It was a pub he moved to, wasn’t it?’ she says, continuing her habit of asking me questions I can’t possibly know the answers to. ‘It was, yes. There was this couple who worked here, Geraldine and Adrian. I really can’t recall the surname, but I could try and ask around for you if it would help … Anyway. They had a wee boy called Jamie who was about two or thereabouts. Geraldine worked here in the bar, and Adrian was the restaurant manager. It’s long hours, as you can imagine, and they were often on different shifts, and, well, long story short, they decided to leave. I heard rumours, there’d been some trouble with one of them playing away, whatever – and they needed to start over.’