This final point sells them on the plan, and it takes us about twenty minutes to drive to the restaurant – the Celtic Kitchen.
It’s tucked away amid curvaceously rolling fields, moonlit now but undoubtedly lush green in the daytime. The countryside around here is just as pretty as the coast, and the isolation gives it an air of absolute silence and serenity. We passed only one car on the way here, and the car park is now empty.
The building isn’t old, like I expected – it has a modern, Nordic feel to it, with floor-to-ceiling windows, a terrace that opens up into a breathtaking sea view even at night, fairy lights festooned around the doorway and eaves in a way that makes it all seem magical.
As we approach the entrance, passing Jamie’s landscape mural of the sea on the way, a heavily pregnant woman greets us. Her smile is genuine, but she explains that they are closed for the night, and would we like to book for tomorrow?
She is older now, maybe a decade older than me, with silver streaks in her dark hair and well-lived laughter lines around her green eyes – but she is very clearly the Geraldine we’re looking for.
‘Thank you, but we’re not here to eat,’ I reply, smiling to try and take away any kind of threat. ‘My name is Jess, and these are my friends. I was wondering if we could talk to you – about Joe Ryan?’
She blinks rapidly, stares at me hard for a while as though trying to make everything fit, and I see her eyes swim with sudden tears. She reaches out and clasps hold of my arm, and we dance awkwardly for a moment before she ushers us all inside.
A tall youth appears – Jamie, I presume – and casts a wary glance at us, seeing his mum’s reaction and obviously feeling a bit protective.
‘Everything OK?’ he asks, laying a hand on her shoulder.
‘I’m grand, love,’ she says, patting his fingers. ‘Could you go and get us some tea and coffee and … heck, maybe a bottle of that Bushmills?’
‘You can’t drink whiskey, Mum!’
‘I know that, sweetie – but I think I might need to sniff it … these are friends of Joe’s.’
He looks at us with more interest, mouth slightly open. This boy can only have been about five or six when Joe lived here, but he clearly remembers him. And, I remind myself, I am making assumptions – just because Joe didn’t send postcards from here after 2008, and just because he seemed to relocate elsewhere, that doesn’t mean they haven’t been in touch. They could be best friends. Joe could be upstairs, watching Netflix for all I know.
‘Our Joe?’ Jamie says, confused.
‘Yes, Jamie. Our Joe. And their Joe. So be a good lad now, and get us some beverages … Have you eaten?’ she adds, turning back to us.
‘Oh yes,’ replies Michael, holding his stomach and grimacing. ‘Waffles and ice creams and approximately seven thousand cream teas.’
Geraldine pulls a face, disgusted by our food choices, and guides us through to a small side room that is built beneath the glass of a conservatory. It’s a pretty place, the floor covered in black-and-white tile diamonds, the sofas plush and comfortable.
She stares at me for a while longer, and I let her, pretending that I’m looking out at the terrace or admiring the potted plants.
‘Obviously, you look older now,’ she says eventually, ‘but I still recognise you. He carried a picture of you and Gracie with him wherever he went. He built this, by the way – the conservatory.’
I reach out and stroke the windowpane without even telling myself to. It’s an automatic response – to try and connect, to lay my fingertips on something that he also touched. He’d have enjoyed this – working hard, using his hands, building something both beautiful and functional.
‘What happened to you, Jess? Joe told me about it, but I always thought there was more to come.’
She holds her hands across the stretched fabric of her dress, and looks like a kindly female Buddha, waiting for my response.
‘A lot happened. I was sick, for a long time, after Gracie. And I lost him. Now I’m trying to find him and I’m hoping you can help.’
She shakes her head sadly, and replies: ‘I don’t know where he is, I’m sorry. He was here, for a couple of years, with me and Jamie. Jamie still talks about him – he was so good with him, good with kids in general … but you know that already. He’s talked about looking for him as well, so I wish you luck and would ask you to let us know.’
I feel the disappointment sink in my stomach like a heavy stone, and remind myself that we are getting closer. That everything I learn, everyone I meet, helps me do what Joe thought was impossible – understand the man he became.
‘I will. But … can you tell us about him? About that time in his life? I know it’s a long time ago, and you’ve clearly moved on, but …’
She laughs, and gestures to her belly.
‘You mean this little thing? This was a surprise, I can tell you – I’m forty-seven and thought I was past that stage of life! But here I am – blessed. And yes, it’s a long time ago, but I remember it all very clearly. Joe was the only good thing in a year of hell. You know, one of those times in your life when literally everything that can go wrong does go wrong?’
I nod. I do understand.
She pauses, gazes off into the darkness of the wild night around us, and continues: ‘But if you want the story – if you think it will help – then I can do that for you.’
Chapter 21
St Valentine’s Day, February 2006
Geraldine sits in a hard plastic chair, her entire body as clenched as a closed fist. Jamie is playing with an old wooden abacus, clacking brightly coloured balls into each other, giggling as he makes them tumble and twist. There is a little corner of the waiting room set aside for children, and it breaks her heart that kids should ever set foot in a place like this.
This is no place for children. No place for her child. No place for her, a young woman who should be in the prime of her life. Not sitting here in a room decorated with cardboard Valentine’s hearts, with her future in tatters.
She feels her fingers start to shake, and without saying anything, Joe reaches out and takes her hand in his. She looks up at him gratefully, wondering at the whimsy of fate that brought him into her life just as it started to disintegrate.
This time last year, she’d just found out about Adrian’s affair. Or at least one of them. He’d sworn it was all over, that it meant nothing, that he loved her. He promised he would do anything to make their marriage work, for her sake, for his sake, for little Jamie’s sake. He begged for a second chance.
And – because she still loved him, and because she wanted Jamie to have his dad around – she gave him that second chance. Agreed to pack up their lives in Dublin, and move to the wilds of County Wexford, taking a reckless gamble on what her world might become.
Moving seemed to be the sensible thing to do. It would get Adrian away from temptation, get her away from the place where her suspicious mind would always work overtime. They used their savings to buy the derelict pub on the hill, and she hoped the project would keep them busy enough to allow the wounds to heal.
It was her idea to ask Joe to come. He’d been working at the hotel for a while, and had become the go-to guy for any problems. Leaky tap? Call Joe. Wonky table leg? Call Joe. Broken heart? Call Joe.