‘And that was the day my childhood ended,’ Bridey murmured.
‘How did you know?’ Liam asked Cara.
‘I used to do Jessie’s accounts,’ Cara said. ‘A hefty payment to the Cookbook Café popped up each time we had another of these endless dinners. You don’t need to be a rocket scientist –’
‘I have five children, between eight and twenty-two!’ Jessie cried. ‘I run a business, there are only so many hours in the day and, Johnny, you’re never here and –’
Cara stood up. ‘I’d better go to the hospital,’ she said. ‘Before I fall out with every one of you. Come on, Ed.’
‘Hey, Cara, do you really like my new hair?’ eighteen-year-old Saoirse, interrupted.
‘Oh, sweetie, don’t!’ Cara said. ‘You know I love you.’
‘That means it’s bad?’
‘That fringe makes your face look like the moon.’
It did make her face look like the moon! Cara was spot-on. All the same, you can’t say that to a teenage girl.
At Saoirse’s devastated expression, Cara looked sick with remorse. ‘I’m so sorry, Saoirse. But it’ll grow back. Come on, Ed.’
‘Before you go?’ Liam’s eyes were narrowed. ‘Did you really think that massage I gave you was … What was the word you used?’
‘“Dreamy”? No. I hated it. Forget being a masseur. You are terrible.’
‘Hey!’ Nell jumped in to defend her husband. ‘He’s doing his best.’
‘Why are you bigging him up?’ Cara asked.
Suddenly, Liam was energized. He smelt blood. ‘Why wouldn’t she back me up? Tell us, Cara, come on, tell us.’
‘No, Cara.’ Nell’s voice was sharp.
‘Tell me,’ Liam ordered.
‘Don’t!’ Nell said. ‘Cara, it’ll come back on you too.’
‘Tell me.’ Liam’s tone was urgent.
Then, because Cara was concussed, confused and long past caring, she told them everything.
SIX MONTHS EARLIER
* * *
APRIL
Easter in Kerry
ONE
Just after 7 a.m., Cara’s internal line rang.
Oleksandr, the doorman, spoke. ‘The eejit has landed. ETA three minutes.’
Cara turned to her trainee. ‘Vihaan. Showtime.’ She tugged at her skirt once more and ran a hand over her chignon. ‘Remember –’
‘Shadow you. Keep smiling. Say nothing.’
‘Don’t show any shock, no matter what he comes out with.’
‘I’m way excited for this. I hope he’s heinous.’
‘Stop.’ First Oleksandr being irreverent, now Vihaan. In this job, you shouldn’t even think these things.
Flanked by Vihaan, Cara took her position, facing the front door, in the flower-filled lobby. She summoned her warmest smile and stepped forward. ‘Welcome back to the Ardglass, Mr Fay.’ Her welcome was sincere: she loved the hotel. ‘I’m Cara Casey, and this is my assistant Vihaan –’
‘I don’t care what you’re called, just take me to my room.’
‘Certainly, sir.’
‘Get my bags up to me. Now. Not in fifteen minutes. I mean now.’
Cara made urgent eye-contact with Anto the bellboy. Go, go, go. ‘The elevator is this way, Mr Fay.’
In the lift, Cara asked, in a deliberately soft voice, ‘How was your journey here this morning?’
‘Long. Tedious as fuck.’
‘Where have you come –’
‘Stop. Talking.’
Outside the suite, the electronic door key worked. The Ardglass keys always did, but sod’s law would have had it failing today of all days.
‘Welcome back to the McCafferty Suite,’ Cara said.
Of the fifty-one rooms in the Ardglass, this suite on the third floor was her favourite: the long sash windows overlooking the leafy trees of Fitzwilliam Square; the original Georgian coving; the bathroom with its claw-footed tub and underfloor heating …
‘Here’s your luggage!’ Anto and his trolley hurtled in.
‘The best hotel in Dublin,’ Mr Fay said, sarcastically.
But it was the best: the best bed linen, the best food, the best spa. However, what elevated it above all the others was the service from its multi-cultural staff: intuitive and seamless, respectful but relaxed. Everyone, from skint honeymooners enjoying just one glorious night, to high-net-worth habitués of luxury hotels, was made to feel special.
‘Where would you like your bags, Mr Fay?’ Anto asked.
‘Why don’t you just stick them up your butt?’
‘They wouldn’t fit, sir.’ Anto’s shtick was cheeky Dublin humour.
‘They’d fit up hers.’ Billy Fay pointed at Cara. But as the burn landed, she’d already bundled the pain away, before she felt a thing.
Anto hurriedly heaved the suitcases onto the luggage rack, then scarpered.
Cara refreshed her smile. ‘Although you’ve stayed here in the past, would you like me to explain the room’s features to you again?’
‘Just get out, you fat bitch.’
Vihaan gasped.
Cara would have to have a word with him later.
‘Can we send anything up to you, Mr Fay? Coffee? Tea –’
‘Like I said, get out and take your little Isis lapdog with you.’
‘Certainly, sir.’
They left the room and headed for the back stairs.
‘Wow. Ling wasn’t wrong. He is the worst,’ Vihaan muttered.
‘He’s been travelling for maybe eighteen hours. He’s tired.’
‘He made Ling cry last time. That’s why you’re in so early, right? You’re the only one who can handle him? And what’s he mean with the Isis thing? I’m Hindu.’
‘Vihaan, sweetheart, no. Don’t let him get to you.’
‘And another thing! You’re not fat!’
Their eyes locked, in sudden mirth. ‘But,’ he said, ‘you are a –’
She tried to put her hand over his mouth. He wrestled himself away, both of them giddy from the release of all that tension. Still laughing, they came into the reception area.
‘Bad?’ Madelyn asked.
‘Oh, yeah. I’m in Isis and –’
‘I’m a fat bitch.’
After a furtive scan to check there were no guests around, they laughed away the remainder of the stress.
‘So?’ Madelyn interrupted. ‘The competition winners, Mr and Mrs Roberts, their ETA is one o’clock. Which room have they been allocated?
‘Not sure,’ Cara said. ‘I’ll know when I see them.’
Now and again, in a radio phone-in, a lucky duo won a couple of nights in the Ardglass. They tended to be people who couldn’t ordinarily afford a stay. Cara and her team got very excited on their behalf: they wanted them to experience the full wonder of the hotel.
‘What do we know about them?’
They always did a discreet social-media search on expected guests to ensure that gaffes, such as gifting a complimentary bottle of champagne to a recovering alcoholic, didn’t happen.