Feeling wonderfully refreshed after a much-needed shower, I slip into my cobalt blue sweater and black skinny jeans. I tug on the small brass handles on the drawers by my bed and slide the rest of my clothes from the case inside them. Glancing at the Claddagh ring on my hand, I make a mental note to buy one of these for my mom to take home so she can finally close off her heart with the right man this time. I hang my ball gown carefully in the free-standing antique wardrobe. Slipping my feet into my cream Timberland boots, I tie up the yellow laces before giving my curls a good brush with my wide-tooth comb and applying some light make-up. My phone rings as I leave the bathroom. It’s a US number I don’t have saved.
‘Hello?’ I answer after the second ring.
‘Maggie, Frederick Macken. I’m not sure you quite get why Amanda sent you over there?’ His voice is curt, unfriendly, sharp.
‘Oh, hi, em, I’m writing an article for the magazine on the castle? For the June double edition,’ I tell him.
‘Yeah, and if I don’t buy this castle, sweetheart, there won’t be a hotel for anyone to have a wedding in! It’s in dire financial trouble.’ Condescending isn’t the word.
Don’t call me sweetheart, I think with gritted teeth as I stareat the gold frame on the wall of a wild black horse galloping through a paddock.
‘Capeesh? Is it busy? How many bodies knocking around? I’ve a feeling they are fiddling that old-fashioned registration book. That old bat Mary is writing in fake names of guests who aren’t really visiting the castle in the hope they can get a grant to fix the place up, I know she is. Figures don’t add up which means it’s overpriced based on the spreadsheet. I can get it for cheaper.’ There’s the sound of computer keys being hit at breakneck speed.
‘Oh, um, I mean, I really don’t feel comfortable .?.?.’
He doesn’t let me finish. ‘Well then, get your ass back to the airport and we will send Salma out on the next flight. She will take over the entire job, including the article for the magazine.’ He sounds angry now.
‘What? No, I’m, I-I just need to speak to Amanda .?.?.’ I grapple.
‘You do that .?.?. quickly. Got another call.’ The line goes dead.
Now I’m totally confused and frustrated. I hold my phone away from my face. Take photos of their private guest book? This is all illegal. I know it is. Amanda has lied to me. A physical unease falls across my shoulders and I shiver as I dial Amanda’s cell. She doesn’t pick up. I dial again. No answer. I have to eat. I pull my satchel across me. I shut the bedroom door behind me with a click and make my way down the hall towards the grand staircase. Maybe I can just do some kind of brief overview for my report but I’m not doing anything illegal. I know if I say I’m not doing any sort of report, Amanda will side with Frederick and they will send Salma to replace me. And more so, I know Salma will jump at the opportunity!
I step over the dodgy step and recognise that this is the biggest opportunity of my career. I must succeed to be able to afford a new apartment and move on with my life. I’ve comeall this way. By myself. I’ll have to file some kind of report to Frederick, I just need to figure out what.
* * *
‘The entrance to the Sweet Orange Room in Castlemoon is behind a screen of Corinthian pillars. The walls are painted a flush orange, a large mantelpiece holds long thin silver candle holders with slim candles burning brightly and giving off the most delicious smell of sweet clementines. The walkway boasts a superb neo-classical plaster ceiling and a unique collection of Irish mahogany furniture is settled discreetly all around. Reader, might I say these are just perfect for your wedding guests to snuggle up in with a good book and a hot chocolate .?.?. or a glass of wine. Recommended Irish reads according to hotel manager, Mary, areCastles of Irelandby Mairéad Ashe FitzGerald andExploring Ireland’s Castlesby Tarquin Blake, both of which are available in the Michael Delaney section at the Heartwell Library in the village.’
I continue to speak into my Dictaphone very quietly at the dinner table. ‘Portraits and Irish historical pictures line the walls. For a large, exposed brick interior in a historic castle, it feels homely. Perhaps it’s the various open turf fires that burn and hiss away or maybe it’s just some kind of magic .?.?. dot, dot, dot. I’d love to know who all those people were, all those portraits outside. That’s my next job.’ I click off the Dictaphone, tear apart a hot, fresh crusty roll and dip it into the dish of roasted pepper pesto. Rolling my eyes in delight I make a quiet plan: Heartwell Library will be my first port of call in the morning, followed by a hot chocolate and a slice of Christmas cake in the Teapot Café.
‘What’s your tag line for this wedding magazine article by theway?’ Without looking up I know it’s him. Although my heart rate picks up, I don’t miss a beat.
‘Is it your dream to get married in an enchanted Irish castle?’ I declare with confidence, slowly lifting my glass of red wine by the slim stem and swirling it carefully. I’m delighted and surprised to see that my hand isn’t shaking.
‘Love it,’ he says. ‘It’s perfect.’ His tone actually sounds genuine.
Still, I don’t look up. Oh, I know I’m being childish, but for some reason I can’t help it. Again, I feel giddy and acutely alive.
‘Will you be recommending the homemade pesto to your adoring readers? Perhaps you’ll do a “Hey Guys, Here I Am Eating Bread and Dipping It In Red Pepper Pesto” .?.?.’ He puts on a rather impressive, lazy American accent, laughs heartily at himself.
‘I don’t do “Hey Guys” videos, however my friend Jill does and is hugely successful. But the pesto is delicious, as is this bread roll, so perhaps I will write about it and I’ll add as a footnote, “I hope this most annoying Irish man doesn’t stand over you as you try to enjoy it”.’ I open my mouth and pop another piece of bread in. I chew slowly. When my heart has stopped thumping in my chest, I look up. ‘What are you .?.?.’
But he’s gone! He’s walking away. Swaggering across the room.
‘W-h-at?’ My eyes dart after him and I’m surprised to see how quiet the room is now. I’ve been too busy to look around. There are two older couples at the top and a young family dining at the other end, and then Dan.
This man.
He bends over the table of the older couple, still in his wellies, but no jacket now just a well-fitted white T-shirt. I see the sinew of muscle ripple on his arm as he lifts the bottle of wine off the table and pours some into their glasses. He replaces it and tosseshis unruly black hair with his fingers. The dining room should be packed. It’s Christmas week! Every table should be full. I’m more than curious to try the steak in case the quality of food is an issue. Maybe it’s the service?
The commotion from the wedding next door picks up again in the Heart Ballroom and it’s infectious. Seated at one of the windows, I have a full view of the wedding revellers gathering outside in the cold. They’re all taking selfies and group photos, laughing and joking around. There are women in beautiful, multi-coloured dresses made of satin and organza, men in dicky bows and smart suits. Happy people.
Then, the bride and groom step out.
I push my chair back as inspiration hits. I have to get out there. Rummaging under the table, I grab my satchel, then rush out, down the hall, past reception and up the grand staircase, jumping the last step and left into my room.
‘Quick! Quick! I need that vibe. Quick! Where are you?’ Breathless, I pull out the heavy drawer and pick up the Canon camera. Swiftly, I attach the small key light for nighttime and rush back down again. Pushing open the castle doors I step into the frosty cold night.
