‘Very good, Mr Byrne. You’re in the Seamus Heaney suite this time.’
‘Grand,’ said Conor, while Hannah’s mouth opened to say something. A suite. That was fancy, and not what she’d been expecting at all. Last time his room had been similar to hers.
‘So will you come with me?’ asked Conor as they went up to the third floor in the shiny black lift, as glossy as a grand piano.
‘To your lawyer’s? I thought it was family business.’
‘It is but Patrick is getting on a bit. He’s all but retired. I’d… like a second opinion.’
‘It’s really not my business,’ Hannah hedged.
‘Don’t worry, it’s just paperwork to be signed and he’s so vague sometimes, it might be helpful if there’s anything I want to query.’
Hannah pinched her lips together in thought for a moment. ‘Why are you still using him if you’re not sure about his abilities?’
‘Because we’ve always used him and he’s so close to retiring, we might as well hang on. We’ve been using his dad and him for sixty years. We might as well hang on until he retires this year.’
The lift came to a halt with a slight hydraulic bump and fall which left her stomach behind for a second, and the doors slid open. At the sight of the carpet with its retro pattern of large honeycomb hexagons, brown against gold, memories of her previous visit flooded back and she smiled, remembering her and Conor, pressed up against the doors, so focused on kissing each other that they’d almost fallen out of the lift. She glanced at him and saw that he, too, remembered.
She still couldn’t quite believe she’d been so brazen that night or where it had led. Now look at her. Ireland Hannah was very different from England Hannah and she wasn’t sure she wanted to go back to being England Hannah. With a frown, she realised she wasn’t even sure she wanted to go back to England, back to her old life. Which was ridiculous. She had a job, a flat, and a life there.But what sort of life is it? nagged an annoyingly perceptive little voice before rather shrewishly adding,And you don’t even like your flat that much.The cottage is so much nicer. Hannah sighed irritably. She couldn’t make life-changing decisions based on a flipping cottage.
‘Something wrong?’ asked Conor as they walked side by side down the corridor.
‘No,’ she said with a firm snap as if that would help shut down the wayward ‘what if’ thoughts in her head which seemed to have taken charge.
‘Sure?’ Conor shot her one of those quizzical, knowing looks that he and his mother seemed to have down to a fine art.
She definitely didn’t want to discuss her thoughts with him; they were a little too adventurous and shocking for her to take hold of, let alone explain.
He opened the door to the room and all thoughts were pushed aside by the charming décor.
‘Nice, isn’t it?’
‘Nice!’ She whirled to face him. ‘It’s gorgeous. I love the colours, although I’d never have chosen them in a million years.’ She reached out to touch the navy-blue wallpaper with its elegant hoops of copper foil. Then she realised he was teasing her. Of course he was; he was the one with the designer eye.
‘Perhaps I should use this wallpaper in my place? With that big window overlooking the sea, there’ll be plenty of light.’
‘You should. It’s lovely.’ With a quick pang she realised that she was unlikely to ever see it in situ. The knowledge brought a deadening in her chest, like a sense of loss, which was stupid because you couldn’t lose what you didn’t have in the first place. Honestly, being in Ireland was making her far too fanciful.
She walked through to the bathroom to escape the thought.
‘Whoa!’ she said, turning round slowly to take in the full sophisticated glory. ‘Nice shower,’ she called out to Conor. It was one of those with a dozen dials, levers, and shower heads, except the whole thing was made of some matt-blue finish set into a bronze shimmering wall. The fittings on the rippled glass shower screens were all bronze to match and the sink was a big beaten copper bowl with a large marble stone in the bottom to act as a plug. It was over-the-top opulence which once again reinforced the complete lack of imagination of her own home. She made her mind up there and then. She was going to move. Sell the apartment and find something… well, not as sophisticated as this, something homely, something that offered a welcoming embrace when you came home from work with sofas to snuggle into and handy cashmere throws to wrap yourself with. Perhaps with a garden for chickens.
‘I think the interior designer got a bit carried away in here,’ said Conor. ‘It makes me feel as if I should only come in here if I’m preparing myself for the Oscar ceremonies or something.’
‘It’s striking,’ Hannah said trying to be diplomatic, although she could see exactly what he meant.
‘There’s a fine balance between being striking and intimidating, first rule of Byrne’s Design. You want people to be comfortable in their homes not scare the bejesus out of them. Coming in here, I’m worried I have to perform like a porn star and do all sorts of clever standing-up things.’ His horrified expression made her laugh.
‘Standing-up things aren’t all they’re cracked up to be,’ she said, remembering the cold tiles in the shower at the cottage.
‘Thank the lord for that. I don’t think I’m cut out to be a stud.’
‘Really?’ said Hannah, with mock disappointment. ‘Does that mean I have to find someone else this weekend?’
With a laugh he pulled her to him and gave her what she considered a particularly stud-worthy kiss. ‘Or maybe not,’ she murmured against his lips.
‘I think we should have a drink in the bar before we go out, for old time’s sake. Don’t you?’ Conor suggested as they towelled down. They’d shared a shower, but not before testing out the bed rather thoroughly.
