‘Not Milhouse Bartlett the third?’
Gamely, she laughed. ‘Yeah. He’s still around.’ She paused. ‘I’m giving you first refusal. Say no, whatever. But I thought I’d roll the dice.’ She picked up her Martini and plucked out her olive on its stick and held it in her red-nailed hand. ‘And Patrick? It won’t affect anything between us. I promise you that.’ She took a long sip of her drink.
‘Oh, Kerry-Anne…’
She held up her hand. ‘Don’t pity me, whatever you do. This is a business proposal, like my one to you when you were a grad student. I saw potential in you then. I still do. It’s potential in your genes. That’s all. This is business.’ She smiled. ‘And a baby. For me. Nothing more. You can be involved as much or as little as you want to be. I’d have a contract drawn up.’
He didn’t doubt it, feeling touched that she had shown him her vulnerable side and wanting to protect her and support her. They’d never opened up to each other. He’d never cried with her about losing his mother, he’d never spoken about anything that was going on with him. They were friends, but there had always been a mutual acceptance that they could never slip into anything more, no late-night emotional confidences. But now she had brought this to the table.
‘I’m leaving for Ireland in the morning. I’ll be back on Monday morning.’
‘Of course, your brother’s wedding… well, have a nice time. And I suppose there’ll be lots of pretty Irish girls at it…’ She took another sip, longer this time.
‘Perhaps…’
‘I’m going to Paris tomorrow. A few things to do. I’m meeting a friend there. A couple of meetings. Going to a show.’
‘A musical?’
She laughed. ‘A private fashion show. Givenchy.’ She glanced at her bag. ‘Better not bring this one along.’ She drained her glass, picking up her bag, and stood up. ‘Safe flight. I’ll book you into the first-class lounge in the airport, okay? At least you’ll be comfortable before the flight.’ She smiled. ‘We’ll talk soon? Next week?’
The confident Kerry-Anne was back, thankfully. As she walked away, Patrick reached for his whiskey and slung it back in one.
And so he had a lot on his mind.
Back in the car with Seán, he deflected. ‘Kerry-Anne’s out of my league…’ he said now, to put Seán off.
‘I thought that about Niamh,’ said Seán. ‘Dublin girl, comfortable upbringing. Big house and all that. Has a master’s…’
‘You have a master’s…’
‘I know… but…’
‘And you’re a good person, decent. Intelligent. Mam brought us up to pull our own weight, didn’t she? And you’re not bad-looking. You’re straining out of your shirts with all those muscles. Haven’t seen as much brawn and simmering testosterone since the bulls at the mart in Fermoy.’
Seán grinned at him. ‘I’ll take it as a compliment.’
‘Pity you can’t play hurling to save your life…’
Seán laughed. ‘I was waiting for that. So I didn’t make the team, unlike you… I had to let you win at something…’
That’s what Patrick did. It was one of his secret skills. Veer people away from difficult subjects, smooth any potential points of discord and keep everyone smiling. It was called charm, he supposed. Not an attribute he prized more than any other, something that came easily to him. It didn’t make you happier, however. It was merely a life skill, like riding a bike or being able to milk a cow without hurting her, or catch a sliotar which was hurtling towards you at 100 miles an hour and then belt it with your hurley up the field and over the crossbar. They were just things he could do. The list of things he couldn’t do were endless, however. Sing in tune, be cordial to his father, fall in love ever again…
‘So where’s this hotel, then?’ asked Patrick. ‘I hope there’s a pool because I bought my togs. Thought a few swims might help with jet lag.’
‘There’s no pool, it’s not that kind of hotel. It’s small, family run. But it’s near the sea and you can swim there. We’re having a beach barbecue tomorrow.’ Seán glanced across at him. ‘It’s close to Niamh’s home place… Sandycove… you know it?’
‘Sandycove?’
‘Yeah, it’s a really nice little village…’ Seán glanced again at his brother. ‘You okay?’
‘What’s the hotel called?’
‘Cliff Top. Didn’t I tell you? It’s really lovely… Patrick, are you okay?’
‘Grand. Long journey, that’s all…’ Patrick smiled at his brother and then looked out the window as Dublin and Ireland took shape around him.
Dublin, he thought. Where it all began. He didn’t feel like a man of thirty-four, someone who had grown into himself, could talk to anyone about anything, who could pitch for business, deal with crises, manage a large team. He suddenly felt like the twenty-two-year-old he had been, the young man who was unsure of himself except for one thing, and that was to run away from Ireland.
