‘Does he try to be obnoxious?’ asked Grace. ‘Or does it come naturally to him?’
‘He’s not obnoxious all the time,’ said Rosie.
‘Well, today is one of those days when he is,’ said Grace, drily, looking at him in the sea.
Laurence had now organised everyone into some kind of conga line and they had to walk along the seabed and go as deep as they could.
At the mouth of the harbour, Rosie saw Patrick, his long arms sweeping through the water, his head in and then out of the water. He was well built, his arms defined, his shoulders broad. He was the same but finer, in a way. There was something about him, he’d only got more handsome, more attractive. She watched him for a moment, remembering that summer when they used to head up to Sandymount Strand, leaving their belongings at the edge of the sea and going for long evening swims. The water in Sandymount was shallow for seemingly miles and miles and they would be walking through the water, as it inched up their legs, from ankles to calves, to knees, holding hands all the way, until eventually it reached the tops of their legs and they plunged in. At this point they were so far from the shore, the people walking in the evening sunshine, eating ice creams, were small toys, miles away, and out here with Patrick it was so peaceful, as though they’d claimed a little parcel of the world, just for themselves. Now they were in two separate galaxies.
Eventually, everyone was on dry land, wrapped in towels, standing close to the gazebo, where Grace was pouring out her new cocktail concoction.
Laurence was talking in his loud way about water temperature and how he’d been taking an ice bath every morning.
The sausages were golden brown and Rosie buttered the buns and placed a sausage in each one.
‘Will you hand them around?’ asked Grace. ‘I’m still on cocktail duty.’
Rosie slipped out from under the gazebo and handed around the plate.
‘Oh, these look nice,’ said Niamh, taking one.
‘I’m starving,’ said Seán, clamping down on one. ‘Delicious. Thanks, Rosie.’
She was aware that Patrick was behind her and finally she turned to face him. ‘Hot dog?’ she said.
And suddenly he laughed and she laughed too. She wasn’t quite sure what was funny or why they were laughing, but he reached out and took one. ‘Thank you. Aren’t you going to have one?’
‘What, a hot dog?’ They laughed again, still neither of them quite sure why they were laughing. ‘I can’t. I’m working. You’re the guests.’
‘Well, I was going to offer to hand them around. Why don’t I do that?’ He was taking the plate from her. ‘Or shall I butter the buns?’
‘You can’t be buttering buns.’
Again, for some reason he laughed, and so did she. ‘Why can’t I?’
‘Because you’re a guest. This is how the hospitality business goes. Guests, staff. Never the twain shall mix.’
‘Well, that’s a shame.’ He held her eye for a moment. ‘Why don’t we make an exception for today?’ He still had the plate. ‘I’ll pass these around. Remember, I work in hospitality as well.’
And he was gone, mixing in with the other guests, lingering with Kate. ‘Thank you, Patrick,’ Rosie could hear her saying. ‘What a good waiter you are!’
There was a sound as though the sky was broken, a crack in the atmosphere, and when Rosie looked up, the sky had changed from grey to black, and then a pause before the heavens opened and the rain began. Biblical, Noah-type rain, the kind of torrents seen in disaster films. There were screams and shouts as the guests ran for the gazebo, where Rosie was turning the sausages. More of the guests began piling in.
‘My hair!’ shouted one woman.
‘They said the weather in Ireland was all over the place,’ said a woman with an American accent. ‘I didn’t think they meant it would actually rain. I thought they were all exaggerating.’
Rosie found herself edged out of the gazebo and quickly put the barbecue lid over the sausages and ran to help Grace, who was collecting up glasses and plates. ‘Don’t worry, everyone!’ she was saying. ‘This adds to the adventure.’
The gazebo was now listing to one side. The rain thundered down and a kind of slightly hysterical exhilaration had overtaken everyone. The pitchers of cocktails were handed around, glasses refilled, the keg was on overdrive. Laurence had even started singing ‘The Fields of Athenry’, to which everyone had joined in.
Grace was racing around and, as she passed Rosie, she grinned. ‘Irish weddings,’ she said. ‘Don’t you love them?’
The gazebo was beginning to rock with the force of everyone trying to shelter inside and Rosie looked up for long enough to see Laurence pulling it down so it didn’t lift any further, but as he reached up to grab a pole, it came away in his hand, and then as he swept it down he whacked it straight on the head of Niamh.
‘Ow!’ She had her hands on her head, her eyes scrunched shut.
As Rosie raced towards her through the rain, Laurence was staggering backwards and somehow managed to swing the pole again, much as he would with a golf club, and this time hit Rosie full force on her head.
