The twins looked repulsed. ‘Yeuuuch,’ said Killian.
‘You should make him a cup of tea,’ said Isabelle. ‘Mummy says that it’s very soothing. She likes it alone, in the kitchen, while she listens to these podcasts about people killing each other. She says they are not suitable for us.’
‘We’re banned from our kitchen,’ said Killian. ‘But we listen outside. There was one with this man who had an axe and he lived in this shack in the woods…’
‘That’s enough of that,’ said Rosie.
‘What’s a shack?’ said Killian.
‘A tumbledown shed where axe murderers live,’ said Grace.
His eyes lit up. ‘I want one! Do you think Granddad would build us one?’
‘Maybe,’ said Grace. ‘But first you can help me pack the boxes. We have to make sure that we have all the blankets, the baskets and the ball games.’
‘As long as it’s not golf, I will help,’ said Killian.
‘What’s the weather going to be like?’ Rosie asked Grace.
‘Haven’t a clue,’ said Grace. ‘I’ve deleted all the apps. They’re all useless. I’m going to pack raincoats and umbrellas as well as hats and sun cream and take it as it comes. There is such a thing as being too in control. You never know, the perfect man might be right under your nose.’ She winked at Rosie.
‘I hope he doesn’t smell then,’ said Killian.
‘Mrs Juniper says that, the weather is like life,’ said Isabelle, ‘you never know what you’re going to get.’
‘I might learn how to fly,’ said Killian, earnestly. ‘With just my arms. You never know.’
‘Or you might get into the sea without crying,’ said Isabelle.
‘I don’t cry.’ He looked furiously at her.
‘You do. You always say it’s too cold.’
‘But that’s at the start. Everything’s hard at the start,’ said Killian. ‘Isn’t it? You have to get in and start. Mrs Juniper says that you can’t be scared of beginning anything. She says every day is an adventure. And today our adventure is going swimming in the sea.’ He looked at Isabelle. ‘And I’m not going to cry.’
30
PATRICK
Patrick swam in long overarm strokes to the yellow buoy which was tethered fifty yards out to sea. The water was calm, a gentle lapping, and for a moment he held on to the rope. Ireland was beautiful, he thought, looking back at the land. It wasn’t only the natural beauty, the rocks and the seabirds, the lovely old villas with their shell house names or the sea thistles and sea thrifts and the whites and pinks of the valerians which tumbled down off the walls. It was the way people were with each other. The group of women who were drying off after their swim, one of them telling a story in a loud voice and making the rest of them squeal with laughter. Or the two men who were chatting together, their faces serious, and then when Patrick drew close to them, he heard they were discussing Ireland’s chances in qualifying for the Euro football finals. ‘We haven’t a hope in hell,’ one of them was saying. ‘Unless we all start believing in miracles again.’
It had been a lovely morning, as though real life had been suspended for an hour or two, but he would have to go back soon for the picnic. It wasn’t just Brian and Sandra he was trying to avoid, but Kate as well as she seemed to have a sixth sense for rooting him out. She was a beautiful woman but definitely not his type. He’d met lots of those kind of women in Boston, the Type As, high-achieving women who didn’t understand anyone who didn’t get up at 5a.m. and start working out, and within days of meeting them they’ve reorganised your life and thrown out any of your clothes that they deem too scruffy. Kate was popping up all over the place and he wouldn’t be surprised if she swam up behind him, having been dropped off by a passing speedboat.
And then he spotted someone, stepping over the rocks, leaving her bag on the old wooden bench, beyond the laughing women. It was Rosie.
She slipped off her flip-flops and then reached up, pulling off her dress, revealing her swimsuit, and then, folding everything up, she walked to the edge of the sea, her hands shielding her eyes and looking around.
Patrick could hardly breathe. Of all places to meet but in the sea.
Rosie turned as two small children ran up to her, saying something he couldn’t hear. They too began changing. From behind the buoy, Patrick looked at Rosie. She was even more beautiful than she had been ten years ago. Even this morning in her hoodie and pyjamas, she’d looked gorgeous. And now, in that red one-piece, the sun glinting off her hair, the way she stood… the shape of her. She was laughing at something one of the children had said and, taking them in either hand, the three of them began stepping carefully down the barnacle-encrusted rocky steps, into the sea.
How could he leave without being caught? He could swim right around the headland, and to the harbour and beach on the other side. Or he could swim the other direction and wade to shore.
She wasn’t going to come in very deep, not with the children, the ones he’d met the night before and had been so sweet and chatty. They both had their armbands on and were now hanging off the railings. The little boy was clambering upside down like a monkey, while the little girl had plunged into the sea, screaming as the cold hit her body.
They wouldn’t be in long. Rosie surely had to be back in the hotel and perhaps he could stay here until they left. He could swim out a bit further. He turned back to look at Rosie again, watching her, as she now left the children behind on the steps, pushing through the water, disappearing under the surface and then reappearing, twisting around to float on her back and see the children. Their voices carried over to him, as Rosie twirled in the sea, her arms propelling her along, and then lifting herself out of the water, her hair plastered back off her head.
He was transfixed.
