‘But I’m nice to everyone. Sure, the whole town loves me.’
‘The whole town doesn’t have to love you. But the people who are closest to you should love you. And you know something, you’re hard to love.’
His father swayed on his skinny legs, and looked as though he was about to collapse. Patrick saw Seán looking over, worried.
Patrick reached out and steadied his father. ‘Go and sit down. And stay there.’
Brian’s eyes were glazed again as he stared back at his son, his face shuffling through different expressions from anger, to irritation, until he settled on resignation. ‘I’ll head back to the room,’ he growled, shaking off Patrick’s arm. ‘I’ll be grand. I don’t need your help.’
Anger shot through Patrick for a moment, rage suddenly reverberating.Calm, he told himself.Calm. This is the past. This man can’t hurt you, Seán or Mam any longer. His father was an old man who only had his words and a power to draw Patrick back into decades-old arguments and rows. That was what kept Brian Power energised. Patrick could see it in his eyes as they watched him, looking for signs that Patrick had taken the bait, that Patrick was right back in there, arguing, fighting… connecting. That was it, he realised. His father had no idea how to connect with another human unless he was fighting with them. It was the only way he felt alive, that he had agency or power. And it was up to Patrick whether or not to give it to him.
Patrick stood for a moment, watching his father walk away, and for the first time in his life he realised he didn’t feel very much for him at all. He had thought he was full of fire and ire, but he could actually feel it dissipating. His father was a sorry figure of a man, nothing like Seán, who was soft and gentle and who shared domestic tasks, who loved and respected Niamh. Patrick felt a simmering pride for his younger brother, who had taken it all on, learned all the lessons and was powering on. Patrick could learn a lot from Seán. In a way, Patrick had allowed himself to be trapped on that dairy farm. Never mind all his nice suits and smooth manners, he was still the kid in the overalls and the filthy wellies. Before, he’d wanted to prove himself. Before, he’d needed validation. Now he knew what he wanted and that was not success or making money or being as far from the farm as possible. He wanted to love and to be loved. He needed and craved it. Before he’d been too proud, too young, to realise it.
He glanced over at Kate. ‘Sorry about this family drama.’ His mind was ablaze, his body ablaze. But it wasn’t his father he was thinking about. It was Rosie.
‘Oh, you haven’t met my dad,’ she said. ‘Total narcissist. His latest wife is even younger than me. I went non-contact years ago. Best thing I ever did.’
Patrick put down his barely touched whiskey. ‘Excuse me a moment,’ he said, and began walking away.
‘But we haven’t even discussed buttonholes!’ shouted Kate at his retreating form. ‘And your tie! We need to co-ordinate! Patrick! Patrick!’
But he had something he needed to do, and he couldn’t wait another second.
37
ROSIE
Up at the newly installed garage bar, Martin had edged his chair closer to Rosie’s, the toes of his sandals perched on the edge of her chair. François and Grace had foraged in the garage for some more crisps. After a little alcohol, François’s high standards had slipped.
Martin began telling them a story about the first time he was called by Rosie to come to the hotel to sort out a problem. They couldn’t get hot water to run in the bathroom taps. ‘It took me ages,’ he said. ‘It was a real head-scratcher. I turned things on. Turned them off. Took the boiler apart. Ran tests. Everything. And then, I was lying awake having a ponder, when it came to me. I tried the cold taps in every room and hot water poured out. Every single tap was labelled wrong. H instead of C and C instead of H.’
‘That’s Dad’s fault,’ laughed Rosie. ‘He’s short-sighted. I remember the year that we put up the Christmas tree, plugged in the lights, and there was a boom, and the hotel went dark. Pitch-black. And we were fully booked. Oh God. Nightmare. Maureen found some candles and I went to phone Martin. He was the only one who knew where the fuse box was.’
‘I was in the middle of my mam’s sixtieth birthday dinner,’ said Martin. ‘And I was going to say no, but how could I say no to Rosie? She sounded distraught…’
‘I was,’ agreed Rosie.
‘And so I brought the whole family with me. Mam, Dad, my brother Kev, my little sister Sineád. And we got up here, the place was so dark you wouldn’t have known there was a hotel here at all. And I got my torch, went round the back, flootered around, and… boom, lights back on. You would have been able to hear the cheering down in the village. My family all stayed and there was a hooley that night. It was good, wasn’t it, Rosie?’
‘Some people loved being in the dark, though,’ said Rosie. ‘One woman said I should do dark weekends, candles only…’
‘That’s not a bad idea,’ said Grace. ‘Like going back to the old days.’
‘And no hot water or heating?’ said Rosie.
‘I don’t mean all modern conveniences, just lights,’ said Grace. ‘I’m making a mental note.’
‘We need more of these crisp things,’ said François, standing up and wobbling slightly. ‘I am going hunting for them.’
‘So will I,’ said Grace. ‘I know there’s an extra box somewhere. And I’ll top us all up.’ She winked at Rosie as she moved past her.
Martin pulled his chair a little closer to her and cleared his throat. ‘Rosie,’ he began, ‘you know you and me?’ He paused. ‘Well… I was wondering if there is a you and a me?’
‘A bit philosophical for this time of night, Martin.’ Rosie laughed, a little awkwardly. That was the problem with alcohol, it brought to the fore feelings which you were able to ignore when sober. ShelikedMartin but there was never going to be athem.
Behind her, she could hear Grace and François engaged in some pretty intense flirting. ‘Tell me what that secret ingredient in your sauce is,’ Grace was saying. ‘Please!’
François said something which Rosie couldn’t quite hear, but there was a shriek from Grace.
