‘Ah, Ms Garbo. I have ruined your solitude.’
‘You don’t count.’
‘I’ll take that as a compliment.’
‘You should.’ They smiled at each other.
‘So, why, Greta, do you want to be alone?’
She shook her head, unable to speak for a moment.
Bertie took the tea caddy from her. ‘I’ll make it,’ he said, gently. ‘Do you remember the lesson in tea making I gave you, all those years ago? The Irish tea ceremony, I called it.’ He smiled. ‘I was pretty pretentious, wasn’t I? But at the Shelbourne we liked all of those little flourishes. Teapot warmed…’ He poured boiling water into the china teapot. ‘Leave for ninety seconds. Now, the tea itself. Presume this is Irish breakfast?’ He jabbed his nose into the caddy, inhaling. ‘No, Ceylon. Lovely.’ He nodded approvingly. ‘Single estate.’
‘Only the best. You taught me well.’
‘It’s the little things in life. A decent cup of tea. If you’re going to spend money, spend it on the things that bring maximum pleasure. Now, where are we? Eighty-seven, eighty-eight, eighty-nine. Ninety.’ He swirled away the boiling water from the pot down the sink and began spooning in the tea leaves. ‘How hot should the water be?’
‘Around 96 degrees.’
‘That’s right.’ He quickly felt the outside of the kettle. ‘Which is what we have in here.’
She watched as he made the tea, taking down two Belleek bone china cups.
‘Beautiful cups,’ he said, approvingly.
‘They belonged to my mother,’ she said. ‘She had a whole tea set. But she was like you, hated mugs, only drank out of proper china, a thin rim.’
‘Quite right.’ He placed the pot on one side, as Rosie reached for the milk from the fridge and poured it into the small, delicate matching Belleek jug. There would be no way Bertie would pour it from the carton into the cup. There was reassurance in his tea-making ritual. It wasn’t just for show, for guests of the hotel, you had to make the effort for yourself. The next stage was leaving it stand for a moment or two.
‘How’s the leg?’ Rosie asked.
‘It’s not too bad,’ he said. ‘Doing surprisingly well. Not bad for a man in his late sixties.’
‘Never! I would have said late forties, at the most.’ She smiled at him.
‘Oh, you know, it’s the Pond’s cream I slap on every night. Makes me look like a teenager.’ He picked up the pot and poured out the tea. ‘You were a great protégée,’ he said. ‘When you walked into the Shelbourne on your first day, all fresh-faced, beady-eyed, excited, I thought to myself, here is someone who wants to be here…’
‘I did, I really did. And you were a great mentor.’
‘Well, we were a good team, were we not? But there is something bothering you, isn’t there? What is it?’ He placed the cup in front of her, the tea poured to exactly 2 mm from the rim, just as he always instructed.
Rosie sighed. ‘I feel lost, as though life is happening to everyone and not me. I feel trapped.’
Rosie looked at Bertie, waiting for him to tell her she was being ridiculous and of course she wasn’t trapped and what about people who actually were stuck, those in loveless, controlling relationships, or in countries with no human rights or people in actual prison. But Bertie gazed at her, taking in what she was saying.
‘I wanted to take on the hotel… for Mum,’ she went on, encouraged by his kind and solicitous interest. ‘And I love the hotel, don’t me wrong. I love everything about it. And you and Maureen and Grace, you’ve made it a lovely place to be… it’s just that it’s too much for me. I’ll miss Dad and Nessa, and of course the twins, like mad. But I just feel as though I need to try something new. There has to be more to my life.’
‘You’re right,’ Bertie said gently. ‘There is more to life.’
‘But I don’t have the more. While I was busy with the hotel, I forgot the more bit. So everyone I know has a hinterland. And I have the hotel. And at the end of the day, it’s only a hotel. It’s not a relationship. Or a hobby. It’s a business that was someone else’s passion which I took on, because I didn’t want her passion to die.’ Rosie paused, clearing her throat. ‘Like she did.’
Bertie smiled at her. ‘And you succeeded brilliantly. You should be proud of yourself. But I think what you’re saying is that you forgot yourself in all of this. And you’re not happy, am I right?’
Rosie shook her head. ‘No,’ she said, and then nodded. ‘I mean yes, you’re right, and no, I’m not happy. I mean, I’m happy… enough. But not fulfilled. I am starting to panic that this is all I will ever do.’
‘You’re right,’ he said, presently, placing his cup on the saucer and surveying her. ‘So you have to get out there?’
‘You’re saying I need a hobby? Like sea swimming?’
