‘I’m in Dublin.’
‘Well, I’m calling to say that I would like to mentor you and see what we can do with your business plan?’ She paused. ‘Will you accept?’
‘Yeah…’ He could remember starting to hyperventilate. ‘Wow… Amazing… yes…’ This was it, this was the beginning. He had tried to collect himself. ‘Kerry-Anne, I’d be honoured to accept your investment…’ The blood was pumping in his body, his stomach was churning, his mouth dry. This was it, he was leaving Ireland for good. Carried on by an insatiable drive to prove himself in the world, he was determined to be someone and make his mark.
He’d worked hard, early starts, late nights, he’d poured everything he had into Fitzgerald’s, and with Kerry-Anne’s money, he felt there was nothing he couldn’t do. He could feel the energy and adrenaline fizzing inside him. Some days, he thought he would bubble over, trying to keep a lid on his drive. It was exhilarating. He’d crawl into the cool sheets after a day on the floor of his restaurant, a day of ordering people around, interviewing new staff, rolling up his sleeves and dealing with leaks or electrical issues, staff not turning up. He’d be the first one in every morning, the restaurant dark and quiet and perfect, the places laid already for lunchtime. It was intoxicating. It was like he’d left everything behind, all the things that had been clawing at him, dragging him down. A fresh start.
Those first couple of years there were a glorious whirl. After finding a small bar that used to be an old Portuguese grocery and wine bar, Patrick had gone about transforming it into a small, sophisticated Irish bar, serving oysters and brown bread, along with proper pints of creamy, cold Guinness. They’d started to be written about inThe Boston Globeand soon they had to rethink and expand, leasing the place next door, major refurb job, new menu adding more seafood and cold beef sandwiches to become what it was now, incredible food with an unpretentious menu and an Irish welcome. People got what he was trying to do, a slice of high-class Ireland in Boston.
The menu was tweaked and improved every day, from the freshest scallops to oysters to Irish pure-bred beef, the best Irish cheeses and breads. The most sublime desserts made from Irish cream. It was finding suppliers that he initially struggled with, not wanting to import so much, but he found a balance, building a list of local farmers and producers, some Irish people, like himself, who were making new lives in the States. Provenance, quality, authenticity, and above all taste. He wanted people to stop what they were doing when they tasted an oyster on brown bread, the tang of lemon, or the anchovy butter or the sea salt ice cream. He wanted his pints to be better than one you might have back in Dublin. They weren’t. Not quite. But it didn’t stop him trying. It had consumed him, the details, the decisions, the minutiae. And it had absorbed his very being, helping him to remake himself and leave the past behind.
Kerry-Anne’s proposal had taken him by surprise. But now, thinking about it, he understood why she’d come to him. She was lonely, just like him. She was always so busy, working and playing hard. And yet she’d lost a close friend the year before and could barely talk to anyone about it. He’d tried to tell her that it gets better and to keep on going and if she needed to talk, then he was there. But what did he know about grief counselling, he was hardly Oprah Winfrey for openness and showing your vulnerability. Kerry-Anne was the same.
It had been just after 10p.m. when she had turned up at Fitzgerald’s. Diners had moved on to the digestifs and the desserts, the Irish coffees, the brandies. Kerry-Anne often called in at this time of the night, on her way home from some gala dinner, some reception at the art gallery, some dinner party. She was his mentor, but it was she, through her foundation, who had found investors in his business. Without Kerry-Anne and her unwavering belief and enthusiasm for him, he wouldn’t have anything. He’d probably still be dreaming and not doing. Without her, his running away to Boston might have gone the way that most emigrants’ ambitions went, withering away, fading from the mind as the years moved on.
Kerry-Anne was remarkably beautiful. Tall, willowy, with long blonde hair which fell on her shoulders. She rarely wore dresses or heels but trousers or jeans, expensive knitwear tied around her shoulders, crisp shirts, their sleeves rolled up, minimal gold jewellery. She held herself with a proud demeanour, like a queen. Boston was her fiefdom and he a mere courtier.
But this evening, she looked different, the expression on her face serious, and a look in her eyes which he had never seen before… fear. ‘Kerry-Anne?’
‘Could we talk?’
He had nodded, leading her to a booth, one where he placed his VIPs, those with money, power and influence who wanted complete privacy or didn’t want to be seen. She sat, her Chanel bag tucked on the seat beside her, her hands on the table. She looked at him, and then glanced around, to make sure they weren’t being overheard. And then, for some reason, he knew exactly what she was going to say. And he didn’t want her to say it. Before she could speak, he interrupted.
‘Would you like something to drink? A Martini?’
She shook her head. ‘We’ve been friends for how long…?’ She tried to smile.
‘We met eleven or so years ago…’
‘Yeah, when I came into the business school… remember?’
‘Of course…’ He smiled at her. ‘I felt very lucky that day…’
‘So did I, Patrick, so did I.’ She’d recovered her habitual briskness, thankfully. ‘Now, look, I’ll get to the point. I think we make a great team. You and me. We get on. There’s mutual respect?’
‘Of course…’
‘And we like each other, do we not?’
‘We do…’ He smiled again, that way he had of smoothing out awkwardness, of making the difficult easy. ‘Well, at least I like you…’
‘Do you?’ There was that flicker of vulnerability again. He wanted her to be the queen of Boston that she was.
He nodded. ‘Of course…’ He looked around for one of the waiters. ‘Joe, a whiskey please and a Martini…’ He smiled back at Kerry-Anne.
‘Look, my point is… well, I’m not getting any younger… and…’ She paused. ‘Well, as my mother constantly reminds me. Which is technically true and yet…’
He nodded. ‘Which is why I drink whiskey. It’s the fountain of youth…’
‘Is it? I must tell Mom. Save her the expense of another facelift… Look, Patrick, you’re an intelligent man, I am an intelligent woman.’ She paused again. ‘An intelligent woman who wants… a baby… and…’ She looked at him again, that look in her eyes.
‘Me?’ He said, his voice hoarse. Joe was at the table, discreetly placing Kerry-Anne’s icy Martini in front of her, the perfect olive, the slick of oily brine in the crystal liquid. Patrick put his hands on his glass, almost to steady himself. ‘Thank you, Joe.’
They sat looking at each other for a moment.
‘Why me?’
She laughed. ‘Why not you? You’re not getting any younger either. And if it’s not you, I’ll have to ask my only other candidate for this exalted honour.’
