That Gallagher Girl (8 page)

‘Is it? Is it really?'

‘Yes. And I'm sure that he can make the cottage into a really lovely home. It'll take a lot of work, of course, but your dad's never been afraid of hard work.' The irony struck her forcibly now, of Adair working like a navvy on a rundown cottage while Río's son and his father swanned around in Coral Mansion.

‘How . . . how long do you think it'll take to fix the place up?'

‘Six months, or thereabouts, I'd have thought if he hires some help and works flat out.' Río looked at Izzy curiously. Her face had gone an ugly, mottled shade of puce.

‘Six months?' she whispered. ‘Working flat out?'

Río nodded. ‘Are you all right, Izzy? You're looking—–'

‘My dad can't work flat out for six months on some crappy little house!'

‘He's done it before,' Río pointed out. ‘Sure, didn't he start his career as a builder?'

Izzy flinched, and tears started to course down her cheeks again.

‘I know he's come a long way since then,' said Río. ‘But, hey – there are swings and there are roundabouts, Izzy. You win some, you lose some.' God, she was even beginning to talk like Adair! Funny the way clichés came so easily when you were trying to console someone.

‘I can't bear to think of him navvying!' whimpered Izzy.

Río got to her feet and moved to the window. She was feeling a tad exasperated with the girl now. Wasn't everybody in Ireland rolling up their sleeves and fielding the flak that life was firing at them? Izzy Bolger's darling daddy wasn't the only ex-property tycoon taking a reality check.

‘I think he's kind of looking forward to putting the place to sorts. He was full of beans the last time I talked to him.'

‘He's not able for it, Río.'

‘
Arra
, he'll be grand.' Río started to busy herself dead-heading a geranium. She was beginning to regret her invitation to Izzy to stay the night. Maybe she should have sent her in the direction of Coral Mansion after all, where she could be accommodated in the style to which she was accustomed.

‘No. He won't be grand, Río,' said Izzy. ‘He's dying.'

‘What?' Río turned back to Izzy. The redness had left her face; she was ashen now. ‘What . . . did you say? That . . .'

‘Daddy's dying.'

The withered geranium blossom dropped to the floor. ‘Adair's ill?'

Izzy nodded. ‘Cancer.'

‘Oh. Oh, God.' Río's hands went to her mouth, and she shut her eyes for a long moment. Then she moved to the sofa and sat down beside Izzy. Putting her arms around her, she gathered the girl against her. ‘Oh, God, Izzy. I am so sorry. I am so, so sorry. Words can't—'

‘I know. You don't have to say anything.'

No words were adequate. Not even the one-size-fits-all clichés to which Adair was so partial. She remembered the last time she'd seen him, before he left for Dubai. It had been in Dublin: he'd put her up in a splendid room in the Four Seasons, and treated her to the theatre, and bought her dinner in Patrick Guilbaud. Except he hadn't called it dinner. He'd called it a ‘slap-up feed', and when his Charolais beef and foie gras had been set in front of him he'd rubbed his hands together with gusto, the way a cartoon character might. That was what was so endearing about Adair: despite his wealth and his very real business acumen and the power he wielded, he was possibly the most down-to-earth, least affected person Río had ever met. And now this larger-than-life, convivial, generous man was dying.

Izzy disengaged herself from Río's embrace and blew her nose again.

‘When did you find out?' Río asked.

But Izzy just shook her head, clearly too distressed to answer. Reaching for her bag, she pulled out an envelope and handed it to Río.

‘Am I to read this?'

Izzy nodded.

Inside the envelope was a folded sheet of A4 paper.

Oh, God. Oh, God! Río couldn't bear it. But if she couldn't bear it, how must Izzy be feeling? With difficulty, she swallowed the sob rising in her throat. Dissolving into tears wasn't going to help: she must be strong for Izzy.
Keep Right on to the End of the Road. Pack Up Your Troubles in Your Old Kit Bag. You'll Never Walk Alone.
Clichés, clichés – keep them coming. There's comfort to be wrung from the commonplace.

‘I'm guessing you found this on his computer,' she said.

Izzy nodded. ‘Yes. The week before I left Dubai.'

‘There couldn't be some mistake, could there?'

‘No. I phoned Dr Rashidya. He was as honest with me as he was with Dad. He has pancreatic cancer, Río, probably brought on by stress. As you know, the past couple of years have been tough on him. I suspected something was up, but he's been keeping it well hidden.'

‘And he really has just a year?'

‘Give or take a couple of months.'

A couple of months! Oh God, how precious a couple of months must now seem to Adair! Ungrateful Río spent half the beautiful winter months in Lissamore wishing them away, waiting for spring to arrive, and with it the all-important tourist trade. How dare she curl her lip at such a priceless commodity as time? How blessed she was to have it on her hands.

‘Oh, poor Izzy. Oh, poor Adair! Oh . . . why is life so unfair?'

‘I've been saying that to myself every day since I found out. It's like . . . I know Dad had money and was lucky that way, but his quality of life was pretty crap, you know. I mean, he just worked. He just worked really hard. And then the divorce happened and he lost everything – virtually everything, Río – that's no word of a lie. But I think losing the Villa Felicity was the biggest blow of all.'

Oh, Jesus! How could Río ever tell Izzy that the Villa Felicity was now in the possession of the Byrne boys? She'd have to keep schtum about that until she dreamed up some way of cladding the iron fist in a velvet glove.

‘Does he know that you know? About his . . . about the cancer?'

‘No. Like he said in that letter, he doesn't want to rain on my parade. It's been so bloody hard, pretending. I should be up for an Oscar. And then he goes and buys that horrible little house, thinking he's going to be happy living there. How could he ever imagine that he's going to be happy spending the last months of his life working an oyster farm? I remember Finn telling me that he spent a summer working on an oyster farm once, and he said it was backbreaking work. And Finn was – Finn
is
– young, and fit.'

‘It's always been your dad's dream.'

Río remembered how Adair had shared with her his dream of maybe one day retiring to Coolnamara and ‘living off the fat of the sea', as he had joked in the letter to the Dubai doctor. They'd been sitting on the deck of the Villa Felicity, drinking hot chocolate to warm her up after a swim, and it had been the first time she'd seen a vulnerable side to him. But when he'd told her of his maritime aspirations, Río had laughed and compared him to Marie Antoinette masquerading as a shepherdess. And now Adair really was going to try and live that dream for as long as he had left.

‘Where exactly is it? The farm?' asked Izzy, helping herself to more kitchen towel.

‘It's about a mile along the beach from Coral— from the Villa Felicity.'

‘I'll go there in the morning and check it out. Is it as bad as it looks in the photographs on the internet?'

There was no point in lying: Izzy would see the place for herself tomorrow. ‘It's quite possibly worse.'

‘Oh, God!'

‘But honestly, Izzy – the mobile home is state-of-the-art. I mean, even to call it a mobile home is a misnomer for starters. It doesn't even have wheels.'

Izzy nodded. ‘I think they call them leisure lodges now, not mobile homes. I'm glad he'll have some kind of creature comforts.' Swigging back the remains of the wine in her glass, she held it out to Río. ‘Could I have some more, please? I did bring some to go with the langoustines – a lovely Loire Valley Chenin Blanc – but it's in the car.'

‘I take it your bag's still in the car, too?'

‘Yeah. I'll go get it now.'

‘You stay there. Give me the keys and I'll bring it up.'

Río didn't want to run the risk of Izzy bumping into Finn on the main street. He'd be likely to be heading into O'Toole's about now, with his new squeeze – if squeeze was what she was. The last thing poor Izzy needed was more emotional aggro. Río topped up their wineglasses, then got to her feet.

‘I'll cook this evening,' she said, ‘and you take it easy. You're right, that drive from Dublin always knocks the stuffing out of you a bit.'

‘Oh, no, please let me cook for you!' said Izzy. She handed Río a key card emblazoned with the Alfa Romeo logo. ‘It'll be a distraction – especially if I do a really complicated recipe.'

‘Rather you than me, in that case. What had you in mind?'

‘Sautéed langoustines with Chardonnay reduction.'

Cripes, thought Río. ‘Sounds delicious,' she said. ‘I hope I've all the ingredients.'

‘I don't imagine you've any truffle oil? Langoustines are divine with a truffle dressing.'

‘You imagine right that I've no truffle oil,' smiled Río. ‘And I don't fancy you'll get hold of it in Ryan's corner shop, either.'

‘I can improvise. I'm quite good at that.'

Río moved to the door, where she'd left her sandals, and slid her feet into them. ‘Where did you learn to cook, Izzy?'

‘Mummy gave me a course in Ballymaloe for my birthday a couple of years ago.'

Of course she did! Welcome to the rarified world of Isabella Bolger, where you get cookery lessons from a celebrity chef and langoustines come with truffle dressing and wine was a lovely Loire Valley Chenin Blanc, not a cheap and cheerful Obikwa from South Africa. Adair might have lost all his money, Río surmised as she wound leather thongs around her ankles, but his daughter was clearly still high maintenance. She remembered what a beautiful couple Izzy and Finn had made, back in the days when they were full of plans for setting up their dive outfit together. Río had known even then that Izzy was out of Finn's league, just as Izzy had considered her father to be out of Río's league. She remembered the party that Adair had thrown for her in the Villa Felicity, and how Izzy had tried to scupper any notions he might have entertained about a romantic involvement with Río. But then, Isabella was a daddy's girl through and through, and daddy's girls always got what they wanted, didn't they?

What, Río wondered, did Izzy want for her daddy now? That question was easily answered. She wanted him to live out the remainder of his days in peace and contentment, in the best of all possible worlds. And Río could help her. What had Adair said in his letter to Dr Rashidya, when he'd outlined his ideas of what constituted the good life?

The good life will mean a pint of Guinness in my local pub after an honest day's hard labour, and the sound of the sea on my doorstep. In the best of all possible worlds, the good life might also mean finally marrying the woman I love, if she'll have me. I've always believed that anything is possible, if a man wants it badly enough . . .

A year. What was one year? She, Río, was robustly healthy, and had, in all likelihood, loads more years ahead of her. Loads of years and countless months – unless some runaway bus had her number on it. Adair Bolger had been good to her, and she had given him very little in return. It was axiomatic. She had a wealth of time on her hands. She could afford to give him a year of her life.

From the depths of Izzy's capacious handbag came the sound of her phone tone. Río recognised it as ‘Poor Little Rich Girl' – Shane had sung it in some revue he'd done years ago, when they'd been penniless students in Galway. It had been one of those jazz baby songs about living life to the max, whooping it up with cocktails and laughter. Adair had had his share of cocktails and laughter, of Cristal champagne and gold-plated taps in his bathroom, of hotel suites and slap-up feeds in the most expensive joints in the world, but they hadn't made him a happy man. Río guessed the least she could do was to allow him to die a happy man. A year. It would only take a year.

Izzy had fished her phone out of her bag, and was examining the display. Turning brimming eyes on Río, she managed a smile. ‘It's Daddy,' she said.