The Kinsella Sisters (11 page)

‘Oh, wow!’ breathed Río. ‘Look at that seascape!’

‘Yes. Isn’t it stunning?’

‘Well, yes–but I was actually talking about the one on the wall.’

Río was gazing at a painting hanging on the plain white wall of the landing. It was a representation in oils of a stretch of beach edged with a fringe of creamy wavelets.

‘It’s a Paul Henry, isn’t it?’ asked Dervla.

‘Yeah. It must be worth thousands.’

Teach na Mara is a stroll away from the beautiful village of Lissamore, which is famous for its seafood restaurants and exclusive boutiques. There is a world championship golf links at nearby Coolnamara Castle Hotel, a marina, and a scuba-dive centre on accessible Inishclare Island. Teach na Mara is one of the finest seashore properties to come to the market in recent years.

Excellent! Now all that remained was to persuade Adair Bolger to sell.

The sisters wandered from balcony to balcony, from bedroom to bedroom, and from bathroom to bathroom.

‘Look!’ said Río. ‘The ends of the loo roll have been folded into pointy shapes, the way they are in hotels. I remember having to do that the summer I worked as a chambermaid in Coolnamara Castle. It seemed to me the most pointless thing in the world, ha-ha–pun intended.’

Río’s sense of humour really was incredibly juvenile, thought Dervla. Despite the pat denial, she suspected that her sister
had
been trying to wind Adair up earlier with her ‘disingenuous’ remarks about keeping poultry in a penthouse and slow comfortable screws. If Dervla had known that she was going to subject Adair to a barrage of infantile digs this afternoon, she’d have declined the invitation on her sister’s behalf yesterday.

The last bedroom they entered was the master bedroom. The guest rooms were all fit for princes and princesses; this was fit for a fairy queen.

‘Cor blimey,’ said Río. ‘It’s clearly a
mistress
bedroom. There’s nothing very masterful about this boudoir.’

It was an exceptionally pretty room, all white, with a spectacular view of the bay through sliding glass doors framed by yards and yards of wafty white muslin. The furnishings were French style, with white-painted armoires and a sleigh bed draped in white cotton pique. Sofa and armchairs were fitted with loose covers in the same fabric, tied with grosgrain ribbon. A chaise longue had been positioned by the window, where the curtains lifted in the breeze that came in through half-open glass doors. Beyond the window was yet another balcony; Dervla had by now lost count of the number of balconies and buttresses that jutted out over the garden.

‘It’s a bit fur coat and no knickers, ain’t it?’ observed Río.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Think about it. The rest of the house is all impressively hi tech and minimalistic, but the sanctum sanctorum is like something Laura Ashley might dream up.’

‘I guess you’re right. Maybe his ex is a girly girl at heart.’

Louvred doors led from the bedroom to a dressing room and en suite bathroom. Dervla had lost count of the bathrooms too. Her expert eye took in a Grohe power shower, Catalano sanitaryware and a Villeroy & Boch Jacuzzi bath. There were no products scattered on shelves, and no clothes hanging in the
dressing room. The lady of the house had left not a trace of herself behind. This was the way Dervla liked her houses–clutter free and screaming ‘aspirational lifestyle’.

Moving back into Felicity’s boudoir, she registered that there were no personal effects here, either–no photographs, no books, no ornaments. The space was as devoid of personality as a hotel room that had been turned around for the next guest. She wondered if Felicity had chosen the furnishings herself, or if she had employed an interior designer. The latter, in all likelihood. People–even very rich people–were rampantly insecure when it came to furnishing their homes. They liked to be told how to do it by an expert.

‘He doesn’t sleep here,’ observed Río.

‘No,’ agreed Dervla. ‘He must use one of the spare rooms.’

‘The one with
GQ
magazine by the loo. He wears Acqua di Parma aftershave.’

‘Maybe he never slept here,’ said Dervla. ‘It’s such a quintessentially feminine space.’

‘Did you ever meet her?’

‘Felicity Bolger? Once. At a dinner party’

‘How did she strike you?’

‘A bit neurotic. Manipulative too. Not averse to using emotional blackmail to get her own way, I’d have thought. She certainly got her own way as regards the property in Dublin.’

‘Oh?’

‘Yes. It’s worth a cool fifteen mill’

‘Holy moly! How do you know, Dervla?’

‘I had a long chat with Adair yesterday.’

‘Adair! God–it’s such a poncy name, isn’t it?’

‘His real name is Darragh. Felicity got him to change it. She thought Adair sounded classier.’

‘What do you think of him?’

‘I like him. He’s a bullshit-free zone. And he’s sexy.’

‘Sexy? No man who wears Thomas Pink shirts can be sexy!’

‘I beg to differ. And his shirt is not Thomas Pink. It’s Ben Sherman.’

Río gave her sister a curious look. ‘Would you make a move on him?’

‘I told you, Río, I’ve neither time nor space for a man in my life.’

‘Not even a really, really,
really
rich one?’

‘He won’t be really, really, really rich once the divorce goes through. He’ll only be really, really rich.’

‘So if his ex got the house in Dublin, where’s
he
living?’

‘He’s bought a luxury apartment in a new docklands development. Correction–he’s bought two.’

‘Why does he need two apartments?’

‘One of them’s for his daughter.’

‘No shit! I wonder how it feels to be a princess.’ Río made a face. ‘Why couldn’t I have had a daddy who loved me enough to buy me a luxury apartment and shower me with gifts?’

‘Because life’s not fair, Río.’

‘Maybe I should find myself a sugar daddy.’

‘There’s one downstairs.’

‘Nah. I don’t find him remotely attractive.’ Río moved to the cheval glass by the window, and started running her fingers through her hair.

‘So why are you checking out your hairstyle, sister?’ Dervla asked.

‘I’m wondering if I should get highlights.’

‘Take my advice and don’t. Highlights are high maintenance. My last session cost me two hundred euro.’

‘Bonkers, isn’t it? The girl in the local salon only charges forty for a cut.’

It was bonkers. To Dervla’s eyes, of the two women reflected in the mirror, Río looked like the one who had forked out two hundred euro for her do. A mass of unruly hair surrounded her face like a halo in a Byzantine painting, while Dervla’s
meticulously cut bob appeared somehow to be trying too hard. She shot a look at her watch. ‘Come on, we’d better make a move back downstairs.’

‘There’s another balcony to check out.’

‘We’ve checked out enough balconies. It’ll look rude if we stay up here any longer.’

Río shimmied away from the cheval glass, and executed a theatrical pirouette. ‘Imagine what it would be like to live here, Dervla! Queen of all you survey!’

‘I thought you hated this house? You said it was ostentatious.’

‘It
is
ostentatious. Just like its owner.’

‘I’d hardly call Adair ostentatious.’

‘Hello? Mr Midlife Crisis personified, with his
Top Gear
car and his leather jacket and aviator shades? It wouldn’t surprise me if he had a tattoo somewhere. I bet he’ll help himself to a Harley next. You know what they say about middle-aged men who drive Harleys?’

‘To make up for the fact that they’ve minuscule dicks?’

‘Mm-hm.’

‘Don’t you think you’re being a bit unfair?’

‘You mean you’ve
seen
his dick?’

‘Oh, grow up, Río, and stop behaving like the kid who lost out on pass the parcel!’

‘What do you mean?’

‘It’s patently obvious that you’re still smarting over something Adair did yonks ago.’

‘Namely?’

‘Pulling down your dream cottage.’

From the expression in her sister’s eyes, Dervla could tell that she’d hit home. But then Río dismissed the remark with an airy shrug. ‘Hey! Maybe even having to put up with a minuscule dick would be worth it if you could get out of bed in the morning and wander out on the balcony to get a load of the sunrise, then head off for a skinny-dip before breakfast.’

‘Remind me to put that in the brochure copy if I ever get a chance to put this baby on my books,’ quipped Dervla.

Laughing, Río danced ahead of her sister to the top of the stairs. ‘Wow!’ she called back to her. ‘I’d love to slide down those banisters.’

A laugh floated up from the atrium below.

‘Be my guest,’ said Adair.

‘I thought you hated this house? You said it was ostentatious.’

‘It
is
ostentatious. Just like its owner.’

The words were shocking. Infinitely more shocking was the reply that followed some sentences later.

‘Maybe even having to put up with a minuscule dick would be worth it if you could get out of bed in the morning and wander out on the balcony to get a load of the sunrise, then head off for a skinny-dip before breakfast…’

Río’s voice faded away. It was just as well she hadn’t gone out onto the balcony, Izzy thought, because if she had she would have seen Adair’s ‘princess’ standing to the left of the sliding doors, fists clenched, listening to those two vile women as they bitched about her dad. Bitched? No. What Río had said was worse, much worse than mere bitching. She had cast aspersions on her father’s masculinity, she had belittled him, she had written him off as a buffoon.

But–and, oh God, the knowledge pierced her to the quick–wasn’t Izzy herself guilty of disrespecting her father? She herself was often mortified by his taste in clothes and music, by the fact that he was a dancing dad, an embarrassing oldie. But he was
her dad.
She was
allowed
to be mortified by him: disrespecting your parents was something all normal offspring did. But Río–this…
this
intruder–
had crossed a line. What she had said was unforgivable. It made Izzy sick to think about it; she couldn’t think about it; she
wouldn’t
think about it.

Where else in the house could the Kinsella sisters have gone snooping? Izzy wondered if they’d been into her bedroom. She wondered if they’d made disparaging remarks about her decor and sneaked into her walk-in wardrobe and checked out the labels on her clothes. She wondered if they’d scrutinised the contents of her bathroom and sniggered over her blemish bombs, or if they’d sneered at her
heat
magazine, the way they’d sneered at her dad’s
GQ.
What kind of literature did she expect to find in a man’s bathroom? Marcel bloody Proust? And what was wrong with a man taking care of his appearance? At least he bothered–unlike Río Kinsella, with her rag-bag clothes and her mad hair.

Izzy scooped up her phone from where she’d set it on the balustrade of the balcony, and jabbed redial. ‘Lucy?’ she said when her friend picked up. ‘The most horrible thing has happened.’ And she filled her best friend in on the bitchfest that had just gone down in her mother’s bedroom.

‘Ouch. Poor you, Iz! You must be hurting
bad,’
said Lucy when Izzy’s tirade timed out.

‘I am. I am. But I’m gonna get her.’

‘How?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Spike her drink.’

‘With what?’

‘Urn. Some of your mother’s Xanax?’

‘There isn’t any. She popped the lot. Oh, Lucy, they were
vile!
And that Río woman really fancies herself. She was prancing around in front of the mirror, checking herself out and swishing her hair.’

‘Uh-oh.’ There was an ominous silence on the line, and then Lucy said, ‘D’you know what I think, Izzy? I think she might be after your dad.’

‘What?’ Izzy was so appalled by this notion that her fist clenched harder than ever. ‘But she said she didn’t find him sexy! And she said she hates this house and everything it stands for!’

‘What
does
it stand for?’ asked Lucy.

‘I suppose she thinks it’s a symbol of plutocracy’

‘Um. Forgive my ignorance. What’s plutocracy mean?’

Oh! There Izzy went again, using a big word when a small one would do. But at least her best mate was used to the fact that Iz talked kind of nobby. Anyone else night have thought she was showing off. ‘Plutocracy means the power bestowed by wealth. She’s probably an anarchist who despises anyone who earns more than she does. She wears kind of anarchist’s clothes.’

‘Hm. I wouldn’t be so sure. Maybe she’s just really bitter and twisted. People who are critical of other people’s taste are usually eaten up with jealousy.’

‘You reckon?’

‘Yeah. So when she sneers at something, it means she secretly covets it.’

‘That’s
interesting. She said my mum’s bedroom was Laura Ashley’

‘In a disparaging way?’

‘Yes. But then she said something about how lovely it would be to wake up in it.’

‘She actually said that? She said she’d like to wake up in your mum’s bedroom?’

‘Yes.’

‘Yikes, Izzy. She’s after your dad’s money. I’d keep an eye on him, if I were you.’

‘Really?’

‘Yeah. He’s vulnerable right now, and ripe for rebound. It’s a classic syndrome. When men are jilted, they’re sitting targets for predatory types like this Río person.’

‘Oh, I’m so glad I’ve a psychology student for a BF!’

‘Just don’t ask me about the Electra complex.’

‘That’s got something to do with fathers and daughters, hasn’t it?’ asked Izzy.

‘Yep. You could be a case study, Iz. Joke.’

‘And what’s the one about mothers and sons?’

‘That’s Oedipus.’

‘Hm. I wonder. You should have seen the look on her face when she spotted me chatting with Finn yesterday’

‘Whose face, and who’s Finn?’

‘Río’s. Finn’s her son. He’s kinda cute, in a bogger way. He has the kind of floppy hair you’d like to push away from his face.’ And the kind of face you’d like to study on a pillow, lying next to you, thought Izzy: then rapped herself mentally over the knuckles and told herself to
stop that!

‘How did she look at you?’

‘The mother? Like, “Hands off my son”, you know? All narrow-eyed and suspicious.’ Izzy suddenly became aware of footsteps crossing the marble floor of her mother’s bedroom. ‘Oops–hang on, Lucy–there’s someone coming.’

‘There you are, Izzy!’ Her father stuck his head round the sliding door that led onto the balcony. ‘I’ve been looking all over for you. Come and join us for a drink.’

‘Hang on a sec, Luce.’ Izzy covered the mouthpiece of her phone with her hand, and adopted a pleading expression. ‘Do I have to, Dad?’

‘Yes, you do. I don’t want word going round the village that my daughter has no manners. What are you doing on the balcony, anyway? It must be freezing out there.’

‘I came out for some fresh air,’ Izzy lied. She’d actually come out to hide from the snoopy Kinsella sisters.

‘Well, if you’re in need of fresh air, why don’t you show Río round the garden? She said she’d love a tour.’

Adair withdrew, and Izzy sighed into her phone. ‘I have to go now, Lucy,’ she said. ‘Dad wants me to join the she-wolves. He’s
worried that they’ll think I’m being rude. Ha! They ain’t seen nothing yet!’

‘What do you mean?’

‘After what they said about my father, I think I’ve every right to be as rude as I damn well please.’

‘Are you going to tell him?’

‘About the bitchfest in the boudoir?’

‘Yeah.’

‘No. He’s had enough knocks recently. I couldn’t bear to see the hurt on his face.’ Laughter rose from the drawing room downstairs. ‘I’d better go, Luce. Thanks for your advice.’

‘No problem, darlin’. Let me know how things pan out.’

‘Will do. Bye!’

Izzy depressed ‘end call’, and took a deep breath. She noticed that the palm of her free hand had little sickle moon shapes indented into it from where she’d been digging in her nails. In scuba sign language, Izzy remembered, narrowing her eyes, a clenched fist meant ‘danger’.

Río was sitting on a leather rocker downstairs in the big room–what class of a room was it, exactly: sitting room, living room, drawing room, salon, lounge? She was chewing on Macadamia nuts and enjoying her Slow Comfortable Screw Up Against the Wall, Mexican style. Adair Bolger sure mixed a mean cocktail. The alcohol had gone straight to her head, and had bestowed upon her that lovely tingly feeling that was one of the more pleasurable effects of a stiff drink.

Adair and her sister had been talking boring property talk, so Río had tuned out. She had fixed her attention on the vista before her–the view that never failed to astonish her, whatever the weather. Its mood changed every minute of every day of the year; it was like watching a panorama in motion. Some days it danced before her eyes, sun bouncing off a diamantine sea; some days it threw a tantrum–wind and waves and sky railing against
each other; some days it waxed melancholy, a blue moon reflected in its midnight depths. And sometimes, like today, it was dreamlike, bathed in a blue-green mist. And there, far out in the bay–too far to wave to–was Seamus Moynihan’s red and white fishing boat. She’d mosey down to the harbour later, to pick up some fresh fish for supper.

The gentle rocking of the chair combined with the alcohol made Río want to stretch out like a cat on the big leather cushions and go to sleep. How wonderful it must be to stroll out into your garden and be greeted by that view every day! How wonderful to know–because there were no other houses in the vicinity–that this breathtaking panorama belonged to you exclusively! It was shameful, really shameful, that this house was so seldom occupied, that it spent so many months of the year dozing behind its security gates, shuttered and forlorn.

Río knew that the granting of planning permission for the Villa Felicity had been based on the understanding that the house be lived in full time for a minimum of four years. What a daft proviso! How could it be enforceable? Was a spy from the Planning Department meant to lurk around the garden, making notes of the dates on which members of the Bolger family were in residence? Río had scant regard for the Planning Department. She knew it had once been run by penpushers with a proclivity for brown paper envelopes stuffed with cash, and she suspected that that was exactly how Adair Bolger had got the go-ahead to build his horrible blot on the landscape.

Still, she had to admit that sitting here with a cocktail to hand and that vista in front of her was a pretty damn fine experience.

‘How do you do?’

Someone had strolled into the view. It was Adair’s daughter, Isabella. She extended a hand to Río, and Río felt uncomfortable suddenly, lolling against cushions when a formal introduction was clearly expected of her. She stood up clumsily, the seat of the rocking chair banging into the backs of her knees.

‘How do you do?’ she echoed, setting her highball glass on a side table and taking Isabella’s proffered hand. It felt stupid to be saying ‘How do you do?’ She didn’t think she’d ever said it before in her life.

‘Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Isabella Bolger,’ said Isabella. ‘Pleased to meet you. And you are…?’

‘Río Kinsella.’

As she said her name, a shard of Macadamia nut flew out of Río’s mouth and landed on Isabella’s cheek. Río was struck dumb with embarrassment, but she had to hand it to the girl: she didn’t flinch. She simply raised a manicured hand and brushed the offending crumb away without comment.

‘Río? What an unusual name,’ said Isabella, lightly.

‘It’s short for Ríonach.’

‘Really?’

‘Um. Yes.’ There was a pause, and Río felt obliged to elaborate. ‘It’s the Irish word for “queenly”.’

‘Cool!’ said Isabella, cool as you like. She curved her mouth in a smile, then turned and observed the seascape. ‘What beautiful weather for this time of the year!’ she remarked.

‘Yes,’ said Río. ‘But the forecast is for rain tomorrow.’

A silence descended between the two women. On the other side of the room, Dervla and Adair were oblivious, lost in property-speak. Río felt like a complete eejit, a goose. What else could she talk about, apart from the weather?

‘Your garden is beautiful,’ she managed finally. Wow! Inspired!

‘Yes, it is. Daddy tells me you’d like to see around.’

‘That would be delightful’ Delightful? Where had
that
come from?

‘I’m happy to oblige. This way.’

The girl marched towards a side door, and held it open for Río. Steps led from the wraparound deck to a gravel pathway that ran adjacent to the west side of the house. Río trudged in Isabella’s wake, feeling like a tourist being shepherded by a tour
guide. She remembered that when the Bolgers had first built the place, this part of the garden had been open to the sea. Now it was enclosed by a high brick wall. It was necessary, she supposed, to protect the herbaceous borders from the elements, but the grey brick had a forbidding air about it. She was reminded of the Oscar Wilde story about the selfish giant, who had refused to allow children to play in his garden.

The path took them up a slope to where Felicity’s yoga pavilion enjoyed a cracking view of the garden and seascape. Here, Isabella stopped and looked directly at Río, as if expecting some kind of response.

‘It’s–um–magnificent,’ said Río. ‘Do you practise yoga, Isabella?’

‘No. But Mummy does. She finds it therapeutic’

‘Ah. Gardening is my form of therapy.’

‘Really? Do you have a big garden?’

‘No. I don’t have a garden at all.’

‘Oh? That must be something of a challenge.’ And Isabella gave a laugh that reminded Río of the ice tinkling in Dervla’s San Pellegrino earlier.

‘I–er–look after other people’s gardens for them.’

‘I see. So you’re a gardener.’ Was she imagining it, or did she detect a hint of disdain in Isabella’s voice?

‘Well. I’m not exclusively a gardener. I have other jobs as well.’

‘Oh?’

‘Yes. I–er–paint.’

‘Houses?’

‘Sorry?’

‘You’re a house painter?’

‘No, not that kind of painting.’

‘Oh! So you’re an artist! How fascinating. Daddy’s a collector. He owns some fabulous artwork.’

‘I saw the Paul Henry on the landing.’

‘That’s a copy. He doesn’t keep the original here for security reasons. All his paintings are hanging in the apartment in Dublin.
Apart from the canvases that are on loan to the National Gallery, of course. What do you paint?’

‘Landscapes mostly.’

‘Might I know your work?’

‘Some of my stuff’s for sale in Fleur’s shop in the village.’

‘Oh, yes. I’ve seen it.’

Isabella’s opinion of Río’s work was made perfectly clear by the absence of any comment, and by the way she adroitly changed the subject by adding: ‘I love your scarf!’