The Kinsella Sisters (17 page)

‘How are you feeling now?’

‘Much better, thanks to you.’

It was true. Since Río had started to work for Dervla and ‘got creative’, things were on a more even keel. Now that she’d moved into her new home and no longer had so many money worries, life without Finn was more bearable. She’d even started painting again. The bad dreams she’d suffered from–the ones where she trailed through the night like a vagabond, losing things all over the place–were less frequent, and every time she turned the key in the lock and shut her front door behind her, the sense of contentment that suffused Río made her feel as aglow as a Ready Brek kid.

‘Oh, I nearly forgot,’ said Dervla, setting down her glass, ‘I brought you a house-warming present.’ She reached into her leather tote and took out a rectangular object wrapped in handmade paper.

‘As well as flowers? Dervla, you’ve got to stop being so generous.’

Río was reluctant to take the parcel that Dervla was holding out to her. Her sister had gifted her her home, she had found her a job, she had restored her self-esteem. It made her feel uncomfortable sometimes to contemplate how indebted she was to Dervla, and she fervently hoped that some day she would be in a position to repay her.

Beneath the paper–in a simple wooden frame–was a sampler, hand-embroidered in silk thread. Birds and bees and butterflies worked in French knots and featherstitch and herringbone encircled a motto that read ‘Home is where the Heart is’. Río smiled. It was the most perfect house-warming present she could have asked for.

‘You do like it?’ asked Dervla. ‘You don’t think it’s too kitsch?’

‘I absolutely love it,’ Río told her. ‘I’m going to hang it in pride of place, above my Dutch stove. Where on earth did you find it? Samplers like this have real scarcity value.’

‘I drove a hard bargain,’ she said. ‘It cost me ten euro in a car boot sale.’

Río crowed. ‘Well, doesn’t my sister rock! An antique dealer would have charged you ten times that!’

Dervla dimpled a little. ‘There’s a lot to be said for austerity chic,’ she said, ‘and I’m lucky to have the best mentor going.’

‘Oh, yeah? Who might that be?’ asked Río.

‘My sister,’ said Dervla, holding out her arms for a hug.

Later, after a second helping of the chocolate mousse, which Río had twisted Dervla’s arm into eating, and after many reminiscences about their childhood that had them in fits of laughter rather than in floods of tears (‘Remember the time Dad came back from the pub when he’d sold his business for cash?’ ‘Yes! And he had tenners spilling out of his pockets and he gave us each a handful and told us to go and buy something nice to wear!’ ‘And d’you remember the time he recited the lines along with the actors when we went to that Yeats play?’ ‘Yes! And then he fell asleep and started snoring. And d’you remember the time…’)–much later, when Dervla checked on her BlackBerry for the second time that evening, there was, indeed, mail from C. Vaughan.

‘Result! Listen to this. “Dear Dervla,’” Dervla read out loud, ‘“It was–” wait for it!–“serendipitous to meet you earlier this evening. I should be extremely interested in viewing a number of properties on your books. Perhaps you could give me a call at your convenience? In case you may have mislaid my card, my number is–” blah blah blah.’

‘Show me, show me!’ said Río, reaching for the BlackBerry, and feeling a flutter of excitement for her sister. Scanning the screen, she scrolled down and widened her eyes. ‘Wow,’ she said. ‘Did you get a load of the way he signed off?’

‘No,’ said Dervla. ‘You grabbed the BlackBerry before I got a chance.’

‘Give me a thousand kisses, then another hundred, then another thousand, then a second hundred, then yet another thousand more, then another hundred,’ said Río, deadpan.

‘Ha-ha,’ said Dervla, with a laconic yawn. ‘What did he really say? “Best wishes”, “All best”, or “Best”?’

‘None of the above,’ said Río. ‘He said “Warmest”.’

Dervla looked thoughtful for a moment, and then she gave a little smile. ‘The cheek of him!’ she said.

‘There are three properties I’d be interested in viewing,’ Christian Vaughan told Dervla over the phone the next day. ‘One is the converted church.’

‘That’s definitely worth a look,’ said Dervla.

‘The other is the Victorian hunting lodge.’

‘An absolute must-see.’

‘And, thirdly, I’d like to have a look at the Old Rectory.’

‘Oh.’

‘Don’t tell me it’s gone?’

‘No. In fact, it’s been on our books for some time.’

‘So why hasn’t it sold? Is there some problem with it?’

‘No, no. It’s–it’s beautiful. It’s just that the owner has refused to drop the asking price, and buyers these days are looking for bargains.’

Dervla had had mixed feelings when the owner of the Old Rectory had refused to budge on the price. It had put prospective buyers off even bothering to view the property, which was, of course, bad news for her, professionally. But while the Old Rectory remained unsold, Dervla allowed herself to dream that one day it might be hers.

It was, of course, a complete pipe dream. Dervla was a registered member of IAVI–the Institute of Auctioneers and Valuers in Ireland–and was bound by a strict code of ethics. While
the property was on her books, there was no way she could even think about putting in a bid for it. There were ways that other, less ethical, agents got around this rule. They would keep the price unrealistically high and make viewings as difficult as possible for prospective buyers, and then–when the vendors were on the verge of despairing that they would never sell–the agent would put in a low offer, a kind of ‘sympathy’ bid. Once the contracts had been signed and the property was legally theirs, they would scarper, cackling up their sleeves like pantomime baddies. It wasn’t just the code of ethics that Dervla felt bound by; she had her own fairly strict moral code, and liked to think she was a person of integrity. It was for these reasons that she made a point of never allowing herself to become emotionally entangled with her properties. It was just too dangerous.

The Old Rectory, however, was an exception. The house so resembled the one of her childhood dreams that she had fallen in love with it at first sight. It was a small double-fronted Georgian manor, approached by a winding, tree-lined avenue, which curved graciously up to the front entrance before serpenting round to the back. Here, a large courtyard housed the kind of outbuildings that were crying out for conversion. The main house had retained all its original features. Dervla could repeat the list like a mantra: original cornices, coving, ceiling roses and bas-relief panels; original stone flag flooring, fireplaces, recessed windows and wooden shutters.

‘What about the Mill House?’ suggested Dervla, trying to expand Christian Vaughan’s horizons. ‘It’s a rarity, and an absolute beauty.’

‘Too much hard work,’ said Christian. ‘The thatch would be a bitch to maintain, and I don’t have a clue how a mill wheel works.’

‘The Old Schoolhouse? It’s in turn-key condition.’

‘Too small.’

‘No worries!’ said Dervla, sounding a lot more upbeat than she felt. ‘I’ll put in some phone calls, and hopefully all three properties will be available to view tomorrow.’

Dervla knew they would be available: none of the owners was resident, and she had keys to all three houses. But it was a matter of professional courtesy to let those concerned know that a viewing was on the cards, whether they were in situ or not.

She made the phone calls. The converted church? Check. The hunting lodge? Check. The third call was long distance to Mr McKenzie, vendor of the Old Rectory. He had bought it as a holiday home a decade ago, and visited it only twice. ‘Sure–go ahead,’ said McKenzie. ‘And tell whoever’s interested that I’m prepared to negotiate downward.’

‘Downward?’ echoed Dervla. ‘I thought you were determined to stick to your original asking price, Mr McKenzie?’

‘Sheesh. I’ve been waiting over a year for that baby to shift. If you can’t beat ’em, makes sense to join ’em at this stage, dontchathink?’

‘Well…’ Dervla thought quickly. If McKenzie was prepared to drop his price, and the house still didn’t sell, then that could be good news for her because he would, in all likelihood, decide to switch agents. In which event there was nothing to stop her, Dervla, from entering the bidding. ‘Well, Mr McKenzie, perhaps you’d like to think about the kind of figure you have in mind?’

‘Nah. See what the sonofabitch is prepared to offer, and get back to me.’

‘Certainly,’ said Dervla, adding, ‘Good morning, Mr McKenzie.’

It was actually afternoon here in Ireland, but only ten a.m. in New York where McKenzie was receiving calls in his brownstone overlooking Central Park. But Dervla was a stickler for accuracy, and had trained her receptionist to say ‘Good afternoon’ if she picked up the phone just one minute after midday. First impressions were
so
important.

She got straight back to Christian Vaughan.

‘Well, Mr Vaughan—’

‘Christian, please.’

‘Christian. Since all the properties are within a few minutes’ drive of Lissamore, I suggest we kill three birds with one stone. We could schedule the viewings for tomorrow morning, if that suits you?’

‘I have business in Ardmore, I’m afraid. But I should be through by midday. How about meeting up then?’

‘Certainly’

‘I’ll pick you up in Lissamore. That means we can halve our carbon footprint by using just the one car.’

Dervla hesitated. Since the disappearance of estate agent Suzy Lamplugh over twenty years ago, women auctioneers knew the importance of being vigilant. Dervla had completed a self-defence course, and her oversized Hermes handbag was not just a fashion accessory. It contained a personal attack alarm, a spray can of Mace, and a digital voice recorder, which she discreetly switched on any time she felt uneasy during a viewing. Her speed-dial numbers included her office, a private security firm, and half a dozen garda stations.

But in this instance, she had no worries. All Christian Vaughan’s details–including his passport and credit card numbers–were on record with the agency responsible for letting the house that was now known as ‘Harbour View’. If her tenant had any ulterior motives for viewing her properties–such as rape, abduction or murder–he wouldn’t get very far.

‘Sounds like a good idea,’ she said. ‘Tomorrow, midday, outside Harbour View?’

‘Perfect,’ said Christian. ‘I look forward to it.’

On putting the phone down, Dervla picked it up again to Río. ‘How are you fixed for casting a critical eye over some properties? I have to warn you, it’s pretty short notice.’

‘That’s OK. Which ones?’

‘The church, the hunting lodge, and the Old Rectory. No. Wait a minute. You don’t have to bother about the Old Rectory. But I might ask you to take a look at the other two and make sure they’re presentable? Just in case anyone’s been staying there?’

‘Sure,’ said Río.

Dervla was reasonably certain that both properties were in good nick, but she’d made a point of double-checking after she had learned a salutary lesson. On one occasion, a vendor’s son and a crowd of his friends had arrived down to Coolnamara from Dublin for a bank holiday weekend, and had either not been warned or hadn’t given a tinker’s that there was a viewing scheduled for the following Tuesday.

Dervla had gone into the house to be confronted by a smell that could only be stale Parmesan cheese or vomit, and which had proved to be both. Red wine had been spilled on the sitting-room carpet, unwashed plates were stacked in the kitchen sink, and half-empty bottles and glasses had been abandoned in every room in the house, including the downstairs loo. Dervla had found not one, but two pairs of discarded panties in an unmade bed under which lurked a couple of used French letters and a pornographic DVD.

It was the only time she had ever been relieved to receive a call from the prospective buyer to say that their car had broken down, and might it be possible to postpone the viewing until another day.

The following morning, Río called Dervla back to say that all was well. She’d laid fires in the sitting rooms of both properties, positioned plants strategically (orchids always looked fantastic in bathrooms) and laid out fresh towels and soap.

Midday found Dervla sitting on the sea wall opposite Harbour View, this time dressed in her work uniform of charcoal-grey suit, crisp white blouse and sensible shoes.

‘Hey,’ said Christian, when he rolled up bang on time. ‘I very nearly didn’t recognise you in those duds. Hop in.’

He was sitting behind the wheel of a Saab convertible, with leather-lined interior, sat nav and übercool sound system. Dervla was impressed, and impressed too by the way he handled the car once they hit the winding roads beyond the village. Christian had the air of a man who was totally in control, yet relaxed with it. It felt good to ride in a passenger seat. Dervla couldn’t remember the last time she’d been driven anywhere, except by taxi.

‘Where’s the dog?’ she asked.

‘I took her for a long walk on the beach this morning, before I hit Ardmore. She’ll likely spend the rest of the day sleeping off the effects of all that sea air. Being a city girl, she’s not used to it.’

‘Somebody once told me that the air in Coolnamara has the same effect on city people as a pint of Guinness,’ Dervla told him.

‘Pity you couldn’t bottle it,’ he returned with a smile.

‘Some enterprising local did, once. Bottled Coolnamara air, and sold it to Yanks.’

‘Maybe I should think about stocking some in the wine shop.’

Their first stop was the Victorian hunting lodge.

‘Do you ride?’ Dervla asked, as they pulled up outside the stable wing. ‘There are some lovely hacking trails nearby.’

‘’Fraid not,’ said Christian. ‘What interests me most about this house is the potential for converting the stables.’

They got out of the car, and Dervla produced a key. ‘The place has been extensively renovated in recent years,’ she told him, as she pushed open the front door, ‘to exceptionally high standards.’

Seguing effortlessly into estate-agent speak, Dervla led Christian through the hall to the kitchen, utility, sitting and dining rooms, the cloakroom and the office. Upstairs there were four bedrooms, two of which incorporated en suite bathrooms. Río had been thorough. The place looked loved.