Finn.’
‘But I know you won’t do any of those things,’ said Dervla. ‘Because I know you’ve always wanted a home you can call your own. We both have.’
The sisters regarded each other for a long moment.
Finn broke the silence. ‘Will Ma be consulted about the design of the place?’ he asked. ‘It seems only fair to let her have some say in what it’ll look like.’
‘Of course,’ said Dervla, reassuming her brisk manner. ‘You’ll be glad to know that I’ve asked my architect to include a balcony to the front, Río, so you’ll have a view of the sea. Subject to planning, of course.’
‘Hm. This all sounds very good.’ Finn reached for the wine bottle, and Río could tell by his expression that he was thinking that this all might be too good to be true. ‘I hope you don’t mind me saying this, Dervla,’ he said, moving across the room to top up her glass, ‘but I’d like to have a look at anything Ma has to sign, because she finds red tape a bit–well–intimidating.’
‘That won’t be a problem, Finn. Cheers.’
‘Cheers.’ Río gave her son a big smile as he refilled her glass. How sweet of him to look out for her! And he was right about the red-tape thing. Río had a fear of filling in forms and signing contracts that verged on the pathological. ‘What will being “resident supervisor” involve, sis?’ she asked.
‘Turning the place around between rentals. Laundry, a bit of cleaning, making a note of meter readings, that kind of thing.’
‘You mean skivvying,’ said Finn.
He said it in a jokey voice, but from the detectable hint of steel, Río could tell that Finn didn’t like the idea of his mother doing Dervla’s dirty work. Hell, she didn’t mind! The prospect of living rent and mortgage free in exchange for doing a bit of housework was a heady one. She’d had worse jobs. She’d worked in a call centre once, where she’d been glad to be fired after she’d called a customer a dickhead (in her defence, he’d called her a cunt).
‘Will I have to clean the loo?’
Dervla looked taken aback. ‘Well–yes,’ she said.
‘In that case,’ said Río with mock hauteur, ‘I might have a few conditions of my own.’
‘Shoot.’
‘Can I keep a marmalade cat?’
‘Yes,’ said Dervla, with a laugh.
‘Then I guess it’s a done deal. W.B.’ll be glad to know that he’s found a home. Have you got your Dalmatian yet?’
‘No. I’ll have to move into the Great House first.’
‘With the Pierce Brosnan lookalike?’
‘I’ve lowered my standards a bit since then.’
‘What are you two on about?’ asked Finn.
‘We used to have a fantasy,’ said Río, ‘when we were little, that Dervla would marry a man who looked like Pierce Brosnan and live in a Great House with a Dalmatian and manicured lawns.’
‘And where were you going to live, Ma?’
‘I was going to marry a Pierce Brosnan lookalike too, and I was going to live in a cottage by the sea with an orchard and a marmalade cat. Ha! I’ll have to forgo the orchard–unless I get a load of bonsais for my balcony.’
‘Well, at least you got the cat bit right,’ said Finn, as WB. marched into the room, authority manifest in his ramrod-stiff tail. He was followed by Mr Morrissey, who was saying: ‘Yes, yes, yes. I am, of course, Your Grace’s most obedient servant.’
Mr Morrissey ended his call, and slid his phone back into the pocket of his suit. ‘His Grace is ebullient as ever,’ he announced with a self-satisfied smile. ‘Now. Is everything settled?’
‘We think so,’ Dervla told him.
‘Excellent!’ said Mr Morrissey, with great enthusiasm. ‘In that case, I’ll be off. His Grace has invited me to cocktails at the palace.’
‘As the actress said to the bishop,’ quipped Finn.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Stop being facetious, Finn,’ said Dervla, waspishly.
At the front door, they all shook hands, and Mr Morrissey said: ‘May I just say again how sorry I am for your trouble. Your father was a real character.’
And Río and Dervla smiled and waved as he walked to where his Lexus was parked further down the street.
Río stooped to pick up a cigarette butt that someone had ground out on the doorstep. ‘Time to clear up,’ she said.
‘I’ll start on the dishes.’ Finn retreated into the kitchen trilling, ‘Where are my Marigolds?’
Dervla raised her eyes to heaven and retrieved her Hermes handbag from the hall table. ‘We’re nearly out of washing-up liquid. I’ll nip up to the shop for some.’
‘You might get some Solpadeine too. I feel a headache coming on.’
Río felt very tired suddenly. She shambled back into the study to begin tidying up the remains of the party. And as she started collecting plates and glasses and piling them onto a tray, she thought about what Finn had said earlier, when he’d told her he’d find a place of his own to live. She knew she could survive without him for a year, while he was off doing his round-the-world thing–especially now that there were loads of ways of checking that all was well via Skype and MSN and email. Keeping in touch wasn’t what it had been when she was his age, when long-distance phone calls had been too expensive and letters too much of an effort. But she hadn’t allowed herself to think about what it would be like once Finn left home for ever.
For ever! Río remembered what Dervla had said on the day of their father’s death, about putting childish things behind her, and she understood that that was what her son was trying to do. She supposed it couldn’t be easy for him–a twenty-year-old man to be living with his mammy still. Maybe he got grief about it from his mates. Maybe he’d been angling to move out of their little rented house for years, but just hadn’t had the bottle to tell her because he knew how much she’d hate to lose him, hate to find herself living life solitaire–a childless hackney driver who scraped by working in other people’s gardens and part time in bars, and painting indifferent watercolours to sell like some old-time spinster. Hefting the tray piled with dirty dishes, Río moved down the hallway and kicked the kitchen door open with such force that Finn looked round as she came through.
‘Ma? Are you OK?’ he asked. The concern in his voice made her want to drop the tray and fling her arms around him and weep.
‘Yes. I’m fine,’ she said.
Stapling on a smile, Río looked at her son standing by the sink, waiting for the washing-up bowl to fill. He’d kicked off his trainers; they lay beside her Doc Martens on the kitchen floor, making them look like Barbie boots in comparison. He wasn’t her little boy. He was a grown man; he was his own man. He didn’t belong to her any more. And, as she’d said to him earlier that week, he never really had belonged to her. He’d only been hers to borrow for a couple of scarily short decades, and now she was counting down the days until he was no longer even on loan to her.
But what would become of her without him?
After Frank Kinsella’s wake, Izzy and Adair had gone for a walk along Lissamore strand, Izzy swapping her heels for trainers. They’d spotted a seal making its way up the estuary towards the oyster beds, and Izzy had told her dad the legend of the selkies, those beautiful