James opened his folder, and drew out an A6 sheet. ‘But if you plant a lawn – see here, where it’s marked on the plan – that stretch of foreshore could easily be incorporated into the garden.’
‘Could be dodgy. People can be very territorial.’
James shrugged. ‘Only someone with local knowledge will know it’s an established right of way, Adair. And I don’t imagine many locals go strolling here, away from the beaten track.’
I do! thought Río indignantly. I go strolling here! And not only that, but I go skinny-dipping here too. And picnicking. And once upon a time I even managed some alfresco lovemaking here. Try planting a lawn on that foreshore, Adair, and I’ll tether Dorcas there and have her crap all over it!
‘I don’t want to make any enemies, James,’ said Adair. ‘It’s going to look bad enough, pulling down the cottage and putting up a structure ten times its size.’
‘I shouldn’t worry too much about that. The cottage would be sure to have a demolition order slapped on it within the next year or so in any case – if you hadn’t had the nous to snap it up first. Derelict buildings are anathema to the boys in Health and Safety’
‘And anathema to every developer worth the name.’ Spreading an expansive arm that took in the foreshore, the embankment and the cottage that Río knew lay nestled in the tangle of ancient trees beyond, Adair – looking more like Sunday Supplement Man then ever – sighed with contentment and said: ‘This will be our bucolic retreat, far from the maddening crowd. Our very own Withering Heights. There’s a literary reference for you!’
If Río hadn’t felt so pissed off, she might have sniggered.
‘Have you dreamed up a new name?’ James asked, with alacrity. ‘“Coral Cottage” will be a serious misnomer once you’ve increased the square footage.’
‘How about “Coral Castle”?’ suggested Adair, with a laugh.
‘That may be more accurate,’ agreed James. ‘But it’s hardly the most diplomatic of choices, if you want to keep the locals on your side.’
‘You’re right. As I said, I don’t want to make any enemies.’
Río bit down hard on her lip in an effort to stop herself shouting out the retort that sprang instantly to mind. But she was hungry for more insider knowledge and had no wish to alert these city gents to her presence – not just yet, anyway.
‘I’ve done a fair amount of tweaking since we last spoke.’
‘Good man, James!’
‘Allow me to show you the redrafts.’ James spread a sheaf of plans over a flat rock, and both men hunkered down to study the drawings. ‘As I said, I’ve changed the aspect of the yoga pavilion. It’ll mean less privacy, but by angling it a fraction more to the east it will catch the morning sun full on, and …’
And on. And on. And on the architect went. Several more minutes of prime eavesdropping went by, during which time Río learned the following: the house was to have underfloor heating. It was also to have a vast feature fireplace in the sitting room, floor-to-ceiling triple-glazed windows throughout, and state-of-the art white goods in the catering kitchen. It was to have two family bathrooms, three en suite bathrooms, a downstairs shower room, and a hot tub on the deck. It was to have an entertainment suite, a games room and a bar, as well as a home gym and a home spa and a home office so that Adair could keep in touch with his business associates in Dublin and London and New York. It was to have a guest suite with more en suite bathrooms, where Felicity’s friends could take up residence when they came down from Dublin for house parties. It was to have a swimming pool – a swimming pool, fifty yards from the sea! – and, of course, it was to have a walk-in wardrobe-cum-dressing room in Felicity’s suite, where, Río presumed, the lady of the house could stash her Ralph Lauren casuals. It was – in James’s words – ‘a home with a kick’.
A home with a kick?. Whatever happened to a home with a heart? Or was home in Celtic Tiger Ireland no longer where the heart was? Was it more imperative to construct a great big kick-arse des res that announced to the world your great big kick-arse status?
‘Felicity can start compiling her invitation list,’ was Adair’s final observation, as the two men got up to go. ‘She’s planning some serious parties. She’s asked Louis if Boyzone might be available for the house-warming.’
Boyzone! What planet were these people living on? Río rose stiffly to her feet and followed their progress from behind the dark lenses of her sunglasses. Their voices came back to her intermittently on the breeze as they trudged along the sand. They were talking money now. They were talking millions.
‘Adair?’ A woman wearing a butterscotch suede shirtwaister and matching loafers was making her way with difficulty along the overgrown path that flanked Coral Cottage. Her hair was swishy and stripy with highlights, her tan looked airbrushed, and her accent was a grown-up version of Isabella’s. ‘Adair!’ she called again. ‘Where’s Izzy got to?’
‘I thought she was with you?’ said Adair.
‘No, no! I thought she was with you. Where on earth is she?’
‘Maybe she’s exploring.’
‘Well, I hope she’s not. I told her if she set foot on the beach that she was not to go beyond the slipway. Izzy? Isabella!’ The woman’s eyes scanned the shoreline, and then her hands flew to her neck and clasped at the pearls that encircled it. ‘Ohmigod. There are her sandals.’
‘Where?’
‘There, on the slipway. See? But where is Isabella?.’
The tableau the three of them struck looked so much like something out of a Greek tragedy that Río felt like a deus ex machina as she stepped forward to the edge of the cliff.
‘It’s OK,’ she told them. ‘I know where she is.’ Raising a hand to her mouth and forming an ‘O’ with the tips of her thumb and middle finger, she blew robustly. Her second whistle drew a corresponding one from beyond the western headland, and within moments Finn was silhouetted against the skyline.
‘Finn!’ shouted Río. ‘Bring the girl back here. Her mammy wants her.’
‘Coming!’
Twisting her hair into a knot, Río bent down to scoop up her espadrilles and her backpack, then proceeded down the cliff path towards where the gobsmacked trio of adults was standing. When she drew abreast with them, she slid off her sunglasses and gave them the benefit of her steely, green-grey gaze.
‘Hi,’ she said. ‘Your girl went off to have a look at the donkeys.’
‘Well, goodness!’ said a clearly discomfited Felicity. ‘She really shouldn’t have done that without asking me first! I emphatically told her not to go beyond the slipway’
‘Hey, Ma!’
Turning, Río smiled at Finn as he approached the slipway. The sure-footed stride, the intelligent face, the lean-limbed grace – all these traits evoked the Celtic chieftain after whom he was named. And the liquorice smeared around his mouth only served to emphasise the lopsided beauty of his grin.
Isabella was loping along beside him, gloriously dishevelled. Her blonde curls were tousled, her face was flushed, and her hot-pink pedal-pushers were covered in grass stains. Her mouth, like Finn’s, bore telltale traces of liquorice, and her smile was radiant.
‘Mummy!’ she cried, dancing over to where Felicity stood, still clasping her pearls as if they were rosary beads. ‘You should have seen the baby donkey! She was sooooooooo cute! And guess what we’ve called her? Pinkie!’
‘Hello? You called her that,’ said Finn.
Felicity stepped onto the slipway, and looked pointedly at Isabella’s abandoned sandals. ‘Put your shoes back on, Isabella,’ she