The Kinsella Sisters (29 page)

Shane stood up and looked down at her with a smile. ‘Sure.’ He disappeared into a bedroom and re-emerged with a big, glossy cardboard box, which he set on the coffee table in front of her. ‘Be my guest.’

Pulling away the tulle ribbon that bound the box, Río lifted the lid, feeling–like Pandora–a little apprehensive. Inside, nestled in scented tissue paper, was a treasure trove of silk: chiffon, foulard, crepe de chine. Río looked at Shane in astonishment.

‘It’s beautiful,’ she breathed.

‘Better than the stuff Baldy bought you?’

‘I keep telling you—’

‘“He didn’t buy me anything.’” Shane finished the sentence for her, mimicking her vexed tone. Then he smiled, and nodded at the frippery that was clamouring for her attention. ‘Go ahead,’ he said. ‘Have a look.’

No one had ever bought lingerie for Río before in her life. With reverent hands, she lifted item after item of exquisite under-things from the folds of tissue paper, and as she did, rose petals drifted onto the carpet. A scalloped bra trimmed with layer upon layer of ruffled baby-blue satin; another in ebony watered moiré: both with matching French knickers. A baby-doll nightie in barely-there mousseline, a pair of high-heeled mules with marabou feather pompoms. An assortment of embroidered garters, a dozen gossamer stockings, a butterfly’s wing of a camisole.

When she’d finished marvelling at the gauzy articles, Río laid them carefully back in their tissue paper nest, and placed the lid back on, firmly–as if it were a fabulous confection of chocolate and she was on a diet.

‘Well?’ asked Shane.

‘Well what?’

‘Don’t you want to keep them?’

‘Of course I do!’

‘Then they’re yours.’

Río gave Shane an uncertain look. ‘No strings attached?’

‘Strings? Ribbons might be more appropriate.’

Río gazed at the box as if she could hear little siren songs emanating from it. Then she reached for her champagne glass and drained it. ‘I’m definitely over the limit now,’ she stated.

‘Whereas I have been a model of restraint. I could still chauffeur you to the Castle, where a deluxe suite awaits with champagne chilling and dinner already paid for.’

‘No ribbons attached?’

‘No ribbons attached.’

‘How many beds are there?’

‘Alas, there is just the one. But it measures at least nine feet by nine. We could put a bolster down the middle to designate our sleeping areas.’

Río did a little muzzy thinking. The notion of a night in a five-star hotel–not having to cook or clear away or wash up, and being waited on hand and foot instead of doing the waiting–was enormously seductive. Maybe she could have a massage or some kind of spa treatment–the spa in Coolnamara Castle was the last word in luxury. Fleur always raved about the hot stone treatment, and had promised to treat Río to one for her next birthday. Looking down at the box that contained the fairytale lingerie, Río decided that she
could
go to the ball–this once.

‘If we’re going to do this,’ she said slowly, ‘I’d better get into something a bit smarter than pyjama bottoms and T-shirt.’ She rose to her feet, cluching the box to her bosom.

‘How long will that take you?’ asked Shane.

‘Give me fifteen minutes,’ said Río.

Fifteen minutes later, Río and Shane were standing in the hallway of Harbour View, looking through the open front door at the rain. Underneath Río’s smart new dress she was wearing the ebony silk bra (she’d discovered that its clasp was a tiny red rosebud!) with matching knickers and a pair of sheer silk stockings. There was no room for a toothbrush in her teeny tiny purse, so she’d stuck it behind her ear.

Shane was wearing a suit (the first time Río had ever seen him in one) but no tie; French cuffs, but no cufflinks. He had the air of a dapper vagabond, and Río realised, as she caught a glimpse of their reflection in the hall mirror, that they made a damn fine couple. They smiled at each other, and then Shane jacked up a big black umbrella and said: ‘Let’s make a run for it.’

They piled into the car, and Río strapped herself into the passenger seat, then went to turn on the CD player.

‘Wait,’ said Shane, laying a hand over hers. ‘I’ve something here I want you to play.’

And as they took off down the main street of Lissamore, the strains of Duran Duran’s ‘Río’ could be heard thrumming over the stereo speakers.

In Coolnamara Castle, a porter led them to their suite. It overlooked the lake, as Shane had promised, and was sumptuously furnished with antiques, paintings, ornate mirrors and a vast four-poster bed swathed in rich brocade. Logs were set in a fire basket ready to be lit, and a wide French window opened onto a balcony ablaze with Virginia creeper. If ever such a property were to come under her remit, this is just how Río would have staged it. Champagne was waiting for them in an ice bucket, and in the en suite bathroom Molton Brown products were lined up on glass shelves, pleading to be pilfered.

‘Yay!’ said Río, ducking into the bathroom and cramming soaps, gels, shampoos and body lotions into a Coolnamara Castle laundry bag before shimmying back into the sitting room and setting upon the sewing kits and notepads and pencils. ‘And look, chocolates, heart-shaped shortbread! They’ve thought of everything. Fresh fruit–check. Books, flowers, candles–check. Hell, I suppose I can’t take
all
this stuff home with me. Music–check. Binoculars–check! But where’s the television?’

‘There isn’t one,’ said Shane. ‘It’s a television-free zone. You’re meant to look at the view instead. That’s why they provide binoculars.’

Río wandered out onto the balcony as Shane stripped the foil from the champagne bottle. It felt a little unreal to be alone in a hotel bedroom with her ex, especially in such quintessentially romantic surroundings. When they’d conducted their whirlwind affair all those years ago, they’d had no money to spend on luxurious hotel rooms. They’d snatched precious hours in Shane’s dingy flat in Galway, or backstage in his
dressing room or–as in the instance when Finn had been conceived–alfresco. The sound of the champagne cork popping made her turn. Bubbly was fizzing over the neck of the bottle, and she darted back into the room before any could be wasted.

‘Sléinte,’
said Shane, when he’d finished pouring.

‘Sléinte
back.’

They raised their glasses and looked at each other over the rims. Then Río took a step back, set her glass down on a side table, and picked up a book, just for something to do. It was a volume of erotic verse, she realised too late as she opened it randomly at a page upon which she read the following:

Her eyes took in the words ‘cunt’, ‘arse’, ‘fuck’ and ‘frig’ before she realised that the author of the poem was none other than Rochester, the debauched earl who had been played by Johnny Depp in some film she’d seen on DVD.

‘Oh, this is very rude stuff!’ she exclaimed.

‘Yeah? Show me,’ said Shane.

Swiftly, Río turned to another page and handed the book to Shane, hoping that the verses were less lurid than the ones she’d just read.

‘Well, whaddoyaknow!’ said Shane. ‘I know this. It’s from
Carmina Burana.
’

‘Oh? Read it to me,’ said Río.

‘No. I’d feel like an eejit, standing here spouting poetry.’

‘Oh, please! It means that I can e-mail one of your fantasy websites to say that Shane Byrne read me an erotic poem in real life.’

‘OK. But you’re not to snigger.’ Shane cleared his throat. ‘“Innocent breasts”,’ he began.

‘Hmm. There ain’t anything very innocent about these breasts,’ remarked Río, looking down at her cleavage.

Shane gave her a pissed-off look. ‘I’m not going to do this, Río, if you’re going to interrupt.’

‘Sorry’

‘I’ll make it “beautiful breasts” instead, OK?’

‘OK, OK. “Beautiful breasts” is good.’

‘“Beautiful breasts”,’ resumed Shane, ‘“when I have looked upon them,

Would that my hands were there,

How I have craved, and dreaming thus upon them,

Love wakened from despair.

Beauty on her lips flaming,

Rose red with her shaming,

And I with passion burning

And with my whole heart yearning

For her mouth, her mouth, her mouth

That on her beauty I might slake my drouth.’

Río was speechless. The poem, as read by Shane in his dark velvet voice, was astonishingly erotic. And even though she hadn’t a clue what ‘slake my drouth’ meant, he’d made it sound like something devoutly to be wished for. ‘Oh,’ she managed finally.

Shane put the book down. He looked at her from under his eyebrows, and then he allowed his eyes to travel downward. ‘Would that my hands were there,’ he said, slanting her a smile. ‘You’re in great shape, Río. I remember you always used to go braless. It was very sexy.’

‘That was back in the days when my breasts
were
innocent,’ said Río ruefully. ‘I needs must wear a bra now. Gravity has a way of creeping up on a girl.’

‘Tell me it’s the present I gave you.’

Oh, God. Something about the way Shane was looking at her made her know that he knew it was the present he had given
her. And not only that–that he knew that
she
knew he knew. ‘It’s the present you gave me,’ she admitted.

‘The blue one or the black?’

‘The black. To go with my stockings.’

‘Stockings, too?’ He sucked in his breath. ‘With the suspender thingy?’

‘I thought they called them garter belts in America?’

‘I don’t know what they call them in America. I’ve never bought underwear for a gal before.’

‘In that case, I feel privileged to be the first.’

‘Did I get your bra size right?’

Río hesitated, then gave him a challenging look. ‘Maybe you should check for yourself.

I think,’ said Shane, taking a step closer, ‘that that’s a very good idea. Did Baldy get the size right?’

‘How many times do I have to tell you—’

Shane laughed. ‘You sure look beautiful when you’re angry, Miz Kinsella.’ Reaching out a hand, he put a finger under her chin and tilted it. ‘“Beauty on her lips flaming”,’ he murmured.

‘You know the poem by heart?’ She wanted to hear it again. His voice always did it for her.

‘Yes, I do. I recorded it for an audio anthology of love poems for next Valentine’s Day’

Río bit her lip, then lowered her eyes. ‘Remind me how it goes again?’

‘“Beautiful breasts”,’ murmured Shane, ‘“when I have looked upon them, Would that my hands were there…’”

And as he trailed his fingers from her mouth to her shoulder, Río found herself wishing, too, that his hands were there. But Shane was taking things slowly. She remembered how in the past, she had felt as if under the spell of a master musician when Shane took charge of their love-making. He’d control proceedings adroitly, plucking at one invisible string to make her sing, stroking another to make her sob. Now his touch indicated that
she turn her back to him, and she complied, feeling his fingers brush against her skin as he drew the zipper of her dress slowly from the nape of her neck to the very base of her spine.

‘“How I have craved”,’ Shane breathed, running his hands back up from tailbone to shoulder blades, ‘“and dreaming thus upon them, love wakened from despair”.’ Río could not prevent a giveaway shudder. The corresponding smile in his voice made her feel more shuddery still, as a knuckle skimmed her ribcage and he asked: ‘May I?’

‘Yes.’

Unhooking the rosebud clasp of her bra, Shane gently tugged at the ebony silk so that he could cup her breasts. ‘“And dreaming thus upon them, love wakened from despair”,’ he repeated, retracing the contour of her back with a finger. ‘“Beauty Beauty on her lips flaming, rose red with her shaming…’” Río pressed herself closer into him and found that while she might be trembling, Shane was hard with arousal. ‘And?’ she prompted weakly, as the palms of his hands travelled over belly and breasts and buttocks.

“‘And I with passion burning…’”

Shane scooped up the mass of her hair to drop kiss after kiss on the nape of her neck, and Río half-closed her eyes in a virtual swoon, before turning to him.

“‘And with my whole heart yearning”,’ he crooned, lowering his mouth to her collarbone and sliding the sleeves of her dress along her arms. She heard the fabric fall to the floor with a sigh, and felt an artful finger slip under silk. Oh! He’d unwrapped her like a present.

Shane’s breath was coming faster now, but it was more measured than Río’s, who heard herself say, in a very ragged voice,

‘Yearning–for what, Shane?’

‘“For her mouth”,’ he replied. Oh, God! Río felt herself dissolve as his sleight of hand worked its magic. She clung to him as he drew her down upon the bed and covered her body with his.

‘“Her mouth…”
Your
mouth…’ Shane smiled down at her, and she saw that the pupils of his eyes were very, very black. ‘That on
your
beauty I might slake my drouth.’

As he lowered his face to hers, Río pulled at the fabric of his shirt and slid her hands beneath, revelling in the sensation of skin on skin. And when he’d finally stopped kissing her mouth and had moved on to many, many other parts of her, playing the instrument of her body
adagio, ad libitum, appassionata
and
glissando
, she stretched languorously, to allow him full access. ‘What’s “slake my drouth” mean, Shane?’ she asked drowsily, tangling her fingers in his hair.

‘It means,’ he said, ‘to “quench my thirst”. I’ve been parched for you for an awful long time, Río. You are that river you know. The one in the song.’

‘Oh!’ Río remembered the song they’d listened to in her car earlier, as they drove through the magical landscape of Coolnamara, to their sojourn in this fairytale castle. ‘The one twisting through dusty land?’

‘The very one.’

Río smiled, and wrapped her limbs around him. ‘Drink all you want of me,’ she said.

Dervla never went to bed with someone on a first date, and she had no intention of doing so this evening, so why had she gone shopping for brand-new lingerie at lunchtime?

Because a girl needs a treat, she persuaded herself, as she stood before the mirror in the ladies’ room of the Hamilton Hotel, checking out her look. Having opted for elegance with a dash of sex appeal, she was wearing her ‘Chanel’ suit. It was actually a very good bespoke copy by her dressmaker comprising a skirt that streamlined her derriere and skimmed her knees, teamed with a beautifully cut jacket, in red and ecru tweed. Her black patent sling-backed stilettos–shiny as her newly styled hair–clicked satisfyingly on the tiled floor as she angled herself this way and that. Did she look the business? Yes, she most certainly did.

Hm. Looking the business was all very well, but it was so long since Dervla had been on a date that she’d forgotten how to behave. Did one flirt? Or was flirting unseemly in a woman hitting forty? Did one talk shop? No, no–please, no–she was fed up talking shop, especially now that house prices were the new weather when it came to small talk. She could small talk about wine. She had consulted her
Bluffer’s Guide
in order to bone up on Christian’s specialised subject, so hopefully she
wouldn’t appear too ignorant when the sommelier poured Burgundy or Bordeaux into her glass. She could allow herself wine tonight, since she wasn’t driving.

She checked the time on her phone. It was just after seven thirty. If she sprayed herself with scent now and retouched her lipstick she’d be a very acceptable five minutes late, and she could make a poised entrance into the restaurant upstairs.

Unclasping her bag, she took out her atomiser, and as she did, the door to the ladies opened and a young woman with a buggy came through. She was laden with carrier bags, she had a baby strapped to her front, and she was trying to soothe a screaming child, who was struggling against his harness like a miniature King Kong.

She shot Dervla an apologetic look. ‘Excuse me,’ she said. ‘My little boy has been caught short, and he’s too young to go into the men’s toilet by himself. I hope you don’t mind. I know this hotel is dead posh, but there was nowhere else I could go.’

‘I don’t mind at all,’ said Dervla, with a smile, spritzing herself with eau de parfum and reaching for her lipstick. In the mirror, she could see the woman fumbling with the straps on the buggy as the small boy threshed around. ‘Stop it, Rocco,’ she said. ‘Ssh, now. Hush, hush–will you ever give over that racket? Stop–
please
stop. Now lookit! You’ve gone and made your sister cry!’

Rocco was puce in the face, roaring and shaking his fists like a bad actor playing King Lear, and to add to the drama, the poor baby had started to whimper and squirm in her sling, crushed as she was between Rocco’s flailing limbs and her mother’s bosom. Free at last, Rocco made a bid for escape, but the minute he propelled himself out of the buggy, the weight of the carrier bags hitched to its handles threatened to topple it over. His mother lunged for the bags and dumped them randomly on the floor where they lay, spilling their contents. Then, grabbing Rocco by the hand, she started pulling him in the direction of one of the cubicles. It was, however, patently clear that all three members
of the family were not going to fit in, and it was then that Dervla saw that the woman was pregnant.

She set down her lipstick. ‘Please let me help you,’ she said.

‘Oh!’ The woman looked at Dervla as if she were an angel descended from heaven. ‘Would you mind? Thank you
so
much–that’d be brilliant. If you could just take Angelina for me while I help Rocco…?’ And the woman started unstrapping the bundle attached to her chest.

Dervla hesitated, wishing there was some other way she could help. She wasn’t very good with babies. She tended to avoid those of her friends who had become mothers because they talked about nothing else but nappies and formula, and croup, whatever that was. And most babies she thought hideously ugly. But the baby that was handed to her had the face of a Raphael cherub framed by golden curls. Angelina blinked up at Dervla with forget-me-not-blue eyes, and her rosebud mouth rounded in a kissable ‘O’ of surprise.

‘I don’t think Angle’s ever seen anyone with such red lipstick before,’ said her mother. ‘Maybe she thinks you’re a clown. Um, no offence.’

‘None taken,’ said Dervla, with a laugh, taking the child into her arms. ‘Angie! Hello, Angie! How lovely to meet you! What a pretty girl! What age is she?’

‘Four months. She’s been growing like the clappers since I put her on solids. I don’t know what I’m going to do when she gets too big for the sling. I’ll have to get myself a double buggy. More feckin’ expense.’ Angelina’s mum finally succeeded in manoeuvring Rocco into the loo. ‘Now. In we go. Good boy. Here, let me help you with that…’ and as the door shut behind them, Dervla heard Rocco being asked if it was number one or number twos. Her heart sank a little when she heard it was to be number twos. She supposed this could take some time.

There was a gilt boudoir chair on the other side of the ladies. Moseying over to it, Dervla shifted Angelina onto her hip, the way
she’d seen mothers of young babies do. It felt right, somehow. It felt–well–
comfortable
, as if her hip had been specifically designed to be a perch for babies. Settling herself down to wait until Rocco had delivered his number two, she transferred Angie from her hip to her lap and checked out her reflection again. Hm. The ‘baby as fashion accessory look’ suited her rather well, she decided. Particularly one as cute as this Angie was. The child was still gazing up at her mouth with a kind of awe.

‘Well, my little Angel!’ said Dervla, automatically seguing into the voice used by women all over the world when addressing infants. ‘You like my lipstick, do you? You don’t need lipstick, Angel! Your mouth is perfect as it is–as pretty as a peony!’

Dervla started to jiggle her knees, and as she did, something miraculous happened. Angelina smiled. It was like watching speeded-up footage of a flower blooming on the National Geographic Channel, and it made Dervla’s heart blossom in equal measure.

Uh-oh. It was the first time she had ever, ever felt like this, and Dervla was quite unprepared for it. Was the overwhelming, biological urge to procreate finally kicking in before it was too late? She had read somewhere that the pupils of women’s eyes dilate when they look at babies. It could have been her imagination, but her eyes in the mirror really
did
seem darker.

The mirror reflected not just Dervla in her exquisitely tailored suit and bonny little Angelina in her ruffly stuff; it also reflected the detritus scattered on the floor of the ladies’ room. The buggy with its stained upholstery and grubby changing bag, the carrier bags disgorging products such as rusks and creams and wipes onto the floor: items as arcane to Dervla as the props of a magician.

Another bag spilled articles of chainstore underwear: a six-pack of plain cotton knickers, a nursing bra, a pair of pyjamas. These were not the shopping bags of a yummy mummy with money to spend. Dervla experienced a stab of guilt when she
realised that the combined cost of knickers, bra and pyjamas was probably less than the sum she had splurged on a single pair of Agent Provocateur briefs earlier today.

But looking down at Angelina’s little face, Dervla had no doubt that this child was more precious to her mother than the Krupp Diamond. That yearning rose in her again.

‘Angelina, Angelina,’ she murmured. ‘What have you done to me? You are a little minx–that’s what you are–to make me feel this way.’

The sound of the minx’s mother’s voice came from behind the door of the cubicle. ‘Good boy!’ she said. ‘All done!’ The door opened, and the pair emerged looking many times less frazzled than when they’d gone in. ‘Now, we’ll wash our handles, will we? Thank you so much,’ she added, turning to Dervla. ‘The name’s Paula, by the way.’

‘I’m Dervla,’ said Dervla, turning Angelina round so that she could see her mama. ‘Look, look! There’s Mummy now! Wave your little handie!’ She took Angelina’s tiny starfish hand in hers and wiggled it, and Paula waved back, and said, ‘Good baba!’

‘I have to tell you,’ continued Dervla, ‘that I have absolutely fallen in love with your baby. She is the cutest thing I’ve ever seen. I’m very tempted to tuck her under my arm and kidnap her, and—Oh!’

Dervla felt a sudden wash of warmth on her lap. Looking down, she saw that the cutest thing she’d ever seen had been sick all over the skirt of her faux Chanel suit.

‘Oh!’ she said again, and, ‘Oh my God, I am so
sorry!’
said Paula. The two women looked at each other, and it would have been impossible to tell who was the more horrified.

After a second or two of frozen non-action, Paula made the first move. She grabbed Angelina and set her on the floor, where she remained looking serenely up at her mother and gurgling. Then Paula pounced upon the pile of paper towels that lay folded
by the wash-hand basin, and fell to her knees in front of Dervla, mopping ineffectually at the pool of sick that was spreading over the front of her skirt.

‘No, no!’ cried Dervla, leaping up and unzipping herself. ‘That’s going to make it worse–you’re just rubbing it into the fabric’

She wriggled out of the skirt and teetered in her heels over to the basin, where she saturated a handful of towels and started trying to swipe the sick off under the taps, but even as she did so, she knew it was futile. There was no way she could wear this skirt tonight: even if she got rid of the stain, it would take ages to dry and it would be impossible to get rid of the smell. Could she race home and change? No. By the time she got there and into a new outfit and back to the hotel in a cab it would be at least half-past eight. She’d just have to phone Christian and make some excuse; she couldn’t tell him that she wasn’t able to have dinner with him because she was covered in puke. But then what? This might be the only evening he had free in Galway He might decide it wasn’t worth asking her out again. He might even decide against doing business with her. She might never see him again. And he was the only man she had met in an awfully long time who had made her feel like a cat that wanted to be stroked. She felt like crying.

‘I–I can’t tell you how sorry I am,’ stammered Paula, and when Dervla turned to the woman, she saw that she
was
crying. ‘I’ve had the worst day, and now this happens. You’re probably going to want to sue me. I’d say that suit’s worth a fortune.’ Paula’s face had gone bright red, and she was abject as a beaten dog.

‘Of course I’m not going to sue you,’ said Dervla.

‘Why not?’ Paula looked incredulous. ‘Doesn’t everyone sue everyone these days?’

‘No, no. Rest assured that suing you is the last thing on my mind. I’m actually more concerned about how I’m going to get myself out of the bloody hotel. I don’t particularly want to have
to get back into my skirt and walk through the foyer covered in vomit, and I can hardly walk out in what I’m wearing.’

‘No. You’d get arrested,’ said Paula, helpfully. ‘It looks like you’ve missed out on a really hot date, and it’s all my fault. Oh, Rocco, stop that! I’ve had to put up with enough from you today’

Rocco was sitting on the floor beside his baby sister, trying to put a pair of knickers on her. He’d ransacked the carrier bag containing his mother’s underwear, and was sporting another pair of knicks on his head. Paula crouched down and started putting things back into the bag, and as she reached for the pyjamas that were still attached to their chainstore plastic hanger, she paused.

‘I know!’ she said. ‘The red on these pyjamas is practically identical to the red of your suit. You could wear them out of the hotel, and nobody would bat an eyelid.’ Standing up, she held the pyjama bottoms against Dervla. The colours were a perfect match. ‘It’s just as well Angel didn’t get sick on your jacket, though. You mightn’t have gotten away with wearing the top.’ Paula’s pyjama top, Dervla saw, was emblazoned with the legend ‘Porn Star’.

Dervla looked at the pyjama bottoms and shook her head. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘Ah, go on, try them,’ urged Paula. ‘I bought them for my sister–she’s around the same size as you.’

I–I can’t.

‘Why not? Go for it! Nothing ventured…’

Paula thrust the pyjamas at her, and, feeling a tad ridiculous, Dervla tentatively slid in first one black nylon-stockinged leg, then the other.

‘Yeah!’ said Paula. ‘That works!’

Dervla surveyed herself in the mirror. Funnily enough, it did work. The pyjama bottoms could have been taken for palazzo pants. They were cut a little on the wide side, but being mid-calf, they displayed to advantage her shapely ankles and her
elegant heels. Teamed with the jacket with its nipped-in waist and little peplum, the effect was curiously elegant.

‘Could I really get away with it?’ she speculated out loud.

‘Deffo. Sure loads of people go around in pyjamas all the time. It’s the latest thing.’

Possibly not when you’re dining in a five-star hotel, thought Dervla. She reassessed her reflection, then nodded. ‘Hell. Nothing ventured! I’m gonna go for it,’ she said.

‘Thank God!’ Paula’s face was still red, but now she was beaming with pleasure, not crying. ‘I’m glad I could help in some way. Listen, give me over that skirt and I’ll get my mam to give it a going-over. She swears by bicarbonate of soda to get the smell of sick off clothes. I’ll have it right again by the morning, and I’ll leave it for you at hotel reception. Unless you’d want me to put it in the post?’

‘No, no, hotel reception’s grand.’

Dervla handed over her skirt, and Paula rolled it gingerly into one of her bags. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said again. ‘And I’m really grateful to you for not suing me. As for
you
, you bold, bold baba,’ she said, stooping down to pick Angelina up from the floor, ‘you should thank your lucky stars that you chose a nice lady to get sick on, and not an auld harridan.’

Dervla smiled. ‘She’s beautiful,’ she said. ‘She’ll be a heart-breaker when she grows up.’