Jerry led the way, bounding up the stone steps that snaked up to the top of the cliff fifty feet above the beach, and they crossed the lawn to the front door of the house. Close up, it was even more impressive than he’d first thought. Simple yet sophisticated with a tidily laid out garden and a year-old Volkswagen Golf on the drive. A double-width front door and timber-clad porch bisected the front elevation, and on each side, glazed patio doors would allow the entire front of the house to be opened to the air. Jack kicked off his boots in the porch and followed the woman inside.
“Hang your jacket up,” she called, climbing a few steps into the open plan kitchen and he followed her tentatively in stockinged feet, sensing the warmth rising from the white marble floor. The décor was modern and striking. Deep gloss-white kitchen units with white marble splashbacks, black granite worktops and stainless-steel appliances. Chrome light pendants dangled over a long breakfast bar that separated the sink, hob and ovens from a dining area furnished with a light oak dining table and six chairs arranged in front of the sliding patio doors.
She placed a chrome espresso maker on the hob and retrieved a couple of white mugs from the overhead cupboard.
“Milk and sugar?”
“Black thanks.”
“Take a seat.” She wore a simple white tee-shirt and her long red hair tumbled halfway down her back. Her arms bore freckles like those on her face but were otherwise white with no trace of tanning. She was slim at the waist, widening elegantly at the hips and he concluded she looked as good from behind as she did from the front. “Quite an impressive place you have. Have you been here long?”
“No. Not long.”
He thought it wasn’t much of an answer, nor something he really needed to know, but then he was only making conversation. Jerry had slurped his way noisily through a bowl of water, wolfed down the contents of his food bowl and now lay curled up in a wicker basket in the corner of the open-plan sitting room. Jack suddenly felt awkward, as if he were intruding in some way, but he reminded himself she had invited him. Maybe she was regretting it. He tried again, deciding to be a little braver.
“What’s a Derry girl doing on the Isle of Wight?” She turned abruptly and put both hands on her hips. He spotted the absence of rings on her left hand and was suddenly conscious of the wedding band on his.
“Donegal actually.”
“Whoops. Sorry – did I put my foot in it?” He slid his left hand under the counter-top and into his trouser pocket. It was irrational and instinctive.
“I’ll let you off, so I will,” she said, leaning back against the counter, arms folded, smiling. “The accents are similar. How did you know?”
“I’ve been there a few times. Derry that is. Work.” The coffee pot gurgled and she filled two mugs, sliding one of them across the bar.
“Would you like a dash of the Irish in there?”
He grinned wickedly. “I make it a rule never to drink before twelve.”
“It’s quarter to. I won’t tell anyone.” The broad smile he saw on the beach was there again. She plucked a bottle of Jameson’s from under the counter and splashed some into each mug, then walked round and sat on a stool next to him. He noticed a thin gold necklace was her only visible jewellery, the pendant, if any, tucked inside her tee-shirt. “Slainte. So, you’ll be a tourist?”
“Is it that obvious?”
“Just a guess. The Beachcomber’s pretty well known around here. A local would know it was shut. You here by yourself?”
“Yes. I rented a cottage just around the bay. No sea view but it’s clean and tidy and handy for all amenities.”
“You mean the pub?” She was flirting with him and he loved it.
“Quite.” He raised his mug and took another swig.
“Nothin’s very far away on the Isle of Wight.”
“Yes. Haven’t needed the car. I’ve done more walking here in a few days than I’ve done in years back home.”
“And where’s that?”
“Village near Oxford. Milton Aston.” The whiskey-laced coffee burned deliciously in his throat and a mellow calmness descended over him. He mused how alcohol could so easily put the world to rights, if only for a short time before the inevitable payback. But she was asking all the questions and he, providing all the answers.
“So how did you get from Donegal to the Isle of Wight?” She looked suddenly guarded, as if considering the question carefully.
“Oh, you know,” she said with a shrug, splashing another shot of Jameson’s into his mug. “Life. Circumstances. Decisions. It’s a long story.” She clearly wanted to draw a line, but Jack Fleming was fortified and if not yet fearless, emboldened enough to persist. He found her apparent reticence, however slight or imagined, mildly provocative. He’d already noticed the absence of rings. It meant nothing in itself; she may just have been someone who took them off before going for a walk along the beach, or perhaps had forgotten to put them on? Or maybe had a partner but wasn’t married? He glanced around. The place was minimalist and spotless, despite the dog. There was no evidence of family. No piles of coats on the coatrack by the door, no collection of boots in the tray.
“And you live here alone?” Even in his mild state of inebriation, it sounded impertinent. But he’d said it now and he didn’t care.
“No.” She looked up in mock surprise. “I’ve got Jerry.” She was looking straight at him, flirting again.
“I see.”
“How long are you here for?” she asked, neatly switching the dynamics of the conversation again. As far as Jack was concerned, he would answer any and all questions if it meant he could keep looking at her for the rest of the day. He desperately wanted to know more about her but for now was content to prolong the discussion for as long as possible.
“Just a couple more days. I go back on Friday.”
“Back to work?”
“No. I’m actually unemployed, you might say.”
“Is that right?”
“I had a business, but I sold it. One of the reasons I’m here is to figure out what to do next.”
“And have you?”
“Nope.”
She tilted her head and studied him closely. She was immensely attractive. He tried to tell himself that was the whiskey; he should be careful and behave himself, but he wasn’t listening. “I’m sure you will. People who’ve run their own business and devoted all that time and effort buildin’ it up and makin’ it a success will always find somethin’ else to put their minds and their talents to, so they will. I assume you were a successful businessman?”
He shrugged. “I suppose.” It was no false modesty. Success had come at a price and he couldn’t be sure the sacrifice had been worth it. But then he’d never set out to conquer the world. He’d just taken it step by step, been drawn in until his business had assumed a momentum of its own and carried him along with it. But the professional triumph had been matched with personal failure in equal measure. He’d never imagined it would end the way it did. He met her gaze. “You sound like you have some knowledge of private enterprise.”
“Not really. It’s just common sense, so it is.” She’d sidestepped the implied question again, but either by accident or design, it made her even more alluring. “Do you want another wee dram?”
“No.” He lied. Best stay in control of yourself Jack.
She looked at her watch. “Well, I need to take Jerry for a jab at the V-E-T.”
Jack Fleming came back to earth with a thud. People had lives to lead just like him. He was being dismissed. “Of course.” She showed him down the corridor to the front door. “Thanks for the coffee and the legendary Irish hospitality.”
“Just wanted to make sure you didn’t have concussion.” She leaned against the wall, arms folded, and he felt her watching him as he threw on his jacket; dispassionate and inscrutable yet clearly interested. He wondered if the Irish hospitality coursing through his veins was making him think so. Whatever it was doing to him, he knew he had nothing to lose.
“Another question. As a local.”
“And what’s that?” She looked relaxed. She was practised at avoiding questions so it would hold no fear.
“I was planning to have dinner at the Ristorante A Capella this evening. Wondered if you could recommend it?”
“I know of it, but I haven’t been there. I tend to stay in at night.”
He stifled the urge to cheer out loud. She lived alone with Jerry. “Well, then. Perhaps I could persuade you to join me for dinner? We can both discover its charms.” He realised his heart was thumping like a teenager’s asking a girl for the first dance at the school ball, taking one of the biggest risks of his life; rejection. She hesitated and remained still, arms folded, neither fidgeting nor squirming nor searching for an excuse. Just coming to a decision. He knew nothing about her but had already concluded she was straight forward and matter of fact. The refusal would be brutal, but honest.
“Will your wife be joinin’ us?” There was neither anger nor suspicion nor smugness in her tone, just a simple question, simply put. She’d seen the ring. He needed that other drink now, but it was too late. It was payback time. He felt the heat rise up his neck as he slowly drew his left hand out of his pocket and swivelled it, examining the gold band, searching for the right words.
“No. But would you believe me if I said I’m no longer married? I just haven’t got used to it yet.” It was no lie, but only he knew that. She made him wait. Five seconds. Five, agonising, gut-wrenching, miserable seconds until he felt he would burst with shame.
“Okay. That would be nice.”
“Great.” He thought his voice might have betrayed the vaguest semblance of a squeak and he cleared his throat manly. “I’ll book a table for seven?”
“Fine.”
“I’ll drop by and pick you up.”
“Better I meet you there.” She would set the terms. There was no room for debate.
“Alright. See you there then. Thanks for the coffee and the er…”
“You’re welcome.”
He slipped into his boots and took two steps up the drive before turning abruptly. She was leaning against the doorframe, still watching him, arms still folded.
“I don’t know your name,” he said.
“I don’t know yours.”
“Jack.”
“Siobhán.”