CLIO FOLDED THE LETTER and put it back in the box before placing the lid down firmly. She hoped by doing so she was shutting those memories in so she could get back to work. To her surprise she found her cheeks were wet and she wiped the tears away angrily. She had a book to be getting on with. She didn’t have time for dwelling on ancient history. Why had Gerry decided to come back now? What could he possibly hope to have happen at their time of life? She was only a year away from getting her bus pass for God’s sake.
Chapter 22
Roisin made her way down the stairs, her nose quivering like the little red fox at the smell of bacon frying. The aroma was curling its way up the stairwell from the kitchen in the basement. She clutched the bannister, feeling unsteady on her feet despite her sensible footwear. Her head was pounding and she vowed for the tenth time since she’d opened one eye earlier that morning, only to be assailed by a needle like pain in her head, she’d never touch tequila again. She hadn’t had all that much to drink but she was out of practice given she hardly led the life of a party girl these days and it had gone straight to her head. The apartment was silent when she dragged herself out of bed, for which she was grateful.
She could vaguely recall Aisling having said something yesterday about taking the opportunity to head off early do a spot of Christmas shopping. There was a tour party returning from their travels later this afternoon and she’d have to be back by then. Moira, she’d deduced, was probably out with Tom making the most of the college break. She didn’t want to deal with her sisters quizzing her about her night out with Shay. Come to that she didn’t want to think about her night out. All she wanted was a new head. That wasn’t too much to ask was it? Failing a new head then a visit see what Mrs Flaherty had on offer in the kitchen would suffice. ‘A rasher sandwich will fix me up.’
‘What was that, Roisin?’
Roisin started, she hadn’t seen Ita, O’Mara’s director of housekeeping as she insisted on being called, loitering in the doorway of Room 7, the trolley of cleaning products nowhere to be seen. Ita’s phone made a telltale ding from her pocket and the younger woman looked sheepish.
‘Oh, hello, Ita. I didn’t see you there. I was just saying I fancy one of Mrs Flaherty’s rasher sandwiches.’
‘Talking to yourself is the first sign of madness, so it is.’ Ita moved closer and peered at her. ‘You don’t look very well, Roisin.’
Roisin knew she was an unbecoming shade of green and she should have brushed her hair. She had managed to brush her teeth and get dressed, that was something at least.
The younger woman looked sly. ‘Big night on the lash, was it then? Has your mammy got your lad?’
Roisin saw the gum in her mouth and felt irritated. There was just something about Ita that was annoying. It wasn’t just her insufferable air of superiority, evident in the fact she seemed to think her work or more aptly lack of work at O’Maras was beneath her. Or the way she lurked about the hallways of the guesthouse not doing much of anything other than earwigging and playing on her phone. Roisin knew she drove Aisling, who was obligated to her employ her through Ita’s mammy and their mammy’s longstanding friendship, mad. ‘Not at all, Ita, I’m grand so I am, and yes, Noah stayed overnight at his nana’s along with Pat and his girlfriend Cindy.’
‘Patrick’s home?’ Ita breathed, her pinched features taking on a moony quality. Roisin mentally rolled her eyes, she was obviously another one of her brother’s many admirers.
‘Yes, he’s home for Christmas. Mammy’s made up, so she is.’ She answered as brightly as she could then, keen to get downstairs, added, ‘Oh, Aisling asked me to mention if I saw you that she’d shortly be checking on the rooms that needed to be made up for the guests returning from their tour this afternoon.’ She felt better watching Ita pale and scurry off. It was a little white lie but it was satisfying watching her get moving. It was about time she earned her wages!
Roisin carried on her way, reaching the ground floor without bumping into any guests, and with the smell of a good old Irish fry-up getting stronger, her mouth began to salivate. Salvation was nigh! She spied the back of Bronagh’s head, dipped slightly as she huffed over entering the pile of faxed bookings into the computer and was relieved she was busy. She’d creep past and say hello once she had some good old greasy, soaky-uppy, sustenance inside her. She’d only got one foot on the last flight of stairs leading down to the basement when Bronagh’s voice rang out.
‘Roisin, don’t try and sneak past without telling me how your night went with the handsome Shay. I’ve eyes in the back of my head so I have and I’ve been waiting for you to make an appearance. Show yourself.’
Roisin froze. There was nothing for it. She mooched forth. ‘Morning, Bronagh.’
‘Jaysus wept, look at the state of you! You’re the poster girl for the evils of alcohol at Christmastime so you are. Your eyes are like road maps. I could find my way all the way down to Kerry just looking in those.’ She put down the papers she was holding in her hand.
‘Not so loud, Bronagh. My head hurts.’ Roisin tried squinting her eyes
