the lift, Cara asked, in a deliberately soft voice, ‘How was your journey here this morning?’
‘Long. Tedious as fuck.’
‘Where have you come –’
‘Stop. Talking.’
Outside the suite, the electronic door key worked. The Ardglass keys always did, but sod’s law would have had it failing today of all days.
‘Welcome back to the McCafferty Suite,’ Cara said.
Of the fifty-one rooms in the Ardglass, this suite on the third floor was her favourite: the long sash windows overlooking the leafy trees of Fitzwilliam Square; the original Georgian coving; the bathroom with its claw-footed tub and underfloor heating …
‘Here’s your luggage!’ Anto and his trolley hurtled in.
‘The best hotel in Dublin,’ Mr Fay said, sarcastically.
But it was the best: the best bed linen, the best food, the best spa. However, what elevated it above all the others was the service from its multi-cultural staff: intuitive and seamless, respectful but relaxed. Everyone, from skint honeymooners enjoying just one glorious night, to high-net-worth habitués of luxury hotels, was made to feel special.
‘Where would you like your bags, Mr Fay?’ Anto asked.
‘Why don’t you just stick them up your butt?’
‘They wouldn’t fit, sir.’ Anto’s shtick was cheeky Dublin humour.
‘They’d fit up hers.’ Billy Fay pointed at Cara. But as the burn landed, she’d already bundled the pain away, before she felt a thing.
Anto hurriedly heaved the suitcases onto the luggage rack, then scarpered.
Cara refreshed her smile. ‘Although you’ve stayed here in the past, would you like me to explain the room’s features to you again?’
‘Just get out, you fat bitch.’
Vihaan gasped.
Cara would have to have a word with him later.
‘Can we send anything up to you, Mr Fay? Coffee? Tea –’
‘Like I said, get out and take your little Isis lapdog with you.’
‘Certainly, sir.’
They left the room and headed for the back stairs.
‘Wow. Ling wasn’t wrong. He is the worst,’ Vihaan muttered.
‘He’s been travelling for maybe eighteen hours. He’s tired.’
‘He made Ling cry last time. That’s why you’re in so early, right? You’re the only one who can handle him? And what’s he mean with the Isis thing? I’m Hindu.’
‘Vihaan, sweetheart, no. Don’t let him get to you.’
‘And another thing! You’re not fat!’
Their eyes locked, in sudden mirth. ‘But,’ he said, ‘you are a –’
She tried to put her hand over his mouth. He wrestled himself away, both of them giddy from the release of all that tension. Still laughing, they came into the reception area.
‘Bad?’ Madelyn asked.
‘Oh, yeah. I’m in Isis and –’
‘I’m a fat bitch.’
After a furtive scan to check there were no guests around, they laughed away the remainder of the stress.
‘So?’ Madelyn interrupted. ‘The competition winners, Mr and Mrs Roberts, their ETA is one o’clock. Which room have they been allocated?
‘Not sure,’ Cara said. ‘I’ll know when I see them.’
Now and again, in a radio phone-in, a lucky duo won a couple of nights in the Ardglass. They tended to be people who couldn’t ordinarily afford a stay. Cara and her team got very excited on their behalf: they wanted them to experience the full wonder of the hotel.
‘What do we know about them?’
They always did a discreet social-media search on expected guests to ensure that gaffes, such as gifting a complimentary bottle of champagne to a recovering alcoholic, didn’t happen.
‘Not much. Married couple. Paula and Dave Roberts. Mid-forties-ish. From a small town in County Laois. Looks like they have two teenagers.’ Some competition winners were totally on for the penthouse. But others, unused to five-star hotels, were more relaxed in a regular room. But Cara never knew for absolute sure which way to go until she’d met them.
TWO
One hundred and eighty kilometres away, in the Lough Lein hotel in County Kerry, Nell read from the laminated mini-bar list. ‘Seven euro for a beer? Three euro for a can of Coke?’ She paused, shocked. ‘They’re having a laugh. There was a Lidl by that last roundabout – we could buy stuff for, like, far less than this.’
Liam shrugged. ‘No need. Have anything you want. Jessie’s paying.’
‘I don’t feel okay about that.’
‘Look, the cost of our room – all the rooms – will dwarf anyone’s bar bill. Even yours. Anyway, Jessie doesn’t judge. She’s not like that.’
Nell considered how many rooms Jessie had booked and enumerated them on her fingers. ‘Jessie and Johnny, Cara and Ed, you and me. Then there’s the kids – Ferdia and … What’s his buddy’s name? Barty. Okay, them. Saoirse and Bridey. TJ and Dilly. Cara and Ed’s pair. Is that all of us? I’m running out of fingers