everyone, we’re on the third floor?’
‘It opens literally two inches,’ Jessie said. Her phone beeped and she picked it up. ‘No fecking way!’
‘What’s up?’
‘Ferdia and Barty missed their train.’
‘Pair of flakes.’ TJ sounded uncannily like her mother.
‘They were at some protest.’ Jessie pressed buttons, then clamped her phone to her ear. ‘Ferdia, what the hell?’
‘Oh, yikes.’ Dilly put her hands over her ears.
‘Really? Well, listen – no! No. You are not bailing on this weekend. With rights come responsibilities. This is your family.’ As she’d been speaking, she’d been clicking on her iPad. ‘There’s a train at one p.m. tomorrow, gets into Killarney at four forty-five. Be on it.’ She ended the call.
Rancour lingered in the air.
Dilly asked, ‘Mum, can Auntie Nell come out to play?’
Jessie shooed them away. ‘Bridey, show her how to ring Liam and Nell’s room.’ She sat in uncharacteristic stillness, clearly mulling something over. ‘Someone will have to collect that pair of eejits from the station tomorrow,’ she said. ‘Which might interfere with –’
‘I thought tomorrow was “day at leisure”!’
‘Yeah, but …’ She flashed him a guilty grin. ‘I was thinking … We’ve never done the jaunting car thing. At the Gap of Dunloe?’
‘No, babes, no. Only American tourists do that.’
‘It would be fun.’
‘Jessie.’ He abandoned his unpacking. ‘The shame would end me.’
‘We’re making memories.’
‘Seriously. I’ll need therapy to recover from a memory like that.’
‘Auntie Nell’s here!’ Dilly squealed from the hallway. ‘And her hair is pink!’
Dilly dragged in her newest aunt. Nell’s long thick hair was indeed pink, a pastel wash rather than a fluorescent eyesore.
‘Oh, my God, you look amazing!’ Jessie jumped to her feet. ‘Not just the hair, but all of you!’
Nell wore loose navy overalls, Dr Martens and a scarf tied in a big bow on her head – she looked as if she’d been painting a shed. And perhaps she had. Her job involved building theatre sets, so Johnny found it difficult to distinguish between her work-wear and her normal get-up. Jessie, Johnny knew, approved strongly of Nell’s look. She thought, as a family, it gave them ‘texture’.
‘Thank you for this …’ Nell gestured awkwardly. ‘Our room, this hotel. Liam and I could never stay somewhere so beautiful.’
‘Oh, honey,’ Jessie said. ‘You’re so welcome. We’re all so happy you’re here.’
‘Thanks.’ Her face flooded with colour.
‘Can my hair be made pink?’ Dilly asked.
‘Probably not, bunny,’ Jessie said. ‘You’re too dark.’
Seventeen-year-old Saoirse, twelve-year-old Bridey and nine-year-old TJ were Jessie mini-mes: tall and blonde. Dilly, the youngest, a solid little unit with tangled brown hair, was undeniably a Casey.
‘Ooh! But what about you, Mum? Your hair is light. Get yours made pink!’
‘I’d kill to look even a tenth as cool as Nell, but there are more chemicals in my hair than in the whole of North Korea. If I add anything else, it’ll fall off in my hands.’
‘Not to mention causing uproar at work,’ Johnny said.
‘Yeah.’ She sighed. ‘Oh, Nell! Listen, have you booked a spa treatment for this weekend?’
‘Um, no …’ Nell squirmed. ‘I’ve never had a massage.’
‘What? No! That’s not right.’
Nell smiled. ‘I dunno if it’s my sort of thing.’
‘Please, you must have one. Just charge it to the room. Oh, God.’ Anxiety seized Jessie. ‘They might all be booked out. We’ll do it now. Johnny, ring down to the spa.’
‘Don’t,’ Nell said. ‘Please.’
Halfway to the phone, Johnny froze. Which woman was he more scared of?
He was saved by TJ. ‘Are we going, or what?’
‘Going,’ Nell said. She, Bridey, TJ and Dilly hurried from the suite.
‘Oh, Johnny.’ Jessie was aghast. ‘She’s never had a massage.’
‘She’s thirty, a millennial. They’ve no money.’
‘I know. Like, I know. But –’
‘Get a hold of yourself! You’re talking like she’s never seen a banana. Carry on telling me the schedule for this “relaxed”, “relaxing” weekend.’
‘It will be relaxing!’ She giggled. ‘God, the state of me – the beatings will continue until morale improves, right?’
THREE
At about one o’clock, a man and a woman, stiff with self-consciousness, advanced reluctantly into the Ardglass reception area. Cara hurried from behind the counter, wearing her biggest smile. ‘Mr and Mrs Roberts?’
‘Um. That’s us.’
This was definitely not a penthouse situation. These poor people were terrified. Dave’s suit had been cut for a younger, slimmer man and Paula’s too-formal dress had probably been bought specially. The Ardglass’s regular guests tended to breeze in dressed down in trainers and unstructured athleisure wear, the muted tones and casual air belying hefty price tags.
Gently she guided the Robertses to a cluster of armchairs. ‘Can I offer you