As they piled into the car, Jessie said, ‘Take Erno’s guff today with a pinch of salt. He gave us a bum steer on the Bhutanese thing.’
‘But he was spot-on about Columbian street food,’ Johnny said.
‘Which is why we haven’t cut him loose.’
Erno had both a gin and tonic and a glass of wine before him. He leapt up, clicked his heels together, bowed and pressed his lips against first Jessie’s and then Rionna’s hand. Jessie was suddenly reminded of what Ferdia had said the one time he’d met Erno: that he seemed like a bad actor. (‘Next time you see him, he’ll be playing Mother Goose in the panto at the Gaiety.’)
As she watched, Erno kissed Johnny on the cheek, once, twice, three times. Then Mason. That triple-kiss was new. Christ …
Taking charge – because no one else would – she gave the menu a glance. ‘No starter for me. If I eat too much in the middle of the day, I fall asleep.’
‘Me too,’ Rionna said, on cue.
Rionna was great. Rionna was so bloody great. Jessie would be lost without Rionna.
‘And me,’ Johnny said.
Johnny was great too.
‘Sure.’ Mason smiled.
Mason didn’t care about food. Mason was young.
Erno was the only one who looked sorrowful. But Jessie was having serious doubts about Erno.
After the usual chit-chat – talk of ambassadors, fincas, the new Aman hotel in Kyoto – they finally got down to business over dessert.
Brazil was Erno’s prediction for the Next Big Thing.
‘Again?’ Jessie caught the waiter’s eye and decided to signal for the bill. Bit abrupt, maybe, but she wasn’t wasting any more time with this nonsense. ‘Do you not remember? About three years ago? Feijoadas left, right and centre? More cassava than you could shake a stick at?’
Erno was discombobulated. ‘Of course … Well … Bhutan is about to explode.’
‘It certainly exploded our bottom line for last year’s second quarter.’ Jessie managed to smile. ‘Listen, Erno, we can’t stay for coffee. Lovely to see you. We’ll be in touch.’
As they made their way to the car park, Jessie was deep in thought. Erno had gone off the boil and it was a worry.
‘Poor fecker,’ Johnny said.
‘Wonder what’s up – burn-out?’
‘Too fond of the drink?’
‘I suppose it’s an occupational hazard.’
They had three other analysts but they’d worked with Erno the longest.
‘Have you stuff to do back in the office?’ Johnny asked. ‘Why don’t we knock off for the afternoon? It’s been a hard week.’ Johnny had been at a trade fair in Munich. He’d done three eighteen-hour days.
‘I was thinking I might jump in the car and drive to Kilkenny, show them some love.’
‘Jessie. One afternoon. I feel like I never see you.’
‘You work with me and live with me. How much more of me do you want to see?’
‘I’d just like to hang out with you for a couple of hours. Kilkenny can wait. It’s only a blip.’
‘You’re making me sound like one of those high-powered weirdos who never switches off.’
‘All I want is some alone time with my wife. What’s so wrong with that?’
‘Look, I’ll be home by nine. Make sure the dogs get walked.’
TWENTY-SIX
‘Dad! Get up, you lazy feck.’
Groggily, Johnny awoke. Nine-year-old TJ was peering down on him. ‘You’ve to drive me to ju-jitsu,’ she said. ‘Here’s a coffee. Drink it fast. Be ready in five.’
‘Why can’t your mother?’
‘She’s making the kinetic sand.’
The what?
But TJ was gone.
It was Dilly’s first-communion day. With the amount of fuss being generated, Johnny couldn’t imagine what her wedding day would be like. Down in the sunny, sky-lit kitchen, it was all go. The entire household was milling about and Jessie was head to head over a clipboard with McGurk. Johnny bristled. McGurk gave him the creeps. Usually he worked weekdays but Jessie must have press-ganged him into today.
‘Good morning, Mr Casey.’
He’d told McGurk a thousand times to drop the ‘Mr’ lark, but McGurk persisted, as if it gave him pleasure to be irritating. There was the bang of an ex-seminarian about him. Johnny could see him in Rome debating points of theology with other cold, pointy-nosed young men.
McGurk had ‘a story’. Like, of course he did – Jessie collected people with ‘a story’. He’d been head of housekeeping in a luxury Swiss hotel but he’d had a breakdown. He was looking for a position with less pressure, but he remained ‘a dedicated neat freak with a fetish for ironing’. Nothing wrong with that. McGurk’s problem was that he wasn’t an ounce of craic. He remained immune to Johnny’s chat