That Gallagher Girl. Kate Thompson
ends.’ Izzy took a swig of wine, and then she started crying again. ‘Oh, Río!’ she wailed. ‘Is the cottage really as bad as it looks on the internet? I couldn’t believe it when Dad showed me. I couldn’t believe that he was serious about buying it.’
‘The cottage is pretty bad, all right,’ conceded Río. ‘But the mobile home is more like a mobile palace!’ She invested her voice with gung-ho enthusiasm. ‘You needn’t have any worries that your dad isn’t going to be comfortable, Izzy. It’s the Taj Mahal in miniature.’
‘Is it? Is it really?’
‘Yes. And I’m sure that he can make the cottage into a really lovely home. It’ll take a lot of work, of course, but your dad’s never been afraid of hard work.’ The irony struck her forcibly now, of Adair working like a navvy on a rundown cottage while Río’s son and his father swanned around in Coral Mansion.
‘How . . . how long do you think it’ll take to fix the place up?’
‘Six months, or thereabouts, I’d have thought if he hires some help and works flat out.’ Río looked at Izzy curiously. Her face had gone an ugly, mottled shade of puce.
‘Six months?’ she whispered. ‘Working flat out?’
Río nodded. ‘Are you all right, Izzy? You’re looking—–’
‘My dad can’t work flat out for six months on some crappy little house!’
‘He’s done it before,’ Río pointed out. ‘Sure, didn’t he start his career as a builder?’
Izzy flinched, and tears started to course down her cheeks again.
‘I know he’s come a long way since then,’ said Río. ‘But, hey – there are swings and there are roundabouts, Izzy. You win some, you lose some.’ God, she was even beginning to talk like Adair! Funny the way clichés came so easily when you were trying to console someone.
‘I can’t bear to think of him navvying!’ whimpered Izzy.
Río got to her feet and moved to the window. She was feeling a tad exasperated with the girl now. Wasn’t everybody in Ireland rolling up their sleeves and fielding the flak that life was firing at them? Izzy Bolger’s darling daddy wasn’t the only ex-property tycoon taking a reality check.
‘I think he’s kind of looking forward to putting the place to sorts. He was full of beans the last time I talked to him.’
‘He’s not able for it, Río.’
‘Arra, he’ll be grand.’ Río started to busy herself dead-heading a geranium. She was beginning to regret her invitation to Izzy to stay the night. Maybe she should have sent her in the direction of Coral Mansion after all, where she could be accommodated in the style to which she was accustomed.
‘No. He won’t be grand, Río,’ said Izzy. ‘He’s dying.’
‘What?’ Río turned back to Izzy. The redness had left her face; she was ashen now. ‘What . . . did you say? That . . .’
‘Daddy’s dying.’
The withered geranium blossom dropped to the floor. ‘Adair’s ill?’
Izzy nodded. ‘Cancer.’
‘Oh. Oh, God.’ Río’s hands went to her mouth, and she shut her eyes for a long moment. Then she moved to the sofa and sat down beside Izzy. Putting her arms around her, she gathered the girl against her. ‘Oh, God, Izzy. I am so sorry. I am so, so sorry. Words can’t—’
‘I know. You don’t have to say anything.’
No words were adequate. Not even the one-size-fits-all clichés to which Adair was so partial. She remembered the last time she’d seen him, before he left for Dubai. It had been in Dublin: he’d put her up in a splendid room in the Four Seasons, and treated her to the theatre, and bought her dinner in Patrick Guilbaud. Except he hadn’t called it dinner. He’d called it a ‘slap-up feed’, and when his Charolais beef and foie gras had been set in front of him he’d rubbed his hands together with gusto, the way a cartoon character might. That was what was so endearing about Adair: despite his wealth and his very real business acumen and the power he wielded, he was possibly the most down-to-earth, least affected person Río had ever met. And now this larger-than-life, convivial, generous man was dying.
Izzy disengaged herself from Río’s embrace and blew her nose again.
‘When did you find out?’ Río asked.
But Izzy just shook her head, clearly too distressed to answer. Reaching for her bag, she pulled out an envelope and handed it to Río.
‘Am I to read this?’
Izzy nodded.
Inside the envelope was a folded sheet of A4 paper.
Dear Dr Rashidya, she read. Thank you very much for being honest with me. I appreciate this, because it gives me a chance to get off my arse and spend the last year of my life doing something I’ve always wanted to do. It’ll amuse you to know that I’ve bought that oyster farm I was telling you about, so I’m going to realise my dream of living off the fat of the land (OK – the fat of the sea) back in my native country.
It’s funny how you get your priorities right when the Big C comes calling. I’ve realised that living the good life isn’t about drinking Cristal champagne or having gold-plated taps in your bathroom. For me, the good life will mean a pint of Guinness in my local pub after an honest day’s hard labour, and the sound of the sea on my doorstep. In the best of all possible worlds, the good life might also mean finally marrying the woman I love, if she’ll have me. I’ve always believed that anything is possible, if a man wants it badly enough.
You might write a letter of reference for me to my doctor in Ireland. He can recommend a specialist when the time comes, but until then I just want to truck on as best I can. That medication sure does exactly what it says on the tin, and as long as it keeps kicking in I won’t be telling anyone. No point in raining all over someone else’s parade – especially not Izzy’s. She worries about me enough as it is.
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