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Later that night, when I had retired to my room with my only slightly damaged laptop, Cat purring on my bed, the phone rang.
Please, not Christopher Montgomery, I thought, glancing at the caller ID. But it was my dad.
“Audrey?” he said in that way that always makes me feel guilty I haven’t replied to his e-mails. “Are you all right? I’ve just seen the evening news and the fire.”
I turned off my laptop and got up from the desk. “I’m fine, Dad. I wasn’t even in the office when the fire broke out.”
“Where were you? I thought Friday was the busiest day of the week for you.”
“It is.” I walked across the room and curled up on the bed. This was going to be a long conversation. “But I was taking a break to look at a flat for rent.”
“Oh, good. You need a place of your own. Did you take it?”
“Yes, yes. And I paid three months’ rent in advance. But the fire and the office... It’s awful. Luckily, nobody was hurt, but the building was destroyed. Poor Jerry’s in bits. The paper has been run from that house since his great-great-grandfather started it. And I had to tell that bastard of a publisher what happened, and he’s coming here on Monday, expecting me to have found somewhere for us to work now that we have no office, and—” I suddenly burst into tears. “I don’t know what to do,” I wept.
There was a brief silence. Then I heard Dad take a deep breath. “You’re going to pull yourself together, Audrey,” he said in that stern voice he used to address people who had run up a big overdraft. “You’re going to blow your nose and stop snivelling. Then you’re going to go out and find some kind of office, even if it’s in a barn. Do you hear me?”
“Yes, Dad,” I whispered.
“Good. And if you decide to cancel the flat, come and live with me. It’s only an hour and a half from there, after all. Lots of people have a longer commute than that.”
“God, no,” I said. The thought of moving back to live with my dad made me feel sick. I’d get a lecture every day about my lack of ambition and how women my age out there were running companies and having brilliant political careers. Managing a country newspaper didn’t quite count as having made it to the top. “Thanks. I’ll be fine. I’ll either stay here or—” I jumped up from the bed. “It’s okay, Dad. I’ll be fine.”
“Are you sure?” he asked, his voice more gentle. “I’d love to have you. It’d be like old times, when you were a teenager and we used to read by the fire.”
“I’m nearly thirty-three years old, Dad, not fourteen.”
“I know,” he grunted, as if regretting his slightly emotional suggestion earlier. “Time flies by so fast. I’ll be a granddad before you know it.”
I had to laugh. “Not in the foreseeable future, I’m afraid. I have to meet Mr Right first.”
“That seems to be very low on your list of priorities. Any sign of a possible candidate?”
“Not at the moment. But I’ll send out a newsflash when there is.”
“Don’t hang around,” he warned. “The biological clock...”
I rolled my eyes. “Please, stop. Don’t be a mother hen. It doesn’t suit you.”
He changed tacks. “You didn’t reply to my e-mail.”
“You mean the one where you listed the six top earners among women in Ireland? All my age and all earning more than half a million a year?”
“Yes. I thought it might inspire you to get your ass back to Dublin and get yourself a proper job. You have the qualifications, Audrey. I should know. I paid for them.”
“I do have a proper job. I’m happy here. Does that not count? Don’t you want me to be happy?”
“Happiness is overrated. Your mother used to say—”
“Mum’s dead,” I said flatly. “She’s been dead a long time.” My mother had gone for a walk one cold winter afternoon and never come back. She had been killed by a hit-and-run driver. I was seven. I still remember sitting at the bottom of the stairs in our house in Abbeyleix waiting for her. I sat there for hours, not understanding the commotion, the tears, the shouting. Then Dad had to tell me. I shivered despite the warm evening.
“I know,” he whispered. “I’m sorry.”
“So how’s the bank going?” I breezed on. “Lots of new customers?”
“It’s quite busy. Two new companies are opening their offices here. More jobs, more people moving into town. We’re only an hour from Dublin, so it’s getting popular to live here.”
“And what about your personal life? Are you getting me a lovely stepmother soon?”
“Not very likely. I was seeing this woman, but...”
I knew what had happened. My mother—or her memory—got in the way. It always did. Poor old Dad had never got over the loss of his beautiful young wife. I don’t think he ever would. “Don’t worry,” I soothed. “It’ll happen when it’s meant to. I believe in fate.”
“Sometimes fate seems busy elsewhere. Anyway, glad you’re all right. Good night, Audrey.”
“’Night, Dad.”
I shook my head and hung up. Poor Dad, all alone with his memories. Just like me: a lone wolf, unable to find that special someone. He was too sad, I was too picky. Not that I didn’t hope I’d meet someone to live happily ever after with, but it wasn’t likely to happen anytime soon. Unless fate, or Karma, kicked in with a vengeance.
***
The phone rang again as I was getting ready for bed. I picked up without checking the caller ID. “Dad, what now?”
“Audrey?” said a voice I didn’t quite recognise. “This is Liz Mulcahy. We met at the flat earlier. Just wanted to know if you’re all right. That was a terrible fire.”
“I’m fine, but the office is gone, I’m afraid. Huge problem for us. We have to find something temporary so we can keep working.”
“I see.” She paused. “You know what? I think I have an idea... Not my place to suggest it, but... Can you come here tomorrow morning? Jonathan has just arrived for the weekend, and he wants to meet you. Then I can tell you what just occurred to me.”
“Jonathan?”
“Jonathan O’Regan. The owner. Your landlord.”
“Oh, of course. Sorry. So much has happened that I kind of forgot about him being my landlord. I’ll be there at nine if that would suit you.”
“Perfect. See you then.” She hung up before I had a chance to ask what her idea was.
I went to bed feeling that there might be a ray of hope and that maybe Karma was beginning to happen. At least in some small way.
***
Jonathan O’Regan was delightful. That was the first thought that shot into my mind as I shook his hand. He was even better looking in real life than on TV. His regular features, kind eyes, and warm smile were devoid of any calculation or flirtation. He was just a very nice man. Around my age—maybe a little older—he was slim and tall with short, light-brown hair. His hazel eyes had a slightly distant look, as if he were thinking about a book he had just read or planning to write some learned document about life in mediaeval Ireland. He was nattily dressed in white linen trousers, a blue fitted shirt, and tennis shoes, which made him look like something from The Great Gatsby. I had seen him on TV presenting historical programmes and loved his voice and unassuming manners.
“Hello, Audrey. Nice to meet you,” he said as he took my hand, sounding as if he meant it.
“And you, Jonathan,” I replied and returned his friendly smile. “I’ve watched all your programmes on TV. I love history, so every one was a treat.”
He blushed slightly. “Thank you. That’s good to hear. I’m so sorry about the fire,” he continued. “What a horrible thing to happen. I hope nobody was hurt?”
I sighed. “No, thank God.”
“At least that’s something to be happy about.” He turned to Liz, hovering in her doorway in the hall. “How about a cup of coffee in my flat? We could sit on the terrace as it’s such a beautiful morning.”
She nodded. “Good idea. If we had croissants, we could pretend we were in France.”
Jonathan smiled. “You know what? I have some in the freezer. Won’t take me long to warm them in the oven. Please, follow me.” He turned and started running up the stairs in easy strides.
Liz laughed and slammed her door shut. “Come on, Audrey. You’ll love his flat. And wait till you see the terrace, it’s been done up for the summer. It’s wonderful.”
“Nice guy,” I said.
“He’s charming. Very close to his feminine side, if you see what I mean.”
“Oh. Okay.” So Jonathan was gay? Not that it mattered in the slightest, it might even be an advantage if we were to become friends. No sexual tension or any kind of expectations from either of us.
As I followed Liz up the stairs, I was struck by how much younger she looked this morning. She wore a loose-fitting navy linen shift and espadrilles with ribbons wound around her slim ankles, her hair in little curls around her face. She must have been beautiful when she was young. No, beautiful now, I corrected myself. Why assess people the way they used to be?
We arrived at Jonathan’s apartment and found the door wide open, classical music wafting through a bright living room filled with books and stacks of CDs. The furniture was a charming mishmash of old and new, the worn oriental carpet littered with pieces of paper.
“Please step over the mess,” Jonathan called from the open door of the terrace. “I’m putting together my notes from the dig. The best way to get an overview for editing is to put all the bits of writing on the floor.”
“I know,” I said, carefully stepping around the sheets of paper. “I do the same when I have something long to edit. I even cut out sections and organise them like a jigsaw puzzle. I think it’s called ‘reverse outline’ or something.” I stopped at the terrace door. “What an incredible place,” I exclaimed, gobsmacked by the sights and smells.
I had never seen such a gorgeous outdoor space. There were palm trees and exotic plants in pots around a seating arrangement with cushions in vivid colours. The terracotta tiles and the sundial gave the terrace a Mediterranean air, and the jasmine bush emitted a heavenly scent. A striped awning protected us from the hot sun, and the warm breeze brought with it the smell of fresh bread and coffee. Awestruck, I sank down among the cushions of one of the chairs.
Liz laughed. “What did I tell you?”
“Did you do all this?” I asked Jonathan as he arrived with a tray.
“Most of it, yes. I got someone from the garden centre to do the tiling.”
“I love the sundial.”
“I nicked that from Liz’s garden. Sorry, Liz.”
Liz poured herself coffee. “That was before I moved in. I have no right to complain, even if it would have been nice to have it. But it’s so perfect here, and Jonathan is kind enough to let me sit here on hot evenings. Coolest place in the house, as it faces east.”
I took a warm croissant from the plate Jonathan offered me. “But Irish summers are so unpredictable. I can’t imagine that this stuff would survive a day with high winds and rain.”
“Most of it can be moved indoors,” Jonathan remarked. “I keep a close eye on the weather.”
“We’re supposed to have a long hot summer this year.” Liz bit into her croissant.
I nodded. “So I heard. Not that I believe it, but let’s hope it’s true.”
Jonathan sat down in the deckchair opposite me. “But we have things to discuss. When do you think you’ll be moving in?”
I struggled to sit up. “I was thinking Monday, but now with the fire and everything, I’m not sure I can. I have to find some other place for the staff to work, and that’s not going to be easy.”
“That’s where I come in,” Liz interrupted. “I should have asked you before, Jonathan, but I was thinking that the flat next door to this one might suit as temporary accommodation for the paper.”
Jonathan stared at her. “What? The— But that’s my cousin’s apartment.”
“Yes, but he’s not actually living there, is he?” Liz argued. “The flat’s been empty since he moved to New York six months ago. Maybe he’d agree to let it until he comes back?” She turned to me. “How big an office do you need?”
I thought for a moment. The flat in question must be similar to mine in size and layout. It would work, if we made the living room into a communal space. I could take the bedroom as my office. “It would be fine, actually,” I said. “Just about. The only problem would be phone lines. We need at least three.”
“Could you operate with just one and a few extensions?” Liz asked. “And of course you all have mobiles.”
I nodded. “Yes. That would be okay.”
Jonathan looked from Liz to me. “Seems like it’s all decided. But yes, I think we could at least see if my cousin agrees. The flat has very little furniture, but all you need are a few desks and chairs, right?”
“Something like that,” I mumbled, wondering how much of the office furniture could be salvaged from the wreck. “Oh God, our computers. Dan had just got a new big screen for the layouts and photos. Must be all gone.”
“Won’t the insurance cover that?” Jonathan asked.
I shrugged. “Probably. I haven’t looked into that stuff yet. Jerry owns the building, but the publisher is responsible for the insurance of the contents. They worked it out together. I’m meeting him on Monday,” I said glumly. “The publisher, I mean. He wants me to have new premises by then. Or he’ll fire me.”
“Did he say that?” Jonathan asked.
“Not in so many words.”
Jonathan reached across the coffee and croissants and patted my hand. “It’ll be okay. I’ll call Tony—my cousin—in a few hours, when it’s morning over there. I’m sure he’ll agree.”
He was right. A few hours later, Tony, who was working for a big company in New York, had agreed to let his apartment to The Knockmealdown News for the same rent as I was paying for my apartment. The lease would be renewable every year, and there would be a clause to terminate the contract should Tony want to move back—highly unlikely, I was told.
I inspected the premises with Jonathan and saw that it was indeed perfect for a small operation such as ours. We could move in straight away, as soon as the contract was signed, and I could move into mine the following Tuesday. Fate, I thought, as I skipped down the street back to Miranda’s guest room, has finally kicked in.
But the glow faded very quickly. That evening, on my way home from a meeting over drinks with the staff, I got a call from Pat O’Dea.
“Audrey, I have some news,” he started. “Kind of worrying, really.”
“Yes, what?”
“Well... I don’t want to upset you, but—”
“Stop messing, Pat. Tell me what’s up.”
He made a sound like a gulp. “We suspect the fire was your fault.”