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The first issue of the weekend magazine was in the shops on the appointed Saturday in mid-June. I got up at seven and rushed to the nearest newsagent. I was thrilled to see it there on the counter. The new logo and the typeface were a little old-fashioned, but they suited our style perfectly. It was simply called Country Weekend, since we hadn’t come up with anything catchy. But as I looked at it, I realised it didn’t need anything else. No use pretending it was Rolling Stone or something.
I picked up a copy and tossed my four euros at the shopkeeper. “What do you think?” I asked him.
“It’s going to be a real winner,” he replied and pulled a copy from under the counter. “I’m reading mine right now. The story about the Japanese ballet dancer is amazing. And I liked the pub crawl feature. That’s a hoot.”
I laughed. “Yeah. That was Dan’s idea. And the fake selfies too. He wanted something for the lads.”
“My wife says doing the cookery section as a mini-magazine that you can pull out is fantastic. Then you can save them all and make your own cookery book.”
I nodded and opened the magazine. “Yes, we thought that would go down well.”
“Your column is a hoot. Especially the photo.”
I scanned the first page and gasped. My photo beside the letter from the editor was not the one I had picked. Dan must have made a mistake. I looked in horror at the photo of me licking ice cream from a dripping cone, my face shiny and my hair a mess. “Jaysus, I’ll kill him,” I muttered and raced out of the shop.
Minutes later, I was in the office. I threw the magazine on Dan’s desk. “What the hell is this?”
He looked up from his laptop. “The magazine? Great, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, except that photo is a fucking disgrace. How on earth could you have made that mistake? I thought we had agreed—”
Dan glanced at the photo and let out a snort.
“It’s not funny.”
He looked up at me. “Yes it is. It shows you as a normal woman, not the glamorous editor. I’m sorry I went behind your back, but we all thought it was a good idea.” He tapped the photo with his finger. “Here, you look young, a little sweaty, and cute. You’re struggling with the heat, just like we all are. And that’s what you say in your piece too. You talk about how fecking hot it is and how we don’t know how to cope with tropical weather in Ireland. ‘Finally, we get to say mañana and mean it,’ you say. The article is funny, so I thought the photo should be too.” He drew breath and looked at me defiantly.
I glanced at the photo again. Then at the headline. He was right. Had it been someone else in that photo, I’d have agreed with everything he said. But it was me looking sweaty and messy. “Yeah, well...” I started.
“You’re not brave enough to own that photo?” he asked innocently. I knew he was giving me back for all the jibes about his weight.
I stared back at him, an idea forming in my mind. “Okay. I agree. It’s funny. And here’s another suggestion: How about doing a weight loss feature? Like a challenge? I know you want to lose weight, so how about doing it publicly? How about we do something like Operation Transformation, you know, from TV last spring? Call it something else and invite others to join in? Put up candid shots of you and then every week do a weigh-in and make that part of the health section?”
Dan’s chubby face turned red. “That would be hard for me. Not sure I can do that, to be honest.”
“If you do it, I’ll agree to a candid shot of me beside my piece every week. I’ll make an eejit of myself on purpose to go with whatever article I write. I had planned to make every editorial funny anyway. They’re usually so boring. I’ll give you the right to take any shot of me at an unguarded moment and publish it.”
Dan swallowed. Then he nodded. “Okay. If you agree to that, I’ll do it. I’ll talk to Mary about it since she handles the health section. I’ll get some of the lads in the pub to join me. Maybe this time I’ll finally nail this weight loss thing.”
I squeezed his shoulder. “That’s my boy. You will do it. You will, you will, you will. And now I’ll make us both a cup of tea, and then we’ll thrash around this new idea when the girls get here. Wasn’t it lucky you came in early?”
“I wouldn’t call it lucky,” he muttered.
***
I arrived at Knocknagow House a little ahead of time. I hadn’t been to Jules’ house since Marcus moved in. Surprised, I looked at the well-tended lawns, the new tubs of roses, and the fresh gravel on the path leading to the front entrance. The steps had been repaired and the massive front door repainted a dark red. I pulled the chain for the bell, just to see if that too had been fixed. I was met by a loud chiming inside. Then the door flew open, and I was welcomed not by Jules but by her sister Dessie, beaming me a huge grin.
“Audrey,” she squealed and threw her arms around me in a hug made a little awkward by a very pregnant tummy. “Sorry, can’t hug you tighter. The baby’s in the way.”
I pulled back and took her hands, looking at her face, shining with happiness. “Dessie, how lovely to see you. I didn’t know you were home. And you’re pregnant. Congratulations.”
“Thank you. I’m as surprised as you are, but Rory thought I’d like to get home for a bit to get some rest. England’s even hotter than here right now. In any case, we decided that he should be born in Ireland, now that the UK has decided to leave the EU, so I’m here until it’s time to push.”
“When’s that, then?”
“August. So Jules and Marcus will have to put up with me all summer long. Rory will be here in late July too.” She peered behind me. “But I thought you were bringing a date? Your landlord or something?”
“Not a date exactly. Jonathan and I are...friends. He’ll be here in a minute. He wanted to have a look at the ruin on the hill. He’s a historian. Can’t resist old stones.”
“Oh. Okay,” Dessie said and winked. “None of my beeswax, right?”
“Well...” Did she notice the slight hesitation in my voice? My relationship with Jonathan hadn’t changed, except for what was going on in my mind. I still had no idea if what Jules had said was true. I had no way of finding out and, in a way, I didn’t want to. Whether Jonathan was gay or not was of little importance, I had decided. We were becoming close friends, which made me happy. There was no sexual tension between us—or any other kind of tension—just this calm, serene feeling of complete understanding. “I’d tell you if there were anything to tell, but there isn’t,” I ended.
Dessie waved her hand in the air. “Whatever will be, will be, as my granny used to say. Leave things alone and enjoy the moment. Easy to say, hard to do.” She opened the door wider. “But what are we doing standing here? Come in. I bet you’ve never gone through the front door of this house.”
I stepped into the large entrance hall. “No, I haven’t. We always used to come in the back way to the kitchen.” I looked around at the flagged floor and the newly painted walls hung with old oil paintings of romantic landscapes and hunting scenes. “This is lovely. Jules has worked hard.”
“Not Jules, Marcus. He’s done an amazing job. He managed to sell off some of the more valuable paintings to raise money for the repairs and restorations. But it didn’t stretch to central heating, more’s the pity. So they still live in the kitchen in the winter. But this house comes to life in the summer. Isn’t it fabulous?”
“Wonderful.”
“But come in. I’ll leave the door open for your Jonathan whenever he’s finished inspecting the ruin. Where’s your bag? I heard you’re staying here tonight.”
“Jonathan will bring it in later.”
“Okay. Come this way.”
I followed Dessie through the inner hall into the drawing room, which had also been freshened up. The frayed velvet curtains had been replaced by bright chintz, matching the chairs and sofas, and the faded carpet had been cleaned. The French windows were open to the garden, where I spotted Jules at the barbecue. Her dogs lay in the grass under the trees, their tongues lolling, and Miranda was putting a big bowl of salad on a trestle table in the shade of the willow tree.
I waved at them. “Hi! What a gorgeous evening.”
We greeted each other and fell into our usual banter. The three of us had been friends ever since I arrived in town. The only discord was Marcus and Jules. I had no right to even think that Jules had stolen Marcus from me, as we had broken up after a spectacular row weeks before they even started dating. Not her fault, or Marcus’. But still... I had hoped he’d come crawling back or that we would in some way kiss and make up. But too much had been said, too many insults had been thrown. There was so much pain afterwards that could never be healed with soothing words or apologies.
Marcus had said he could forgive but never forget. I suppose he felt he couldn’t live with someone like me. I was too headstrong, too opinionated, and too independent. Jules wasn’t a shrinking violet, but she was more the submissive, caring-for-my-man kind of female. And they shared that obsession with dogs and horses.
A match made in heaven, I thought bitterly as I watched Marcus come through the door of the conservatory with bottles of wine, giving Jules a peck on the cheek as he passed her. He stopped dead as he saw me.
“Audrey. Hello.” He would have dropped all the bottles if Miranda hadn’t rushed to catch them.
“Hi, Marcus.” I made my hips wiggle as I walked toward him, knowing the skirt of my blue summer dress danced around my tanned legs. When I reached him, I kissed his cheek, pressing my chest into his blue cotton shirt, and whispered, “You look good enough to eat” into his ear, leaving a lipstick smear. I knew it was a tarty thing to do, and it wasn’t meant as a come-on or an attempt to steal him away from Jules. I just wanted him to feel a tiny flicker of regret about what he could have had.
I could see that flicker in his eyes as our eyes met, before he broke away and shot me that wide grin I used to love. “Happy to see you too, Audrey. You look smashing tonight. Doesn’t she, Jules?” he called across the lawn.
“Fecking fabulous,” Jules agreed. “And we all hate her. But enough about you, what about the new magazine, then? I love it. Well done, Audrey.”
“Not all my own work,” I protested. “The team did an outstanding job. I think it’ll go well.”
“It’s a hit already,” Marcus said. “It was sold out at our newsagents. Great mix of frivolous, domestic, and serious. I think that ‘My Journey’ series will send out a powerful message and make people around here understand that immigrants are a positive thing for a community. It makes them real people, not just statistics or blow-ins who aren’t welcome. Admirable, my friend.”
I bobbed a mock curtsey. “Thank you, dear sir.”
“Come here and help me get this bloody thing to light, willya, Marcus?” Jules interrupted. “Barbecues are men’s work after all.”
“Yes, my darling,” he ran to her side after giving my shoulder a squeeze. “See you later, old girl. Must obey orders from the hostess.”
Miranda handed me a glass of wine. “Let’s have a drink while we wait for the burnt offerings. Marcus always gets it wrong. He’s great in the kitchen but hasn’t got the hang of the barbecue yet.”
“I never will,” Marcus shot back. “Never understood this taste for charred sausages you all have around here. But hey, if that’s what you want, I’m your servant.”
“Servant, my eye,” Miranda muttered. “He wears the pants in that relationship. Never saw Jules lie down and play dead like this before. Must be true love.”
“Or true lust?” I muttered, watching Marcus nibble Jules’ earlobe.
“Could be,” Miranda said. “But I have always believed that when you truly love someone, you have to give up a little piece of yourself. Otherwise it’s just selfish, and it won’t work in the long run.”
“Hmm. I’ve never thought of it that way, but maybe you’re right.”
“I’m always right.” Miranda smirked. “But what about that magazine, then? I have to join in with Jules and Marcus. It’s remarkable for a first issue.”
“Thank you. And yes, I agree. We’re all very proud. Hope the boss likes it too. He said he might pop over later.”
“That’d be great.” Miranda looked over my shoulder. “But who’s this arriving? Do I spot a minor celebrity and a fine-looking older woman? Are they a couple?”
I followed her gaze and saw Liz and Jonathan coming around the house together. “No. They’re my neighbours. Liz Mulcahy and Jonathan O’Regan, the historian. Liz lives in the flat next to mine and Jonathan’s upstairs. He owns the building, so that makes him my landlord. But we’re also good friends.”
“You lucky thing.” Miranda sighed. “I adore Jonathan O’Regan. I wish they’d put him on TV every night. I find his voice so soothing. And he has this incredible talent to make anything interesting.”
“I know. And he’s very nice. Sounds boring, but I love men who’re polite and considerate. You don’t meet them very often.”
“Great dresser too.” Miranda smiled at Jonathan and held out her hand. “Hello, Jonathan, I’m Miranda, Jules’ sister and Jerry Murphy’s wife.”
Jonathan, looking dapper in white shorts and a tight-fitting navy polo shirt, shook Miranda’s hand. “Hello, Miranda. But you must be something more than a sister and wife. You look like you could be—” he stepped back and studied her “—something to do with flowers and plants? Gardens? Or orchards? That flowing dress with tiny pink roses and your long hair tells me you’re close to nature.”
Miranda laughed. “You must be psychic. I run an organic farm. Fruit and veg, and herbs too.”
“I’m not psychic,” Jonathan said. “I have to confess that I met your husband a while back, when he had that publishing house. They published my book on archaeological finds in West Cork. He told me about your farm.”
“Not psychic, but honest. Much better.” Miranda said. She turned to Liz. “Sorry, didn’t mean to be rude. Hello, Liz, and welcome.”
Liz nodded and laughed. “No problem. I was busy admiring the garden. I love these Georgian houses with the old trees and walls. And the view of the mountains is fantastic from here.”
“Bloody hell,” Marcus muttered, still trying to light the charcoal under the grill of the barbecue. “We’ll be eating at midnight at this rate.”
Jonathan stepped forward. “Can I give you a hand with that? I do barbecues all the time, and I see yours is no different. A bit tricky, but...” He laughed. “Sorry, you don’t know me at all. I’m Audrey’s landlord. Jonathan O’Regan.”
“Marcus Smythe. Forgive me for not shaking hands, but I’m filthy. If you can do anything with this, I’d be very grateful.”
“No problem.” Jonathan took the matches and the tongs from Marcus. “Let’s check if the vent underneath is open. Aha, it’s not. That’s why it won’t light. Then you have to pile up the charcoal into a pyramid like this, then sprinkle on a tiny bit of lighter fuel, and apply the match...” Jonathan worked as he talked, and soon flames started to flicker and a tiny column of smoke rose from the barbecue. “There you go. Let the flames die out, and then wait until the briquettes turn white before you put meat on top. Takes about twenty minutes.”
“Excellent.” Marcus clapped Jonathan on the back. “Thanks, old chap. You’ve saved us from starvation.”
I looked at the two of them and realised how alike they were. Even though Marcus was the epitome of the English toff, and Jonathan the quirky Irishman, they had the same kindly expression and honest eyes. Neither of them would ever let you down, neither of them would ever tell lies or cheat on you. And neither of them would ever disrespect a woman. Quite unlike the man who had just arrived, who always managed to confuse and attract me, despite my efforts to reject him.