31

“You want to talk about Pedro’s Bar?” Emma asked of the man who stood before her flashing an ingratiating smile. She quickly took in the thin, cadaverous cheeks, the loud suit, the gold Rolex watch. He reminded her of a Mafia money launderer.

“That’s right,” Antonio replied. “I apologise most profusely for not making a formal appointment. I sent you a text message a few days ago. Perhaps you didn’t receive it?”

“I did receive it,” Emma said sharply. “And I decided to ignore it. How did you get my number?”

“From Miguel Martinez Sanchez. You gave it to him yourself. I am sorry if I have upset you. But the matter of Pedro’s Bar is very urgent. I would be most grateful if you could spare me a few minutes of your very valuable time.”

Emma hesitated. He had caught her completely unawares. She had been expecting Mark.

He sensed her uncertainty and wasted no time in pressing home his case. “What I have to say may be to your advantage.”

Emma began to relent. Maybe it would be in her interest to talk to him after all.

“All right,” she said. “I’m expecting someone to join me but we could talk while I wait.”

“That will be entirely adequate, Señorita Dunne. We can talk here?” He indicated a quiet table in a corner of the bar.

Emma nodded her agreement and he politely ushered her before him and pulled out a chair for her to sit down. Immediately a waiter was at their side.

“May I offer you a drink?”

“I’ll have a glass of dry sherry.”

“That will be two glasses,” Antonio said to the waiter, who bowed and hurried away again.

“This is a very fine hotel,” Antonio said, stretching his legs and looking round the room. “One of the best in Fuengirola. I trust you are comfortable here?”

“Very,” Emma said tersely.

“And you are enjoying your holiday?”

“Yes, indeed.”

“That is good. We always like our visitors to have a good time. They act as ambassadors whenever they return to their own countries. Is that not so?”

She wished he would cut out the formalities and get down to business. But just then, the waiter returned with their drinks. Antonio left a €20 note on the tray and waved the man away.

He raised his glass in a toast. “Your good health!”

“And yours,” Emma said. She took a sip of sherry and put down the glass. “Now what is it you wanted to discuss with me, Señor Hernandez?”

“I have to tell you that I am concerned with the affairs of Pedro’s Bar. As you may know, I was once the proprietor. It was I who developed it. When my father owned it, it was just a hut, a shack that sold sandwiches and water. I developed it into a thriving business.”

“Yes,” Emma replied. “I did know that.”

“Unfortunately it has been allowed to run down. It makes me sad to see the way it has deteriorated. Are you aware that my mother, who is supposed to be the manager, has not been at work for almost a week?”

“I understood that your aunt was ill.”

“Indeed, she is very ill. She has been taken to hospital. The bar is being run by the young Irishman, Señor Joyce. He does his best, of course, but it is all very unsatisfactory.”

“I know that things are not as they should be,” Emma countered, “but you must appreciate that I have just taken over the ownership. And I am aware that the previous proprietor, Conor Delaney, took no interest in the bar.”

Antonio looked sad. “That, alas, is true. He only came here to collect his profits. It is not the proper way to conduct business, señorita.” He looked at her slyly. “One cannot run a busy bar from a long distance. It is a recipe for disaster. To run a bar successfully, one must be always on the spot. That is my opinion. And I am now the proprietor of a very successful restaurant, so I know what I am talking about.”

Emma studied him carefully. He was after something but what was it exactly?

“I hear you have been to talk to Miguel about the taxes,” he said softly.

“Your information is correct,” Emma said. Antonio was turning out to be remarkably well informed.

He lowered his voice. “I will speak to you in confidence. Miguel is not a very reliable individual.”

“But he was your accountant,” Emma pointed out. “Didn’t you appoint him when you owned the bar? I understood that he simply continued when Conor Delaney took over?”

Antonio didn’t bat an eyelid. “That is true. But then I was only starting off in business. I was inexperienced and he was recommended to me by a friend.” He took another sip of sherry. “Did you find the information you were seeking?”

“No,” Emma said.

“I am not surprised.”

“But I succeeded elsewhere.”

“Yes?”

She wondered how much she should tell him. He appeared to know most of it already.

“I can tell you there are considerable debts on the bar. It appears that no taxes have been paid for many years. As you might expect, I am not very pleased.”

“Madre de Dios!” Antonio said with vehemence. “This is outrageous! This proves what I have been saying to you. Conor Delaney takes no interest in the bar and this is what happens. What are you going to do about it?”

“I haven’t decided.”

He took a deep breath. “I feel ashamed. This is not the way a respectable person like you should be treated. And I also feel sad that Pedro’s Bar has come to this situation. When I sold the bar to Señor Delaney it was a thriving business and now . . .” He made a dismissive gesture. “Now it is a poor shadow of itself. It is becoming a dump. Soon someone will open another beach bar and steal away the remaining business. It is a pity to see that little place come to such a low state. It once had such great potential.” He looked directly at Emma. “Now you can see the truth of what I said. To run a business successfully, you must always be there. It cannot be done any other way.” He paused. “Forgive me for being so inquisitive, señorita, but may I ask if you intend to come here to Fuengirola to live permanently?”

“No,” she said. “That is not my intention.”

“Then how do you propose to run the bar?”

In a matter of minutes, Antonio had succeeded in getting right to the heart of the matter.

“That has yet to be decided.”

There was silence. Antonio fiddled with his sherry glass.

“If I may be permitted to make a suggestion, Señorita Dunne?”

“Yes?” Emma said.

“Again, this is strictly in confidence. If you were to consider selling Pedro’s Bar, I might be interested in buying it.”

Emma sat bolt upright. “Even though there are debts?”

Antonio waved his hands. “It is rarely in business that everything is completely straightforward. Always there are problems. I am sure we could come to some arrangement. If you agree to sell, you will not find me unreasonable.”

This was amazing. He was offering the solution to her problem. If he bought the bar, she would be free to concentrate on the really important business of Herr Braun’s offer.

“But why would you want to buy it?”

Antonio smiled. “Because I have a nostalgia for the old place. Maybe I am foolish but it was my first venture in business and I would be sorry to see it fail. Also, I am here all the time. I can keep an eye on it. I can make sure that it runs properly.”

Emma quickly tried to think. His offer had taken her completely by surprise. Was it a serious approach or was Antonio playing some deeper game?

“What would you consider a fair offer?” she asked.

“Fifty thousand euro?”

She did a quick calculation. Fifty thousand euro would just about clear her initial debt from Conor Delaney and the legal costs she would incur. The slate would be wiped clean.

“I have to tell you that the unpaid taxes could be as high as €60,000. You would also assume responsibility for those.”

Antonio showed no reaction. “I have already taken that into consideration. I said I would not be unreasonable. Do you find my offer acceptable?”

“I have to say it is a fair offer. But there is one more thing.”

“Yes? You may speak freely.”

“I would require guarantees about the existing staff.”

Immediately, his face clouded over. “How do you mean?”

“Pedro’s Bar provides your mother’s sole means of income. And she has responsibility for your sick aunt.”

“You do not need to worry about her,” Antonio said dismissively. “I will look after her.”

“But I do worry about her. If I agree to sell, I want her job to be guaranteed. And those of the other staff.”

For a moment, Antonio looked uncomfortable but the smile quickly returned to his face. “All right. If that is what you want, it can be arranged.”

Emma felt a wave of relief pass over her. She had managed to solve the problem of Pedro’s Bar and on her own terms. She felt as if an enormous weight had suddenly been lifted from her shoulders. But she kept her feelings to herself.

“In that case, I think we can proceed. I will instruct my solicitor to prepare the necessary papers.”

Antonio was beaming. He opened his wallet and took out a business card.

“That is my address. Your solicitor can contact me there.”

Emma took the card and, as she turned to place it in her bag, she saw Mark entering the bar. She quickly stood up. “I must leave you now. There is someone I have to see.”

Mark had now turned away and was walking out of the bar.

She hurried after him, calling out his name.

“Mark!” she cried. “Wait for me!”

32

At the sound of Emma’s voice, Mark immediately stopped. She caught up with him at the top of the steps leading into the gardens.

“Where are you going?” she asked, out of breath.

“I was just about to take a stroll. I saw you were engaged and, rather than interrupt you, I decided to leave you to get on with your little chat.”

“Do you know who that man was?” she asked.

“I’ve no idea,” Mark said coolly.

“Antonio, Maria’s son.”

At the sound of the name, Mark wrinkled his nose in disgust. But Emma could barely restrain herself. “And, Mark, you’ll never believe what’s happened. He has just offered to buy Pedro’s Bar from me.”

His eyes opened wide. “What?”

“He wants to buy Pedro’s.”

“Does he know about the debts?”

“Yes. I told him. I think he knew already.”

She threw her arms around him and hugged him tight. “Isn’t that fantastic news? It means I don’t have to worry about it any more. Now I can concentrate on the offer for Hi-Speed Printing.”

“But what about the staff? What’s going to happen to them?”

“He has agreed to keep them on.”

“My God, Emma, that is fantastic news! It sounds like you’ve got everything you wanted.”

“Including the price. He has offered €50,000, which will cover my initial debt from Conor Delaney.”

“Oh, Emma, I’m really delighted for you,” Mark said. “You’ve been worried about Pedro’s Bar from the first day I met you.”

“And now I’ve found a solution.”

They strolled out into the gardens. A strong scent of flowers filled the night air. There was a bench nearby. Mark took her hand.

“Let’s sit down. There’s something I want to say to you.”

“Oh? Something pleasant?” she asked as they sat.

“That remains to be seen.” He cleared his throat and then began. “We’ve been seeing an awful lot of each other in the last few weeks.”

“Yes, we have.”

“And I’ve enjoyed every moment of it. You’re a wonderful companion. You’re so lively and full of fun. You’re so beautiful. You’re so intelligent. You’re –”

“Stop,” she said and held up her hand.

Mark’s face immediately fell, as if he had just been slapped.

“Before you go any further,” said Emma, “there’s something I want to say to you.”

“Yes?” he asked apprehensively.

“I’ve been considering this for some time.”

“What?”

“And I’ve been meaning to tell you.”

“For God’s sake, what is it?”

“I think I’ve fallen in love with you.”

For a moment, Mark found himself lost for words. Then he flung his arms around her and held her tight.

“You’ve fallen in love with me?”

“Yes.”

“But that’s what I was going to say to you.”

Emma tossed back her blonde hair and laughed. “But I got in first.”

“So you did, you minx!”

He held her close and his lips encircled hers. Next moment, they were locked in a passionate embrace while overhead a myriad stars twinkled in the bright heavens.

Claire stood at the window of her apartment, a mug of coffee in her hand, and gazed down at the street below. Her mind was in turmoil. Matthew Baker was back and his arrival had disrupted the smooth tempo of her life. Despite all her reservations, she was sorely tempted to accept his job offer.

He was offering her a position here on the Costa doing something she enjoyed, along with a good salary, expenses, commission, a company car and the prospect of a directorship. Even her mother would be impressed. If Claire had sat down and written a description of her dream job, she could hardly have come up with anything better.

Yet she still had serious doubts. She was not convinced that everything was as it seemed. Part of her suspected that the job might simply be a ploy to lure her back again. She wasn’t sure if she could trust him. And what was much worse, she wasn’t sure if she could trust herself.

This was what worried her the most. She had been completely taken aback by her own reaction to the meeting yesterday in Hotel Victoria. She had gone along expecting to meet the liar and deceiver who had destroyed their relationship and betrayed her with another woman. But when she saw him sitting there in the lobby, she had immediately been transported back to the old days. She had seen the Matthew she had fallen in love with, the dashing figure who had stolen her heart. He looked so smart and handsome that he had taken her breath away. Claire was forced to admit that, deep down, part of her had never stopped loving him.

If she went to work with him, she could find herself under pressure every single day. And she knew how persuasive he could be when he wanted. She knew the way he could turn on the charm: the invitations to lunch and dinner, the flowers, the compliments, the little presents. She would have to be constantly on her guard lest she gave in. Because, even if he was no longer in love with her, she could easily fall in love with him all over again.

And where would all this leave her relationship with Kevin? It would be impossible.

What she needed was advice, a trusting friend she could confide in. And fortunately there was someone on hand. She finished her coffee, turned away from the window and walked into the kitchen. Her mobile phone was lying where she had left it on the table. She took it up and rang Anne Ryan.

“Hi,” she said when Anne came on the line. “It’s me. I hope I didn’t waken you up?”

“Are you joking? It’s nine o’clock. What do you take us for? A bunch of ravers who party all night and sleep all day?”

Claire found herself smiling. “It’s just that I never know what time to ring people. Some of my friends don’t get out of bed till noon.”

“Not us, dear. Those days are long gone. Pat has been up since seven o’clock. He’s working on a painting about the sunrise. Nature coming alive and all that stuff. We both love the early morning. It’s the best part of the day, if you ask me.”

“Are you going to be at home for the rest of the morning?”

“Of course. Where else would I be?”

“I was thinking of paying you a visit.”

“Well, that would be lovely. And you can stay for lunch.”

“I’d like that. I want to ask your advice about something.”

“What is it? You’ve got my curiosity aroused.”

“I’ll tell you all about it when I arrive. You can expect me around ten o’clock.”

“Can’t you even give me a clue?” Anne pleaded.

“Afraid not. You’ll just have to wait. Byeee!”

Claire switched off her phone. She was lucky to have friends like the Ryans. At least she knew that whatever Anne was going to tell her would be good advice born of long experience and shrewd observation.

She locked the apartment door and started down the stairs. As she passed Maggie’s apartment, she could hear the gentle sound of snoring. She was still sleeping soundly after last night’s revelry. It took Claire fifteen minutes to reach the station, where she discovered that the bus for Marbella was leaving shortly. Twenty minutes later, she was getting off at La Cala.

The Ryans lived in a bungalow near the beach. When Claire arrived just after ten o’clock, she found Anne pruning roses in the garden. She left down the secateurs and wrapped Claire in her arms.

“It’s so good to see you again. I was just doing a little bit of gardening before it gets too hot. Come in and have something to drink.”

She led Claire into the cool interior of the house.

“Pat still painting on the beach?”

“Yes. He should be back shortly. In the meantime, you and I can have a quiet chinwag. Now what would you like? Tea? Coffee? Maybe a cold drink?”

“A cold drink would be nice.”

“I’ve got orange juice.”

“Perfect.”

Anne poured two glasses and led Claire to the patio at the back of the house, where they had views over the ocean.

“Now,” she said when they were both settled. “I haven’t been able to relax since I got your call. When people come to me for advice, it usually means one thing: an affair of the heart.”

Claire smiled. “You’re a clairvoyant as well as everything else. But that’s only part of it.”

“Spill the beans,” Anne said. “I’m all ears.”

For the next twenty minutes, Claire outlined her dilemma: how she would love to take the job that Matthew Baker had offered but was concerned about the consequences. When she had finished, Anne pursed her lips and slowly drew her hand across her chin.

“It’s a tricky one.”

“The job would be perfect. I know I could do it blindfolded. And it would mean I could stay on in Fuengirola to be with Kevin.”

“So you’re serious about Kevin?”

Claire nodded her head. “We’ve been seeing a lot of each other in the last couple of weeks.”

“Does he feel the same way?”

“I think so.”

“And if you turn down the job? What would you do then?”

“I hadn’t thought that far ahead. I suppose I would have to return to Dublin.”

“And Kevin? What would he do? Would he go with you?”

“We haven’t discussed it. I only got the job offer yesterday. Kevin doesn’t even know about it.”

“Do you think it’s something you could discuss with him?”

“Perhaps.”

“Well, it seems to me that’s one thing you should do. There is another possibility.”

“Yes?”

“You could have a frank discussion with Matthew Baker and tell him that you will take the job but only on the strict understanding that it is a purely business arrangement. You could mention your relationship with Kevin if you like, to let him know you’re serious.”

“You don’t know this guy. That wouldn’t stop him if he’s still interested. He might even see it as a challenge.” Claire lowered her eyes. “If you want to know the truth . . . I’m not sure how long I could resist him. I’m terrified that I might even be the one coming on to him. I think part of me is still in love with him.”

Anne threw her arms around Claire. “Oh, you poor dear! Listen, Claire. You have clearly been hurt by this man. And you obviously don’t trust him. But if you ever go back to him, he’ll do it again. Men like Matthew Baker don’t change.”

“I know that,” Claire agreed. “I know I mustn’t. But the job – the opportunity to stay here. What should I do?”

“Well, I know what I would do. But I can’t live your life for you. It seems plain to me that you have to decide which of these two men you really want, find out if he feels the same – and then rule the other out of your life. If you want Kevin, that means you can’t take the job, whatever the advantages.”

For the next twenty minutes, Claire helped Anne to prepare lunch, chopping vegetables, making salad, slicing bread, laying the table on the patio, where they planned to eat. At midday, they heard the sound of Pat’s footsteps in the hall. He came through the house and out to where the women were sitting.

“Claire! How good to see you. To what do we owe this unexpected pleasure?”

He put down his painting equipment and embraced her warmly.

“She was looking for some advice about a job she’s been offered,” Anne said, glancing quickly at Claire.

“What? Here?”

“Yes,” Claire said. “Guess what? I’d be selling property.”

“Well, why not? That’s your forte.” He moved a chair into the shade and sat down.

“You could do worse than come back here to live. If nothing else, we would see you a lot more often.” He took off his straw hat and fanned his face. “That beach was pretty hot this morning. If it hadn’t been for the breeze, I would never have stuck it. So, are you going to take this job or not?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Pay and conditions okay?”

“Oh, yes.”

“So what’s the problem? You always liked the Costa.”

Before Claire could reply, Anne intervened. “Who would like a drink before lunch?”

“Gin and tonic for me,” Pat said.

“Claire?”

“Could I have a glass of wine, please?”

Anne went to get the drinks.

“There are lots of attractions here,” Pat said. “Listen to that sound.”

Claire looked confused. “What sound?”

A big grin spread over his deeply tanned face. “That’s the point. There is no sound. Complete silence. It’s so peaceful here. And the sun shines all day long. But you know all this, Claire. You’ve been here before. You know how pleasant life can be on the Costa.”

They sat around the table under the shade of a giant umbrella and ate a delicious lunch of lamb casserole and salad washed down by a local rosé wine. Pat talked about his paintings. After the success of the Malaga exhibition, he had been invited to take part in another one in Marbella in a month’s time.

“He’s beginning to get recognised,” Anne said, “but he just won’t promote himself.”

“You’re missing the point,” he retorted playfully. “It’s not about recognition. Or money. It’s about relaxation and creative satisfaction. I don’t paint for exhibitions. I do it for myself.”

They chatted till the sun grew so strong that even the shade of the umbrella wasn’t enough to protect them. Reluctantly, they were forced to abandon the patio and move indoors.

“I’d better be going back,” Claire said at last. “My friends will be wondering what has happened to me.

Pat kissed her goodbye. “Be sure to let us know what you decide.”

Anne saw her to the door. “Would you like me to drive you to the bus stop?”

“It’s all right. I don’t mind walking. Anyway, you’ve done enough already. Thank you for a lovely lunch. And for the good advice.”

“Remember what I told you,” Anne said as she hugged her close.

Claire got a seat at the back of the bus and watched as the coast went flashing by on the road to Fuengirola. Anne was right, as usual. She had to decide between solid, reliable Kevin and the dashing Matthew. And she knew whichever one she chose would decide the future course of her life.

33

Now that Maria was back at work, Kevin had resumed his morning swim. He realised how much he had missed it in the recent stress-filled days. It was the only exercise he got, unless you included pulling pints at Pedro’s Bar and washing dishes after the hungry hordes had departed. But now things were beginning to settle down again. Maria had taken up her management duties once more and had even begun to smile and Rosario appeared to be making good progress in hospital. It was a stroke of luck that he had decided to call at her apartment that day – otherwise, who knows what might have happened.

But there was still one dark cloud hanging over them. They didn’t know what Emma planned to do about the bar. In fact, none of them had seen her for almost a week. Kevin assumed she was still struggling with the accounts and that crook of an accountant. He wished her well. Dealing with him would be like wrestling with a crocodile.

But the bar was ticking over and Maria’s return had relieved some of the pressure on Snuffy and himself. They had even managed to get some time off. Kevin had used the opportunity to tidy up the apartment and get some laundry done. Snuffy had struck up a friendship with Ricky Blaine and there was even talk of him joining his band, the Black Pimpernels. This evening, they were planning to take Maggie on a trip to Puerto Banus to check out entertainment possibilities in the bars down there.

He smiled to himself. Maggie now had two admirers. But instead of fighting over her, they were all getting on like Mormons. Which brought him neatly to his own situation, he thought as he swam towards the rocks at the edge of the beach where he had left his towel. Recently, his relationship with Claire had moved up a notch. Now he was seeing her every day. They were becoming inseparable. And this was a strange experience for someone who had never been so close to a woman in his entire life.

Sure, he’d had plenty of girlfriends. When he was playing with the band, he had got used to girls throwing themselves at him. He could have had a different woman every night if he’d felt like it. But this feeling for Claire was entirely different. He found it difficult to understand. All he knew was that she seemed to have invaded his consciousness to the point where he could think of nothing else. He was becoming besotted with her.

But there was a problem. What was going to happen when Claire’s vacation was over and she had to go home? Would he follow her back to Dublin? Would she want him to? If she did, it would be a big step. It would mean giving up the cosy life he had built up here. But if that was what it took to hold onto her, Kevin was prepared to do it. He had thought it over and made up his mind. Claire was special. He wasn’t going to let her go.

He lifted the towel and vigorously rubbed himself down. Then he pulled on his tracksuit bottoms and vest and made his way up the beach to his apartment. He always felt good after a brisk swim. It was the perfect way to start the day. Five minutes later, he was opening the door of his apartment and letting himself in.

Snuffy had already left for work so the place was empty. Kevin had a hot shower and got dressed, then went into the kitchen and put on the kettle to make tea. This was another of his daily routines. While he had no problem drinking coffee during the day, he had to begin his mornings with a nice cup of tea. He had even managed to locate a little shop in Los Boliches where he could buy packets of Barry’s Gold Label. He smiled while he poured the hot water onto the teabag and waited for it to draw. Some old habits died hard.

While he drank his tea, his thoughts once more returned to Claire. He wondered if he should ring her but decided not to. She would probably call at the bar later in the day. Instead, he sent her a simple text message which read: Thinking about you. Then he finished his breakfast, locked up the apartment and let himself out. Twenty minutes later, he was approaching the bar.

As he drew closer, he sensed something unusual. Snuffy was serving some customers. But he didn’t have his usual chirpy grin. Instead, there was a dull frown on his face. And there was no sign of Maria.

“What’s going on?” Kevin asked anxiously, as he drew Snuffy aside.

Snuffy shrugged.

“Where’s Maria?”

“Out the back.”

“Has something happened?”

Snuffy pulled a face. “You’d better ask her yourself.”

Kevin walked quickly round to the back of the bar. Maria was sitting in a chair on the sand. She had a handkerchief in her hand and was quietly weeping.

He squatted down beside her and took her hand. “What’s the matter, Maria? Why are you crying?”

She turned her red eyes to him. “Antonio rang me this morning.”

“Yes?”

“It is very bad news.”

“What is Maria? What did he say?”

The old lady burst out sobbing. “He says he is buying Pedro’s Bar from Señorita Dunne!”

Emma came awake slowly to find the room flooded with sunlight and Mark sleeping peacefully in the bed beside her. She sat up and gazed at him. She ran a hand lightly over his naked back. The muscles were taut as coiled springs, his biceps bulged and his shoulders were powerful. Before last night, she hadn’t realised just how fit he was.

That wasn’t the only pleasant surprise that had awaited her when they finally fell into bed together. Mark had turned out to be a skilled and patient lover. He had slowly undressed her, all the while covering her body with kisses, which increased in intensity till she was crazed with passion. By the time it was over and they both lay exhausted in the twisted sheets, Emma had experienced a pleasure she had never known before.

She thought of those moments now as she watched him sleep. He appeared so peaceful, his breathing soft and measured. She looked at his face, tanned and handsome, the jaw set firm, the little line of stubble that cast a dark shadow on his cheeks. Emma instinctively knew that she had found the man who would be her companion for the rest of her life.

As she watched him, Mark stirred. He raised a fist and rubbed his eyes.

“Good morning,” he said, blinking in the sunlight. “What time is it?”

“Almost ten o’clock.”

“Why were you watching me?”

“I was admiring you. I was wondering how you keep so fit.”

Mark smiled. “Exercise,” he said.

“I was also thinking how fortunate I am to have found you.”

“The feeling is mutual.”

“We are a lucky couple, aren’t we?” She ran a finger playfully through the hairs on his chest. “And to think, if I hadn’t met you that morning at Pedro’s Bar, we wouldn’t be here together now. Did you sleep well?”

“Perfectly.”

“So you’re well rested?”

“Yes.”

“And your stamina has returned?”

“I hope so,” Mark said.

“Do you know what’s on my mind?”

“Let me guess,” he said, pulling her down beside him. “Would it have anything to do with a three letter word beginning with S and ending with X?”

Afterwards, she rang room service for breakfast.

“What do you want to order?” she asked as she held the phone in her hand.

“Just coffee and hot rolls.”

“We’ll make that two.”

While she waited for breakfast, she went into the bathroom and ran the shower. Apart from her joy at being with Mark, she would have been feeling good this morning. At last she appeared to have solved the problem of Pedro’s Bar. And she was coming round to the view that she would accept the offer for Hi-Speed Printing. But not until she had talked again with her father and wrung some more concessions from Herr Braun.

It was Mark who had helped her to make up her mind.

“What have you got to lose?” he argued. “It’s a fantastic offer. You’ll have more than enough to live on for the rest of your life. And if you ever feel the urge to go back into business, you will have adequate start-up capital.”

“What are you going to do?” she asked.

“I might follow your example and sell Chambers Creative Artists. When Margot was alive, I kept promising myself that I would slow down. But I never did. It’s one of the big regrets of my life. And now that I’ve found you, I don’t intend to make the same mistake twice.”

As she stood under the shower, Emma thought of all the benefits the sale would bring. She would be released from the stress of running the company. She would have financial security. She would have time and money to do the things she wanted. For the first time in her life, she would be entirely free.

There would be many more days like this one, relaxing and enjoying life with Mark at her side. Perhaps she might even buy a house out here, where they could come whenever the cold, dreary Irish winters got too much to bear. It would be idyllic.

But her thoughts were disturbed by the loud ringing of the phone. She heard Mark lift the receiver and answer it. A moment later, he was knocking on the bathroom door.

“It’s for you,” he announced.

She turned off the shower and wrapped a towel around her.

“Who is it?” she whispered as she emerged from the bathroom.

“Kevin,” he whispered back.

Emma took the phone, looking slightly confused.

“Hi,” she said.

“Forgive me for calling you like this,” Kevin said.

“What is it?”

“I’ve got a bit of a crisis on my hands and I don’t know what to do.”

“What sort of crisis?”

“I’ve just arrived at Pedro’s. Maria is very upset. She’s just been told that Antonio is buying the bar.”

34

Claire still had not made up her mind. All night, she had lain in bed, tossing and turning, trying to decide whether to accept Matthew Baker’s offer. She had analysed the situation from every possible angle and still she couldn’t reach a decision. Now she had run out of time. Matthew Baker would be returning to London later today. Either she told him now or he would make other arrangements.

She sat at the kitchen table and clenched her fists in frustration. Why did life have to be so complicated? She had come here for a simple holiday and instead she had been plunged into a terrible dilemma – accept the job offer with all the attendant risks or go back to Dublin in a few weeks’ time without Kevin.

If she took the job she could be putting herself under tremendous pressure. If Matthew was still interested in her, she feared that sooner or later he was bound to wear her down. Particularly because she was still attracted to him.

So did this mean she didn’t love Kevin?

“Damn Matthew Baker!” she cried to the four walls of the little kitchen. If only he wasn’t involved, it would all be so simple. The job sounded brilliant. She would be doing something she enjoyed and getting well paid for it. She would be able to remain here on the Costa. In time, if they were still together, she and Kevin could get an apartment together. She would be able to make a new life for herself. Everything would be wonderful.

She thought of Anne’s advice. The problem was, she didn’t really have time to find out how she felt or what either Matthew’s or Kevin’s feelings and intentions were. Too many unanswered questions to make such a momentous decision.

What was she going to do? Her mobile phone lay on the table beside her. She opened her purse and took out the business card that Matthew Baker had given her. Slowly her fingers reached for the phone and she dialled the number. After a few moments, she heard his suave tones come on the line.

“It’s me, Claire.”

Immediately, she caught the note of satisfaction in his voice. “Claire! I was wondering when you were going to call.”

“I’ve been thinking about your job offer,” she said, a lump rising in her throat.

“Yes?”

“I’d like to take it.”

A few minutes later she switched off the phone and felt her heart hammering in her breast. She had done it! She had made her decision! She noticed that her hand was trembling. Matthew had been delighted. He had suggested that they meet for lunch in Felipe’s at half twelve to discuss the details. She glanced at her watch. It was now almost eleven o’clock. She had better think about getting ready. Oh, please, God, let me have made the right choice, she prayed as she rose from the kitchen table.

Just then, she heard a loud hammering on the apartment door. She opened it to find Maggie standing in the hallway in her dressing-gown.

“I’ve just made some French toast,” she said excitedly. “I want you to come over and try it.”

Claire was about to refuse when something made her change her mind. Maggie had probably gone to a lot of trouble to make the toast and right now Claire needed nothing more than some friendly female conversation.

“I’d be delighted,” she said, grabbing the apartment keys and locking the door.

In Maggie’s kitchen, she was presented with a mountain of toast. She took a piece and nibbled at it. It was very good but if she was going to do justice to her lunch in Felipe’s, she needed to go easy.

“Don’t tell me this is another of your family’s secret recipes?” she said.

“More or less. With a few little additions of my own. Do you like it?”

“It’s delicious,” Claire replied, licking her fingers and rolling her eyes.

“Try it with honey,” Maggie said, pushing a jar across the table.

“I’ve already had breakfast!” Claire protested.

“A little bit of French toast won’t do you any harm. Go on!” She pushed the honey closer.

“And I’ve got to meet someone for lunch.”

“You can skip dessert. Here, would you like me to spread it for you?”

Claire realised she was trapped. There was no way she could escape from Maggie’s apartment without surrendering to her neighbour’s demands. She took another piece of toast and smeared it with honey. It tasted heavenly.

“My God, Maggie! This is truly spectacular.”

Maggie smiled triumphantly. “You can have as much as you like. I made loads.”

“No. This is enough. Honest.”

Claire tried to make the toast last while they chatted about Maggie’s visit this evening to Puerto Banus. Ricky had phoned earlier to say he had secured an audition for her at the Pig and Whistle pub.

“I’m a little nervous,” she confessed. “The clientele down there are a bit on the snooty side.”

“But you’ve got absolutely nothing to be nervous about. You’ll slay them.”

“You think so?”

“I’d bet on it.” Claire glanced nervously at the clock on the wall. “I’ve really got to go now or I’m going to be late.”

“Can’t you stay a little bit longer? I love talking to you. You’re always so sensible.”

“I love talking to you too. But if I don’t go now, I’m going to be late for my appointment.” She stood up. “Thank you for the toast, Maggie. You must make it again some time.”

“I’ll make it tomorrow if you like. And we can continue our conversation. Maybe you can help me decide what I’m going to do about these two fellas in my life.”

“Tomorrow would be too soon. Your toast is the sort of thing you treat yourself to very rarely. You know, like champagne or caviar.”

She edged gingerly towards the door.

“Wait!” Maggie commanded.

Claire stopped dead.

Maggie tore a strip of cling film, wrapped it round the remaining toast and thrust it into Claire’s hands.

“Take it with you. You can eat it as a snack later.”

Back in her own apartment, Claire frantically set about getting ready for the lunch. First she had to have a shower. She wondered if she should wash her hair. Did she have time?

Ten minutes later, when she emerged dripping from the bathroom, it was half past eleven. What was she going to wear? She hadn’t come prepared for something like this. After another search through her limited wardrobe, she decided that this time she should wear something that would look distinctly businesslike, that couldn’t be possibly construed as flirtation. But the clothes she had with her weren’t those kind of clothes. Eventually she made do with a pair of black palazzo trousers with a white long-sleeved shirt. She tied her hair back. A gold chain, discreet gold earrings. That would have to do as her “business” outfit.

By twelve o’clock, she was ready. She gave herself a final look-over in the bathroom mirror. She would pass. She locked the apartment, hurried down the stairs and caught a cab at the end of the street. Twenty minutes later, she was being greeted by the cheerful head waiter at Felipe’s.

The restaurant was beginning to fill up but Matthew hadn’t arrived. She was shown to a table near the window, presented with a menu and asked if she would like something to drink.

“I’ll have tonic water and ice, please.”

She opened the menu. She realised she was feeling quite nervous. To cheer herself up, she thought of the last occasion she was here. It was with Mark Chambers on the very first evening she arrived. That had been a happy, carefree night. She’d worn her swirly red dress and her pashmina. She remembered that she still owed Mark an apology for her brusque manner the last time they met at Pedro’s Bar. But she hadn’t seen him since. She wondered what had happened to him and how he was enjoying his holiday.

She opened the menu and stared at the printed page. She had no appetite. It wasn’t just the French toast she had been forced to eat at Maggie’s. It was the thought of meeting Matthew Baker. There were butterflies in her stomach.

Just then, the waiter arrived with her drink and, immediately after, Matthew came striding in. He looked superb in a cream blazer, dark-brown trousers with a knife-edge crease, a coffee-coloured shirt and chocolate tie – all of which screamed designer label. An image of Kevin in his shorts and vest flashed into her mind.

Matthew slung his jacket over the back of the chair opposite her, then bent to kiss her gently on the cheek before sitting down.

“Sorry for being late,” he apologised. “I’ve just spent the morning in negotiations for a new office suite. I’m looking at a place on the seafront near the port.”

“Sounds like an ideal location,” Claire heard herself say.

“It is. But I’m trying to get them to reduce the rent.” He smiled across the table. “You look terrific, Claire. But then you always did.”

She found herself blushing. “Thank you.”

“I can’t tell you how pleased I am that you’re coming on board.”

“I’m excited too. I hope we can work well together.

“Of course we can. But before we get down to details, why don’t we order something to eat? What would you like?”

“I’ll just have the prawn salad.”

“Oh, you can do better than that! We’re in the best fish restaurant in Fuengirola and all you want is a prawn salad?”

“I’m not particularly hungry,” Claire explained.

“That’s a shame. Something to drink?”

“I’ll have some white wine.”

He reached across and playfully tickled her chin. The action immediately made Claire recoil.

“That’s my girl. Once we get settled in, we’ll have lots of these lunches together. You’ve no idea how much I’m looking forward to working with you again, Claire.”

The waiter took their order and returned with the wine. Matthew poured two glasses and raised his in a toast.

“To a fruitful working partnership!” He clinked his glass against hers and raised it to his lips. “We’re going to be fantastic together, Claire. Just like the old days.”

“Can we talk about the terms?” she asked.

“Sure,” he said. “What do you want to know?”

“Let’s start with salary.”

He suddenly became serious. He fidgeted with his cuffs. “I was thinking of €20,000 to begin.”

Claire thought her ears had deceived her. She was earning almost three times that amount in Dublin. “Twenty thousand?”

“It’s only a starting salary,” he said quickly. “Just till we get up and running.”

“But I’m earning far more back home.”

“This is Fuengirola, Claire. Everything is cheaper here.” He then rushed to reassure her. “You’ll earn more in time. But I have to keep costs down at the beginning.” He smiled. “I might be able to squeeze €25,000. And don’t forget you’ll also be earning commission.”

“But that’s not guaranteed.”

He suddenly reached across and took her hand. His blue eyes gazed deeply into hers.

“Let’s not fall out. I see this as much more than a job. I see it as the beginning of a partnership. It really excites me. Once I get established, I’ll be able to pay you much more. We’ll have a wonderful time together.”

Just then, he was interrupted by the ringing of his phone. He let go of her hand and pressed the phone to his ear.

“Why, hello,” he said, sitting back in his chair and grinning widely.

Claire watched him with growing unease. This lunch was beginning to confirm her worst fears. She listened as he chatted away on the phone.

“Weather is beautiful as always. No, I’m not working too hard. I’m just about to have lunch, in fact.” He looked across the table at Claire and winked. “Who with? Just somebody who’s interested in a job.”

At last, he finished the conversation and switched off the phone.

“Who was that?” Claire asked.

“My secretary in London. Just keeping me up to date on developments.”

Claire felt her stomach churn.

Matthew reached across and stroked her arm. “Incidentally, I was wondering. I have to stay on for a few more days. You don’t have a spare bed at your place, do you? It would only be for a couple of nights?”

Suddenly, Claire was overwhelmed with loathing. She had made a ghastly mistake. Matthew Baker was still a lying philanderer, probably stringing along some poor woman back in London while he attempted to persuade Claire to work with him for peanuts. And now he was trying to inveigle himself back into her bed within ten minutes of meeting her.

She smacked his hand away. “You haven’t changed one bit, have you?”

Immediately, the colour drained from his face. “What do you mean?”

“You’re still the same lying bastard I used to know.”

He tried to smile. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes, you do. You’re a disgusting reptile puffed up with your own self-importance. You think you can come here and buy me a glass of wine and get me to work for nothing while you try to seduce me as a bonus. You’ve learned nothing, have you?”

Matthew Baker’s mouth fell open in shock.

She stood up and tossed her napkin on the table. “You can stick your job. I’m afraid you’ve picked the wrong woman.”

She turned on her heel and strode out of the restaurant, her heels clacking loudly on the floor.

Heads turned to stare.

At his table, Matthew Baker’s face was burning scarlet.

35

Once Emma and Mark were dressed, they set off at once for Pedro’s Bar. When they arrived, it was almost midday and a crowd of thirsty customers was milling around the counter while Snuffy struggled valiantly to serve them. Mark caught his attention and asked him where they could find Kevin and Maria.

“They’re round the back,” Snuffy said, indicating with his thumb.

They followed his directions and came across a distraught Maria, sitting in a chair while Kevin held her hand and tried to comfort her. Mark took one look at the scene. “Let’s all go across the road and have a coffee while we try to sort this out,” he said.

It was the same café where he had first taken Emma. They sat at a pavement table and a brisk waiter quickly appeared to take their order.

“Now,” Emma said in a soothing voice to Maria, “tell me exactly what happened.”

The old lady looked at her and wiped her eyes with a large handkerchief.

“This morning, I get a phone call from my son, Antonio. He say he has news for me that I won’t like. When I ask him, he tell me you are selling him Pedro’s Bar.” She stopped and looked at Emma.

“Go on,” Emma said.

“Antonio say that things are going to change. He say the bar is not being run properly and nobody is in charge. I tell him I am in charge. He laughs and say I am an old woman and should be at home looking after Rosario.” She began weeping again.

“What else did he say, Maria?”

“Nothing else. But I know when he buys the bar, he will get rid of me. He will hire new manager. There will be no more job for me.” She turned her pleading eyes towards Emma. “What am I going to do, Emma? Why does he behave like this to me? He is my only son. Always I have been good to him.”

Emma bit her lip. She glanced at Mark for support. “I don’t know why he behaves like this, Maria. But nothing has been decided yet. I am still the owner of Pedro’s Bar.”

“But is it true what he say? Is it true you are selling to him?”

Emma took a deep breath. “It is true that I have reached an agreement with him about a price and about certain conditions. One of them is that the existing staff will be kept on. That includes you, Maria. But I have to stress that no contract has been signed.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means that I’m still the owner. I’m the person who makes the decisions.”

“And what about Antonio?”

“He has no say in the matter at this point.”

Emma’s words seemed to have the effect of pacifying Maria. She sniffed and blew her nose. They finished their coffees and Mark summoned the waiter to pay the bill. Emma turned her attention to Kevin. “I want you both to go back to work now and continue as normal. As soon as I have something to report, I will talk to you again. I promise I will do my best for both of you.”

Maria seized her hand and fought back the tears. “Thank you, señorita. You are so very kind.”

They went back to work. For the next few hours, the pace was unrelenting. About two o’clock, it began to slacken off and Kevin told Snuffy he could have the rest of the evening off to prepare for the trip to Puerto Banus with Maggie. He was washing some glasses when he looked up to see a familiar figure approach along the beach. He stopped as Claire drew up to the counter and plumped down on a stool. She sank her head into her hands.

“What’s the matter?” he asked anxiously. “You look sick.”

She shook her head. “I feel sick. I feel like a fool.”

He came out from behind the bar and put his arms around her to comfort her. “What’s bothering you?”

She looked at him. There were tears in her eyes. “Oh Kevin, I almost made the biggest mistake of my life.”

He signalled to Maria that he was taking a break.

“Let’s go for a walk,” he said.

When they were a safe distance from the bar, he took out a paper handkerchief and gave it to her: “Dry your eyes and tell me what has upset you like this.”

Claire did as he instructed. “I was offered a job,” she sniffed. “I thought it was going to be the job of a lifetime and it would mean that I could stay here in Fuengirola.”

“So why didn’t you take it?”

“Because it would have been a disaster. The man I would have been working for is an absolute bastard. He’s an old boyfriend and a total womaniser. I met him years ago when I lived here. I thought he had changed but he hasn’t. If I had taken that job . . .”

She clung to him and began to weep again.

“There, there,” he said.

She held him tight.

“But, Claire . . . are you still in love with him? Is that the problem?”

She looked up into his eyes. “Kevin, the strange thing is, the whole nasty experience has just proved something that has been staring me in the face.”

“What?”

“You’re the one I love.”

He stopped and looked deeply into her face. “Do you mean that, Claire?”

“Yes, I mean it. With all my heart. You’re the one I love.”

“Because I love you too.”

Claire tried to smile through her tears. “Honestly?”

“Yes. I was trying to figure out a way of telling you.”

“Oh, Kevin! How could I have been so stupid?”

She clung to him and their lips met in a long, lingering kiss.

At last they separated.

“Now that you’ve turned down the job, you’ll be going home?” he said.

“I suppose so. What about you? Will you come with me?”

For a moment, he didn’t reply. He appeared to be wrapped in thought.

Finally he said: “Do you have any savings, Claire?”

“A little. About €20,000. It’s in my account in Dublin. Why do you ask?”

“Just an idea that has occurred to me.”

Emma and Mark spent the remainder of the afternoon visiting the pretty village of Nerja to the east of Malaga. It was a trip they had been planning for some time and with the end of Mark’s holiday approaching, they had decided to do it now. But it was a gloomy affair. The enthusiasm that Emma had felt when she woke this morning had now evaporated after her talk with Maria.

It was early evening when Mark swung his rented Audi into the car park of Hotel Alhambra. As they came through the doors into the opulent foyer they were met by a familiar voice. They turned to see Kevin and Claire get up from a sofa and come hurrying across the floor to meet them.

“This is a surprise,” Emma said. “What are you pair doing here?”

“We’ve been waiting for you,” Kevin said excitedly. “Could we have a word with you?”

“It will only take a moment,” added Claire.

“Okay,” said Emma.

Emma led the way across the foyer to a quiet alcove where they all sat down.

“Now,” she said. “What is this all about?”

Kevin cleared his throat. “I’ve been thinking about the conversation we had earlier today.”

“Yes?”

“Pedro’s Bar means a lot to us who work there. We enjoy the job. We like meeting the different customers who turn up. But especially it means a lot to Maria. It’s her only source of income. I’ve spoken to Snuffy and . . . well . . .” He looked up. “If Antonio buys the bar, we couldn’t continue to work there.”

There was silence for a moment.

“What would you do?” Emma asked.

“Get jobs elsewhere.”

“And Maria?”

Kevin shrugged. “God knows what would happen to her. Maria believes if Antonio takes over, her days at Pedro’s are numbered. No matter what guarantees he might give, once he has bought the bar, Maria is convinced he will get rid of her.”

Emma let out a loud sigh. “Let me be straight with you. I don’t like Antonio any more than you do. But he is absolutely right about one thing. The bar cannot be run from long distance. It needs someone who is on the spot and can keep an eye on it. You saw what happened with Conor Delaney.”

“Can’t you run it?”

“No,” Emma said. “I don’t have the time or the knowledge. I’ve made up my mind to dispose of it.”

Kevin’s face looked grim. “There is an alternative.”

“What alternative?”

He threw Claire a nervous glance. “You could sell it to us.”

36

Emma stared at Kevin.

“Sell Pedro’s Bar to you? Do you know what it would cost?”

“Not exactly. But between us we could raise about €80,000. Everyone is prepared to contribute something.”

“Even Maria?”

Kevin lowered his eyes. “Even Maria. She hasn’t got much. But she’s prepared to put it up to save the bar.”

Emma felt confused. “This is all a big surprise,” she said at last.

“We’ll be here permanently to make sure it is run properly,” Kevin went on. “And we have ideas to expand the business and make it more profitable. It’s in a perfect location. Why do you think Antonio is so keen to purchase it? Because he can see the untapped potential, that’s why.”

“But €80,000 would barely cover the debts. They amount to at least €60,000. Then you would have legal costs on top of that.”

Kevin’s face clouded over. “Maybe we could borrow the rest of the money. But, anyway, whatever you do, please don’t sell it to Antonio!”

Claire interrupted. “I have an apartment back in Dublin that I could sell.”

“And where would you live?”

She turned to Kevin and took his hand. “I’m going to stay here with Kevin. Please. If you just give us a little time, I’m sure we could come up with the cash.”

Emma looked from one to the other.

“Don’t dismiss our offer out of hand,” Kevin pleaded. “At least consider it. I’m convinced it could work.”

Emma glanced at Mark, who nodded gravely.

“All right,” she said at last. “I’ll consider it. Can you be back here tomorrow at midday?”

“Sure,” Kevin said, his face brightening up.

“I’ll give you my decision then.”

Antonio Hernandez Rodriguez gazed out from the little room that he used as his office and let his eye travel over the restaurant floor. All the tables were set with starched white tablecloths; later, as they approached opening time, the waiters would put a spray of fresh flowers on each one. The floors were swept, the mirrors polished and the red carpet that ran from the door to the cash desk had been vacuumed twice. The place looked pristine.

Antonio insisted that these jobs be completed each evening before the staff finished work. He still remembered the occasion when he got an urgent phone call at eleven to say that forty top tourism executives would be arriving for lunch at half twelve. What a mad scramble that had been! But it had taught Antonio a valuable lesson. Now he left nothing to chance.

El Molino Blanco had seating for one hundred and twenty diners and most nights it was full. His restaurant was one of the most successful on the Costa del Sol and was mentioned in all the best guidebooks and restaurant reviews. He counted all the top earners and big spenders among his clients. His investment account was in a healthy balance and his bank manager was happy. And he had built it all from nothing but hard work and good business sense. And he hadn’t finished yet. Antonio had grand expansion plans as soon as he got his hands on Pedro’s Bar.

He had always regretted selling the bar to Conor Delaney. But at the time, he had no option. He needed the money to open his restaurant. His mother, of course, had created a fuss, demanding that he give her a share of the proceeds. For what? Antonio still felt bitter about the affair. He owned the bar. His father had willed it to him. He was the one who had developed it. If he had given her what she wanted, he would have had nothing left to open the restaurant. And what would she have done with the money anyway? Probably spent it on silly trifles for that sick sister of hers. That’s where she should be: at home looking after her.

But things were going to change when he regained possession of Pedro’s. Antonio had plans to redesign it as a cocktail bar that would cater for the trendy young tourists who flocked to the Costa. No more cooking paella. No more greasy hamburgers. Instead, they would serve designer drinks at €5 a shot. And the first thing he would do would be to get rid of his mother. She was so old-fashioned that she would be a liability. Despite his promise to the Irishwoman, there would be no job for Maria. Or for any of the rest of the scruffy staff, who looked more like a bunch of beach bums than the kind of smart young cocktail assistants that he had in mind.

But first he had to buy Pedro’s and, so far, things were looking good. He had relied heavily on his gut instinct that the Irishwoman would not want to keep it, particularly since she knew nothing about running a bar. He had also stressed the obvious fact that, to manage it properly, the owner needed to be on site. But what had really tipped the scales in his favour was the fact that the bar was so heavily indebted.

That was why he had told Miguel to do nothing about the unpaid taxes. Not that there was anything he could do. Miguel had produced no accounts for Pedro’s Bar for years. And Antonio also knew that he had been quietly milking the bar, siphoning off funds for his own use. There was no possibility that he could produce accounts out of thin air. Antonio had guessed that this combination of factors would prompt Señorita Dunne to get rid of the bar at the first opportunity. And he was right.

When he made his bid and offered to take on the debts, he had seen her eyes light up like a child in a toyshop. He had given her a way out: a chance to get her money back and be free of Pedro’s. Of course, she was going to take it. They had agreed terms and, any day now, he was expecting the contract of sale to arrive from her lawyers. Which reminded him: he would ring Luis Garcia Santiago this afternoon and see what was holding things up. Yes, Antonio was happy with the way things had panned out. He couldn’t wait to get started on the redevelopment of Pedro’s Bar.

He got up from his desk and walked out into the restaurant. From the kitchen, he could hear the sound of chopping and the aroma of cooking food as the chefs began preparing for lunch. In the meantime, he would just step across the road to the corner bar and have a cortado while he had a quick glance at the papers. But when he reached the door, he found his way out to the street was blocked by two tall men in dark suits.

“Señor Antonio Hernandez Rodriguez?” the first man asked. He had produced a badge of some sort and was flashing it in Antonio’s face.

“Yes?” Antonio said, smiling benignly.

“I am from the Tax Office.”

The smile immediately disappeared from Antonio’s face.

“My colleague is from the police. We have a warrant to search these premises.”

Antonio felt a tremor of fear run along his spine. “A warrant?”

“Yes.”

The second man had produced a document and was showing it to him.

Antonio tried to remain calm. There was no point getting angry with these people. It would do no good.

“We also have a warrant for your arrest.”

Antonio gulped. “Arrest? I do not understand. What for?”

“Falsifying tax returns. Evading taxes.”

Despite himself, Antonio began to protest. “This is outrageous. I am an honest businessman. You can’t do this to me.”

“We have the warrants, Señor Hernandez. We can do it.”

“But I have done nothing wrong. I have always paid my taxes.”

“That will be for the authorities to decide. But I should tell you that we already have a signed confession from one of your associates.”

Antonio felt his heart go cold. “Who is the scoundrel who makes these false allegations?”

“Señor Miguel Martinez Sanchez. He has made a full report to us.”

Antonio couldn’t believe his ears. “Miguel?”

“That is correct. He has told us everything. Now I suggest it is best for you not to resist.”

He had produced a pair of handcuffs.

Meekly, Antonio held out his wrists.

Kevin had been up since seven o’clock. He hadn’t slept very well, worrying about Emma’s reaction to their bid to buy the bar. He just hoped she would show them a little bit of compassion, that was all. But he had his fears. She was a businesswoman after all and, in Kevin’s experience, business-people had little time for sentiment.

Now he sat at the kitchen table and drank strong black tea while Snuffy pottered about with the electric toaster.

“How did Maggie’s audition go last night?” Kevin asked, trying not to think of the big decision that lay ahead.

“Like a bomb. She brought the house down.”

“Did they offer her a gig?”

“Not just one. She’s got a regular three-night slot starting next week. At twice her usual fee.”

“Well, that’s good news,” Kevin said.

“And tomorrow night, I begin rehearsals with the Black Pimpernels.”

“Are you going to join them?”

“Looks like it. Ricky is very keen. Says another guitar would give the band an edge.”

“You’re going to be busy. Do you think you can manage all this and still work in the bar?”

Snuffy smeared marmalade on his toast. “Isn’t that the point of this meeting with Emma? Are you sure there’s still going to be a bar for us to work at?”

Kevin lowered his eyes. “No,” he said. “I’m not. But we’ve got to hope for the best.”

At a quarter to twelve, they all gathered outside Hotel Alhambra. Maggie had come along to lend support. On their way, Kevin had made a detour to Pedro’s Bar where he stuck up a sign that read: CLOSED TILL 3 P.M. FOR STOCKTAKING. Because of the importance of the occasion and the venue, they had dressed in their best clothes – even Snuffy looked quite smart in new jeans and a short-sleeved blue shirt he had borrowed from Kevin. They stood nervously waiting till at last Maria was seen making her way along the footpath in their direction.

She too had dressed in her Sunday best and wore a white blouse and flowing dark skirt. She had put a plain silver chain and pendant around her neck and pinned a large brooch to her breast. But there was no disguising the look of concern that lined her face. Maria was well aware that this meeting was going to decide her fate. In an hour’s time, she would know whether she was ever going to work again.

“Buenos días,” she said gravely to each of them in turn.

Kevin took her hand and kissed her cheek. “You look splendid, Maria. Maybe you will meet a wealthy businessman who will marry you.”

The old lady smiled. “Not any more. Not unless he is also blind.”

Her joke seemed to ease the tension and everyone laughed.

Kevin checked his watch. It was now five to twelve. It was time to go in.

“All right,” he said. “Everybody ready?”

They nodded their agreement.

“Let’s go.”

He walked past the elegant commissionaire and the others followed. Looks of awe and amazement broke on the faces of Maria and Maggie when they saw the opulence of the vast foyer: the glittering chandeliers, the tinkling fountain, the wealth and elegance of the world they had entered.

Mark was already waiting for them at the reception desk. He came forward and warmly shook their hands.

“Good to see you all. Why don’t you follow me?”

He led them along a corridor till they came to a small conference room. He opened the door and stood aside to let them enter. Inside, a number of chairs had been set out facing a small platform. In a corner of the room, a pot of coffee sat on a table beside cups and saucers.

“Help yourselves,” Mark said, pointing to the coffee. “Emma will be along shortly. She rang a few minutes ago to say she was on her way.”

They looked at each other but nobody moved towards the coffee pot. Everyone seemed to be on edge. Slowly, they pulled out the chairs and sat down. Mark tried to make small talk but it gradually died away. A deathly hush settled over the room as they waited to learn what lay in store.

Emma was running late. Like Kevin, she had also been up early. She’d eaten a light breakfast of croissants and coffee and at nine o’clock rang Luis at his home. She had spent most of the morning in intensive phone conversation with the lawyer while they discussed the finer details of her decision. Now she had to go downstairs and break the news to Kevin and the others.

They were sitting anxiously when she entered the room, like people waiting for a judge to announce his verdict. Emma walked briskly to the top of the room and opened her briefcase with a loud snap.

“Good morning,” she said tersely. “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting.”

Their faces watched her closely for some indication of her decision. She reached into her briefcase and took out a bunch of documents.

“Before we begin, I want to explain how I came into possession of Pedro’s Bar.”

There was a creaking sound as someone shifted in their chair.

“My main business is printing and in the course of my work I came into contact with Conor Delaney, who some of you know was the previous owner of the bar. I won’t go into details but Conor Delaney owed me some money for work I had done. He couldn’t repay it and he proposed that I take the bar instead. I knew nothing about running a bar. And what is more, I had no interest in it. In addition, I soon learnt that there are considerable debts that the bar has incurred. It was for these reasons that I decided to dispose of it.”

She paused and glanced at Maria.

“Recently, I was approached by Antonio, Maria’s son, who made a very generous offer to purchase the bar. Antonio was also prepared to assume the debts. I reached agreement with him subject to an undertaking that the jobs of the existing staff would be guaranteed.

“Then, last night, I was approached by Kevin with a counter offer on behalf of you people. I promised to consider it and to give you my response today.”

There was complete silence as every eye focused on Emma.

“I have now had time to do that.” She paused. “I have to tell you that I have decided not to accept your offer.”

There were gasps and groans from her audience.

Kevin rose to speak but Emma waved him down again.

“Allow me to explain,” she went on, with a slight smile on her lips. “I know how much you all love Pedro’s Bar. And I appreciate the fears you have about your jobs and particularly Maria’s job. But if I accept your offer, you will have no money left. You will have no capital to expand the business as Kevin has suggested. You would be burdened by debt and I don’t think that would be a good way to start your career in business.”

Mark had now moved to stand beside her.

“Instead, I have decided on a different course of action,” Emma continued.

The room had fallen silent again.

“I have decided to incorporate Pedro’s Bar as a limited company. I will maintain the main holding and will pay off the debts but each of you will become shareholders. The money that you proposed to put up for the purchase will now be invested in the renovation and improvement of the premises. I will take no part in the running or management of the business, which will be the responsibility of Kevin and Maria.

“I have spoken to my lawyer this morning and he is in the process of drawing up the necessary papers. If you are happy to accept this arrangement, we can have the legal documents signed this evening.”

Snuffy had risen to his feet. “What exactly does this mean?”

“It means we will own the bar between us. Everyone’s job is secure.”

Their astonishment gave way to shouts of joy. As the import of Emma’s words began to sink in, they jumped up and grabbed each other. Kevin kissed Claire. Snuffy smothered Maggie in a bear hug. They crowded round a beaming Emma and Mark and warmly shook their hands.

Alone in her chair, Maria sat in a trance, the big tears of gratitude rolling silently down her face.

37

“Fasten your seat-belts. Landing shortly.”

The captain’s instructions disrupted Emma’s enjoyment of the tape she had been listening to on her headphones. She opened her eyes and the sea suddenly came into view like a great pane of blue glass. Then the plane dipped and the brown mountains became visible beneath the cloud. The journey was almost over. In a few minutes, they would be landing in Malaga.

Beside her, she felt Mark’s hand reach out to twine her fingers.

“Feeling okay?” he mouthed.

She removed her headphones to hear him.

“Were you sleeping?” he asked.

She shook her head. “Just relaxing to the music.”

“Seat-belt fastened?”

She pointed to her lap. “Yes.”

“Excited?”

Emma smiled and laid her head on his shoulder. “What a silly question, Mark. Of course, I am. Since meeting you I’ve never stopped.”

It was true. There were moments when Emma thought she had been hit by a cyclone. In the nine months since she had first set eyes on Mark Chambers, her life had been turned completely upside down. She had finally sold the Hi-Speed Printing Company to Herr Braun, after weeks of intensive negotiations. With Mark’s advice and her father’s guidance, she had managed to push the sale price well past the initial €3 million offer. The deal had been sealed over several bottles of champagne in the Four Seasons hotel in Ballsbridge and now the Germans were installed in the company’s headquarters in Baldoyle.

Despite some trepidation, the transfer had gone extremely smoothly. As part of the negotiations, Emma had insisted that each member of staff be given a goodwill bonus and this had greatly facilitated the changeover. And she was still in position as consultant, although a new management team was being moved into place. Everybody seemed satisfied with the outcome.

It had been a more difficult task to convince her parents to accept the cheque for €1 million that she had set aside as their part of the payout. Her father had argued that they were comfortably off and didn’t need the money but Emma had been adamant.

“You started the company, Dad, and you deserve a reward.”

“But you built it up.”

“On your foundations. If you don’t take the money, I’m calling the whole thing off.”

Her father sighed. “You always had a stubborn streak, Emma. Now you’re trying to blackmail me!”

Reluctantly, he agreed to accept the cash.

Meanwhile, Mark had been making changes too.

On his return from Spain, he had set about reorganising Chambers Creative Artists. He remained as Managing Director but Ted Cunningham had been promoted to Chief Executive, with responsibility for the day-to-day running of the firm. The move allowed Mark to take a back seat and devote more of his time to Emma. Now they spent all their spare time together. She had moved some of her clothes into his house in Howth and spent her weekends there.

Even Conor Delaney had managed to survive. They had run into him one evening in a restaurant in town. He was looking fit and had lost weight and Emma was surprised to see that he was drinking mineral water. He explained that after his company had gone bust he had managed to secure a position as Sales Director with an on-line travel firm and was slowly rebuilding his life. He had also given up the booze.

“What did you do with Pedro’s Bar?” he asked.

“I turned it into a limited company.”

“You did what?”

Emma was tempted to tell him the whole story but decided not to.

“I brought in some new investors who live in Fuengirola. They’ll be able to give it their full-time attention.”

It was true. The regular reports she received from Kevin and Claire spoke in glowing terms about the progress the bar was making. They had used their capital to rebuild and expand it and had added a restaurant with seating for eighty people. They had even managed to recruit Carlos, the chef from Felipe’s. Now the restaurant was receiving rave reviews and was a runaway success.

It was one of the reasons Emma and Mark were making this return trip. The other one was to see the new house that Claire had found for them on the outskirts of Mijas. They planned to use it for regular breaks and as a retreat from Dublin. Claire had spent months searching for somewhere and now she said she had found the perfect place, a four-bedroom house ­with gardens and swimming pool, fifteen minutes from the centre of town. Emma couldn’t wait to see it.

There was a shudder as the plane’s wheels made contact with the runway and then they slowly taxied up to the terminal. Ten minutes later, they were disembarking into the warm Malaga sun. This time, Mark had learnt his lesson and had packed only hand luggage so they sailed through the arrivals hall and past the baggage reclaim to the taxi rank. Soon they were speeding along the motorway towards Fuengirola.

Emma reclined her head against the seat.

“I’m really looking forward to seeing them all again,” she said. “And viewing the new house.”

“But first I want a hot shower and a change of clothes,” Mark said. “Already I’m feeling like a damp rag. And we’ve only been here fifteen minutes.”

They had booked into the Alhambra once more and Emma had emailed Claire to tell her of their arrival time. She was waiting for them in the foyer, full of excitement.

They all embraced.

“Hey, you both look so well!” Claire said as she held Emma at arm’s length.

“Not as well as you,” Mark said wryly. “Unfortunately our suntans have faded in the grey Dublin rain.”

“Plenty of time to top them up again,” Claire replied with a grin. “How long are you staying?”

“Two weeks.”

“I have a car waiting. As soon as you’re ready I’ll take you up to view the house.”

“That’s perfect,” Emma said. “I’m dying to see it.”

“I think you’re going to like it. It was an old farmhouse but it has been completely renovated. Everything is brand new, appliances, everything. And it has spectacular views over the whole area.”

“Can you give us ten minutes to get changed?” Mark asked.

“Sure. I’ll wait in the bar.”

They were back again within the appointed time. Emma had changed into a white skirt and brown T-shirt and Mark was now wearing a loose sports shirt and jeans. They got into Claire’s car and started the journey up the hill towards Mijas.

“I want to catch up on all the news,” Emma said. “Tell me what’s been happening.”

“Well, Maggie is still conducting a ménage à trois with Snuffy and Ricky. She can’t decide which one she really loves. And she’s been appointed Director of Entertainments for us. Did I tell you that?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Well, she has. She’s now in charge of hiring the cabaret acts.”

“What?”

“Oh, yes,” Claire said excitedly. “We now stay open till midnight and every evening we have entertainment. Snuffy runs the bar but he also plays guitar at night with the Black Pimpernels. They’re the resident band.”

“My God,” Mark said, “you’ve really changed the place!”

“You know that we’ve trebled the takings. Pedro’s Bar is now firmly on the tourist map. People come from all over just to have a beer.”

“And what about Maria?”

“She’s in charge of the food. But we have a new cook who does all the heavy stuff. Maria’s role is to oversee the operation. It means she has more time to spend at home with her sister. She’s in her element bossing the new man around.”

“How is her sister?”

“Improved enormously. That visit to the hospital was the best thing that ever happened to her. They really keep an eye on her now. She goes several times a week.”

“So everything is turning out okay?” Mark said.

“Except for Antonio and Miguel. You heard about them?”

“Yes,” Emma said gravely. “Three years each for fraud.”

“They’re lucky it wasn’t more. The judge took into account their guilty pleas and Miguel Martinez’s confession.”

“And what about Kevin?” Emma asked with a grin. “The man who made it all possible?”

Claire smiled. “As you know, Kevin is in overall charge. But he spends most of his time on the restaurant. It’s turning into a major success story. We’re booked out most evenings. Recruiting Carlos as the chef was a big coup for us.”

“And you and your property agency?”

“It’s something I’ve always wanted. I’m happy to say that business is brisk. I get a lot of inquiries from Ireland and my mother is going around Dublin proudly telling everyone who will listen that her daughter is now a Managing Director.”

“That’s brilliant.”

Claire glanced at her coyly. “I’ve something else to tell you. Kevin and I have moved in together. Saves rent. And when things settle down, we’re planning to get married.”

Emma gave a whoop of joy. She pulled Claire close and kissed her. “I’m so happy for you. Congratulations!”

At last, the car pulled up beside a dirt track and they got out.

“Here we are,” Claire said, taking a bunch of keys out of her bag. “Take your time to look around.”

The house was magnificent. It stood behind a high wall with beautiful gardens of orange and lemon and olive trees. Outside the back door there was a splendid swimming pool and a deck for sunbathing. A little tiled patio held a wrought-iron table and chairs. It would be perfect for eating breakfast on a bright, sunny morning.

Inside, the house had been completely restored. Emma and Mark wandered around the rooms uttering cries of satisfaction. There was a fully equipped kitchen, a dining-room and comfortable sitting-room. The master bedroom had an en-suite bathroom and a balcony with fantastic views over the mountains and the sea.

“I’m absolutely gobsmacked,” Emma said in admiration. “You must be a mind-reader.”

“Yes,” Mark agreed. “It’s exactly what we’ve been looking for.”

“Take some time to think about it. There’s no rush.”

“We don’t need to think about it,” Emma said. “This is exactly what we want.”

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely.”

“Well, in that case, we can have a contract for you in a couple of days’ time. Is that okay?”

“Perfect,” Emma said. “I’ll ring Luis this afternoon and tell him.”

On the way back to the hotel, Claire asked casually: “Have you guys got anything scheduled for this evening?”

“Nothing particular,” Mark replied.

“That’s good,” Claire grinned mischievously. “The staff of Pedro’s Bar have something planned for you. A special Welcome Back party. It’s arranged for eight o’clock. Can I tell them you’ll be there?”

“Do we have any choice?” Mark laughed.

When they returned to the hotel, they had a snack at the bar. Emma was anxious to spend some time sunbathing and Mark agreed to join her. They stretched out on the sunbeds and Emma gave a sigh of contentment.

“I’m so happy to be back, Mark. Everything is turning out so well.”

“You’re right. That house is fabulous. I can’t wait to move into it.” He leaned across and kissed her. “There’s only one thing left to make it all complete.”

She took off her glasses and blinked in the sun. “What’s that?”

“I’ll tell you.” He leaned forward and whispered in her ear.

Emma let out a squeal of delight. She immediately sat up and flung her arms around him. From the surrounding sun-beds, a few faces looked up in amazement.

They were ready to leave at half past seven, all dressed up formally for the occasion – Emma going for broke in a full-length turquoise dress and heels. Claire had offered to pick them up again but they told her it would be simpler to get a cab. Tomorrow, Mark planned to hire a car.

On the short journey to Pedro’s Bar, they discussed the evening that lay ahead. But when they arrived, they were totally unprepared for the sight that awaited them.

Pedro’s Bar was at least twice the size it once was, with a whole new counter and deck area where the old structure once stood. And beside the bar was a spanking new building with a large sign proclaiming: Pedro’s Restaurant.

As they stepped out of the cab, they found the staff lined up to greet them. At once, they were swamped by people kissing and hugging them and shaking hands. Kevin, magnificent in a dinner jacket, stepped forward to welcome them. Snuffy shook hands and Carlos, in his chef’s apron, came forward and made a little bow. A figure pushed out from the crowd. It was Maria, looking happier than they had ever seen her. She walked up to Emma and presented her with a bouquet of flowers.

“Oh, Maria,” Emma said. “They’re lovely.”

The old woman beamed with pleasure. “I pick them myself. When you first come, I was so afraid you were going to close us down. But now I am so happy. All because you are such a generous lady.”

Emma kissed the old woman gently on the cheek. “Thank you, Maria. Those are very beautiful words.”

“They are true words. And they come from the heart.”

Emma felt a lump rise in her throat. She held the old lady’s hands and stared into her grey eyes. “I know they are, Maria. And I will always remember them.”

At last, they managed to make their way inside the restaurant, where they found a long table set up in the middle of the room.

Once they had all sat down, Kevin filled their glasses with wine.

“I want to propose a toast. To Emma and Mark! Welcome back to Fuengirola!”

There were shouts and cheers as everyone drank from their glasses.

Emma got to her feet. “Thank you, everybody. I am truly overwhelmed by the warmth of your reception. And by the transformation that I see around me. I would like to return the toast.”

She raised her glass.

“To Pedro’s Bar! May it thrive and prosper!”

Everybody clapped and poured more wine. As the applause slowly died away, there was a creaking sound. People turned to see Mark push his chair aside and stand up.

“I have something to say too and I want you to be the first to hear it. This afternoon, I entered into certain negotiations with Emma.”

A silence had now fallen on the room.

“As a result of these discussions, I am delighted to announce that she has consented to marry me.”

There was a surprised hush and then the room erupted. People whistled and cheered and stomped their feet. Hands reached out to congratulate them. A champagne cork popped. Up on the stage, Maggie had appeared dressed in her Tina Turner outfit, swinging her microphone and belting out “Simply the Best”.

Mark turned to Emma.

“I don’t think there’s any more to say, is there?”

She shook her head.

He took her in his arms and held her in a long embrace.

THE END

If you enjoyed The Beach Bar, don’t miss out on

Hotel Las Flores, also published by Poolbeg.

Here is a sneak preview of Chapter one . . .

Hotel Las Flores

Chapter one

Any girl who has ever been dumped by a man would have sympathised at once with Trish Blake. Just this morning, her lover of ten months, Henry Doran, had rung to tell her he was ending the relationship. The phrase he used was “announce closure” which was typical of Henry Doran who rarely spoke English when he could use jargon he had picked up on a training course somewhere. It was all part of his carefully cultivated image: the flash suits, the casually slicked-back hair, the Armani aftershave, the briefcase, the Diners cards, the arrogant self-confidence and the spouting of sales talk on every available occasion.

Being dumped by Henry Doran wasn’t entirely unexpected and it wasn’t the worst thing that had ever happened to Trish. Which doesn’t mean it wasn’t painful and didn’t dent her morale. He had called her at exactly two minutes to twelve, knowing she had her weekly sales conference at noon. He began by telling her how much he appreciated the relationship, that the sex was wonderful, that he would never forget her as long as he lived but sadly his wife was getting suspicious and, well, he had the kids to think about and anyway hadn’t they both agreed at the outset that it was only a fling?

Trish listened with sinking heart as he galloped to the inevitable conclusion. She realised with dismay that she was hurt by the brutality and coldness of the conversation. What a way to end a relationship! He hadn’t even the decency to buy her a nice dinner and tell her to her face. Why hadn’t he been really brave and broken it off by text message? A rubber duck would have shown more backbone.

But she hadn’t interrupted or argued. She had read somewhere that the best course in these situations is to let the other person sweat. And she had experienced a certain sadistic pleasure in imagining Henry Doran perspire as he wriggled and twisted and finally slithered away like the miserable worm that he was.

‘Good riddance to bad rubbish,’ she muttered under her breath as she grabbed her files and rushed off to her meeting, feeling downcast and flustered and a good ten minutes late.

Why hadn’t she told him about the other news she had received this morning? That she was pregnant? She hadn’t told him because she knew in her heart that it wouldn’t have mattered. If anything, it would have made him panic and run even faster. She was going to have to deal with the baby problem on her own. She would have to devise some explanation. And this was going to present a major problem. For Trish hadn’t slept with her husband for almost a year.

She recalled the thrill she felt at the first hint that she might be pregnant. She was thirty-seven years old and had recently become aware that time was running out. She had been married for fifteen years and, despite irregular hurried sessions of mechanical sex with her husband Adrian, nothing had happened. Not even a late period. Indeed, she had been on the verge of asking Adrian to go for a sperm test when she bumped into Henry Doran.

Henry was a rep for a computer company that did business with the auctioneering firm where she worked. They met at a lunch after a sales deal, in a smart restaurant in Temple Bar where the portions would have left a gerbil feeling hungry but everybody raved about the decor. He was seated next to her, dominating the company with talk of his sales conquests while the wine waiter kept pouring the chilled Chardonnay.

He was tall, with broad shoulders and smouldering brown eyes and a cute dimple in the centre of his chin. Mid-thirties, Trish calculated. For some reason, her eyes were drawn to the gold wedding band on the third finger of his left hand. She knew it instinctively. It was like the Law of Gravity. Good-looking men like Henry Doran were always married.

By half past three everybody had drifted back to work and only Trish and Henry remained. He poured the last of the wine and they tipped glasses together in a toast.

“Nice lunch,” Henry said, stretching his long legs and loosening his tie. “Been here before?”

“Once or twice,” Trish confessed. She didn’t want to tell him that she hated the place with its snooty waiters and overpriced menu and dainty portions that made you want to grab a hamburger on the way home.

“Well, my boss will be happy. That’s the second contract this week.”

“I take it you work on commission,” Trish said.

“Oh, it’s not just about commission,” Henry said dismissively. “It’s reputation. When word gets around that I’mshifting product, the competition will set the hunters on me.”

“Hunters?” Trish asked, thinking maybe he meant bloodhounds.

“Yes. The head-hunters. They’ll be lining up to offer me jobs. That’s what business is all about, nowadays. Reputation.”

“I see,” Trish said.

Henry grinned like a happy schoolboy and drained his glass. “Aren’t you going back to work?”

Trish looked at her watch. She was feeling happy after all the wine. “Not much point now. I’ll catch up in the morning.”

Henry’s eyes twinkled. “So how about cutting this place and getting a proper drink somewhere?” He leaned closer and smiled seductively. “Just you and me.”

Why not? Trish thought. He’s better company than waits for me at home. A lonely night watching TV soaps while Adrian remains locked in his study revising his bloody novel that has already been rejected by twenty publishers.

“Okay,” she said. “Where will we go?”

They went to the Octagon Bar in the Clarence Hotel where Henry Doran ordered vodka and tonics.

“You’re a very attractive woman,” he said after the waiter had delivered their drinks.

“Thank you. You’re not bad-looking yourself.”

“Well, I try to keep trim,” Henry said, taking the compliment in his stride. “I pump iron. Hit the bricks a couple of times a week. I used to play rugby, you know.”

“Really?” Trish said, pretending to be interested.

“Old Belvedere. Friends say I could have made the national squad. But I was just too busy with other things.”

“That’s life for you,” Trish said, realising how inane she sounded.

She swallowed a mouthful of vodka and felt it warm her stomach. Now that she knew what was going to happen, she felt amazingly relaxed. She just wished he would make his move quickly so that she could get home in time to make supper for Adrian.

“What does your husband do?” Henry inquired.

“He’s a teacher. But he really wants to be a writer. He’s working on a novel.”

“That sounds very interesting.”

“He hasn’t got a publisher yet. What about you? What does your wife do?”

Henry suddenly lowered his eyes and looked grave. “She’s dying. The Big C.”

Trish almost spilt her drink. She felt her heart jolt. Surely he wasn’t serious? “That’s terrible. Poor woman. Is there nothing can be done?”

“Afraid not. She’s seen all the top specialists. They say her case is hopeless. It’s only a matter of time.”

“And do you have children?”

“A boy and a girl.”

“That’s awful. I didn’t realise.”

“It is hard,” Henry conceded. “We have absolutely no sexlife.” He turned his smouldering eyes on her. “Which is why you’d be doing me a major favour if you came to bed with me. You could look on it as an act of mercy.”

They took a room in the hotel. Henry paid by credit card and ordered a bottle of Veuve Clicquot to be sent up with Room Service.

Trish had a shower and, when she emerged from the bathroom, Henry had stripped down to his Hugo Boss underpants. Her first impressions had been correct. He had a beautiful body: strong muscles, hard stomach, tight ass. And hair! My God, it was everywhere. It covered his arms and legs and curled like barbed wire along his chest. Trish felt her knees go weak at the sight.

He handed her a glass of champagne, then bent his handsome face and whispered, “You don’t know what this means to me.”

Trish felt a delicious shiver run along her spine as he wrapped his manly arms around her and led her to the bed.

The sex was marvellous. Henry was a practised lover. There was none of the mad urgency she had expected. Instead, he was careful and patient. He took his time. And the stamina! When he got going, Henry performed like a racehorse. At last, when they had finished and lay side by side in the twisted sheets, Trish felt a lovely warm glow envelop her whole body.

Henry ran a wet finger along her breast and gently squeezed a brown nipple. “Thank you,” he said. “You were marvellous. You just absolutely light up my dials.”

What the hell is he talking about? Trish thought and closed her eyes.

He called her at work a week later and asked her to go for a drink. Trish had been expecting this and every morning she had packed fresh underwear in her bag for just such an eventuality. They met in a little pub off Grafton Street.

Henry presented her with a single red rose and kissed her softly on the cheek.

“I’ve missed you terribly,” he said. “I’ve been thinking about you all the time.”

“I’ve thought about you too,” Trish said. She wondered if she should ask about his dying wife but decided against it. It would only break the mood.

Henry ordered the drinks and casually took her hand and placed it on his crotch. Frantically, she pulled away.

“For God’s sake,” she hissed, “not here in full public view!”

But it had excited her. She could feel the blood pounding in her brain.

“I want you so much, I could eat you,” Henry said.

“Can’t you at least let me finish my drink?” She gulped at her glass.

This time, he took her to an apartment at Charlotte Quay which belonged to a friend. There were stunning views across Dublin Bay and in the distance they could see the green nose of Howth Head shining in the evening sun. Henry suggested they have a bath together.

Trish thought it a wonderful idea. He ran the taps and they got in, sipping vodkas while the room filled up with steam. Afterwards, he got her to put on some black stockings and a little white basque he had bought. Trish found it terribly exciting. She thought of the dull sex she had with Adrian and wondered if she had married the wrong man.

The relationship developed into an affair. Each morning when she logged on at work, an e-mail awaited her. Sometimes they were witty, other times passionate. Frequently, they were downright obscene and she hurriedly deleted them. He phoned every day. They had lunch together in quiet out-of-the-way bistros. They went shopping. They went to the cinema, driving over to the north-side where no one would recognise them.

And, once a week, they went to the apartment at Charlotte Quay and made wild, sensuous love. Trish couldn’t believe what was happening to her. She felt rejuvenated. She giggled like a giddy schoolgirl. She blushed whenever his name came up in conversation. She woke every morning as if she was seeing the world with fresh eyes for the very first time.

Even Adrian, engrossed in his novel, noticed the change in her. One morning as they had breakfast together in the kitchen of their terraced house in Sandymount, he stared across the table and said: “My God, Trish. You look resplendent. What’s come over you?”

She smiled intriguingly and said: “I’ve just realised how lucky I am.”

And then they heard the thud in the hallway as the postman delivered the mail. Adrian came back carrying a battered jiffy-bag and a face like a gravedigger’s shovel.

“Bad news, darling?”

Adrian sat down mournfully and poured a cup of tea. “They’ve rejected it again. They say the dialogue’s all wrong.”

And the moment of intimacy – or potential intimacy – passed.

Love was the one word that was never mentioned between Trish and her new lover. Early on, Henry had said to her: “You know I can never leave Louise? Not with the condition she’s in.”

“Of course,” Trish laughed, light-heartedly.

“It wouldn’t be fair. Not with all she’s going through.”

“No. It wouldn’t.”

“There’s no reason why two people can’t simply enjoy each other’s company and give each other mutual pleasure from time to time. We’re sophisticated people. And this is the 21st century, for God’s sake.”

“That’s right.”

Her acquiescence seemed to cheer him up. He cuddled close. “I’m so sorry we didn’t meet sooner. You’re ideal for me. Did I tell you I sold another package today? That’s six this month so far.”

His remark got her thinking. What would have happened if she had met Henry Doran instead of Adrian? Would they have married? Would they have had children? She longed for a child. And, as she approached the Big Four O, as Henry called it, she felt a little ball of fear tighten in her chest.

Because she had no children, people assumed she was too busy with her career. But it wasn’t true. She desperately wanted a baby. Once she had even written under an assumed name to an agony aunt in one of the Sunday papers asking for advice. The agony aunt replied that thirty-seven wasn’t too old to have a child. Lots of women were doing it. She gave the address of a pregnancy clinic. Trish went and had a series of tests. The doctor told her she was perfectly fertile and there was no reason why she shouldn’t get pregnant. Which meant the problem had to lie with Adrian. She thought sadly of her husband. What was happening to him? Why had the dashing man she had married turned into a bad-tempered middle-aged recluse whose only interest in life was his bloody novel?

They had met twenty years before in college where Adrian had been auditor of the Debating Society. He had looked so handsome in his flared trousers and Zapata moustache that he swept her completely off her feet and when they graduated she couldn’t wait to get married. Adrian got a job teaching English in St Ignatius’s Comprehensive College. He explained to friends that it was only a temporary measure till he decided what he really wanted to do. She found a position as a trainee agent with a major auctioneering company.

In the beginning, everything was bliss. There was the excitement of the new house with its distant views of the sea from the bathroom window and the gay round of dinner parties with other young married couples from college. They had enough money for a foreign holiday every year and a car which Adrian quickly commandeered, leaving Trish to get the bus into her job at the auctioneering firm.

But she soon discovered that the glamour of the debating hall had cloaked Adrian’s innate dullness. He had no style or dress sense. He took to dressing in baggy corduroy trousers and check shirts. He wore hush puppies and polka-dot cravats. She had to tell him when to get his hair cut. Worse, he was awful in bed. He had absolutely no imagination and the sex was often over before she was even aware it had begun. She endured him but got no pleasure. Adrian seemed to regard sex as just another bedtime chore like putting the cat out and locking the doors securely.

And school quickly got him down. He would sit at the kitchen table marking essays and groaning loudly as he scored and scratched with his red biro.

“Can’t spell. Wouldn’t know an iambic pentameter if it stood up and bit them. Why am I wasting my time like this?”

Trish would attempt to soothe him. “We all have difficult moments at work, darling.”

“Moments? Who said anything about moments? This is all the bloody time! From when I arrive in the morning till the last bell goes at four o’clock. It can’t be done. How can I instil an appreciation of English Literature into a bunch of gurriers who think Lord Byron is the guy who runs the rock concerts at Slane Castle?”

The idea of writing had come about by accident although Adrian later claimed it had always been a lifetime ambition. A famous American novelist called Sheldon O’Neill had arrived in Dublin to research a book and track down his ancestral roots. Trish was given the task of finding suitable accommodation for the great man while he stayed in Ireland. She eventually discovered a renovated farmhouse in County Wicklow with views over Glendalough. Sheldon O’Neill was delighted. As a reward, he invited Trish and Adrian to dinner at Patrick Guilbaud’s restaurant in Merrion Street to celebrate.

Here, while they dined on lobster and wild salmon, Sheldon O’Neill regaled them with stories of the wonderful life of an internationally renowned writer – the interviews, the travel, the publishers’ lunches. And of course, the money. Adrian’s eyes stood out on stalks.

He joined a writers’ group. They met once a week in a pub in Ranelagh. Each participant had to prepare a piece of work and then the others would read it and give their comments. It was like a refuge for battered wives. Everybody was eager to support everybody else. Adrian would come home afterwards beaming with pleasure.

“I read them my short story tonight. Must say it went down a treat. Reggie Arbuthnot said it reminded him of early Hemingway. Same sort of rugged, descriptive prose.”

Trish encouraged him. It gave him something to look forward to and took his mind off school. He spent more and more time in the spare bedroom which he had fitted up as a study. He bought a word processor and installed a desk and easy chair and a jam-pot filled with sharpened pencils. Most evenings, he sat in there happily typing his short stories.

Then he decided he was going to write a novel.

He announced it solemnly one Saturday evening after dinner when he had poured himself a large glass of brandy.

“Of course, it’s a massive undertaking. I envisage something on the scale of Dickens. Or Pasternak. A groundbreaking work that will shatter the cosy consensus of modern Irish writing. We’re looking at a big book here, Trish. Two hundred thousand words. I’ve even got the title. I’m calling it The Green Gannet.”

It didn’t sound like a very good title to Trish. “What will it be about?”

“The Famine.”

She felt her heart sink. There had been so many books about the Famine.

“Are you sure? It’s such a painful period in Irish history. It would require a really sensitive approach.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Are you suggesting that I can’t write sensitive prose?”

“Not at all,” Trish rushed to mollify him. “It’s just such a big task you’re taking on.”

“I’m ready for that. That’s where the challenge lies.”

“And it has been done before.”

Adrian had a gleam in his eye as he swirled the brandy in his glass. “Not the way I plan to do it. I’m going to deconstruct the myths. It will be narrated through the eyes of a 160-year-old man who has lived through the events and is discovered alive in a bog in Connemara. He will report on the Famine at first hand. This novel is going to cause a sensation. Irish writing will never be the same after it hits the bookshops.”

He was so clearly carried away with the idea that Trish hadn’t got the heart to argue.

“And don’t you see? This is my ticket out of that goddamned school. When The Green Gannet is published to world acclaim, I will never again have to stand in front of that mob of ungrateful gobshites and explain that The Ancient Mariner is not a pub in Ringsend.”

He set about it with gusto. He drew up a draft outline of the novel and sent it off to Sheldon O’Neill for his comments. Mr O’Neill duly replied. He said the idea struck him as sound and he thought it had potential. But he gave Adrian an important piece of advice. “Take it slowly. This is an ambitious novel in its scope and theme. There is no necessity to rush.”

It was exactly the encouragement Adrian required. He went out and bought several large boxes of paper and each night and every weekend he barricaded himself into his study and Trish could hear the sound of the keyboard tap-tap-tapping away inside.

Adrian read the early chapters to the writers’ group and their response was overwhelming. One member compared it to Dostoevsky. Another said it had echoes of Proust.

“They’re going to give me a big head, if I’m not careful,” Adrian laughed modestly over breakfast the next day. “These are only early drafts. They require revision. But they all like it and that suggests that I’m certainly on the right track.”

He worked like a maniac through the winter and into the summer. After fourteen months, the novel was completed. The word counter on Adrian’s computer showed it came to 333,872 words. He wore out three ink cartridges printing it and spent a fortune having copies made and bound at a stationer’s shop in Nassau Street. Then he started looking for a literary agent to represent him.

“That’s the way it works nowadays,” he said knowledgebly. “No serious publisher will even look at your work unless it’s been submitted by an agent.”

He bought a copy of The Writers & Artists Yearbook which contained a list of all the agents in the UK and Ireland.

“Should I go for a big agency or a smaller, more personal one?” he asked Trish.

“I know absolutely nothing about it,” she confessed.

“A big agency carries more clout but then a smaller firm would be able to give me more personal attention.”

He fretted about it for a week and in the end selected the first agency in the book. It had an address in London. He carefully packaged the manuscript and enclosed a covering letter.

It cost €20 for postage. Adrian waited confidently for the response he knew would launch his literary career.

Nothing happened. After six weeks, he could contain himself no longer. He got on the phone to inquire if the package had arrived safely. A secretary informed him that they had indeed received Adrian’s work but they had a policy of not accepting unsolicited manuscripts and if he wanted it returned would he please send them a cheque to cover postage. Adrian was outraged.

He tried another agency. This time, he sent an advance letter explaining who he was and giving a brief synopsis of The Green Gannet. He got a reply saying they were very sorry but they were oversubscribed and were not taking on any new clients. Adrian opened a bottle of Beaune that they had been saving for a dinner party and proceeded to get drunk.

A few days later, he picked himself up and started again. This time, he chose a small agency. He calculated that they would have fewer clients and would therefore be eager to sign him up. From the description in The Writers & Artists Yearbook, it seemed to Trish that it was a one-man band working out of a backroom. But they replied, asking to see the work. Adrian was overjoyed. He packaged it neatly and enclosed what he considered to be a witty covering letter. Then he settled down to wait.

A month went by and there was no response. Adrian grew impatient. He consoled himself with the thought that the novel was probably being considered by the board of the agency who were devising a strategy for placing it with a major publisher. But when the time stretched into two months, he decided to ring. A man with a superior accent left him hanging on while he went away to make inquiries.

He came back after five minutes and said that the manuscript seemed to have gone astray and would Adrian mind awfully submitting it again.

Adrian groaned and sank into a deep depression.

His behaviour grew increasingly bizarre. Some nights he would sit up till the early hours working on his manuscript. There were mornings when he was late for school or went into work unshaven and unwashed.

He decided to dispense with the service of an agent altogether and deal directly with the publishers.

“Why give these buggers 15 per cent of my money?” he said haughtily. “I’m the one doing all the work.”

The manuscripts went off in large jiffy bags and came back regularly unopened. Various publishers read the novel and rejected it. Sometimes they offered advice. More often they didn’t even bother to do that. Adrian grew obsessive. Each rejection letter sent him into a fury.

“Just wait till The Green Gannet is published to rave reviews. Wait till I win the Booker! There’ll be blood all over the carpets when the directors discover that these bastards have rejected my novel without even reading it. Oh, they’ll be a sorry bunch then!”

His confidence, once adamantine, began to crack. He took to revising and rewriting, hacking out whole chapters and then changing his mind and inserting them again. He stopped going out to visit their friends. He ate his meals at odd hours and left Trish to dine alone in the kitchen. Finally, he moved a camp bed into his study and forsook the marital bedroom altogether.

Trish watched helplessly. She didn’t know what to do or who to turn to for advice. She still maintained a strong affection for the man she had married when she was twenty-two. But he had changed beyond all recognition. She busied herself with her work. And she sought solace in occasional affairs.

It was in this mood that she had fallen in with Henry Doran and now he had thrown her over. No point fretting about it, she decided. It was bound to come to an end sooner or later. At least she had achieved something she had longed for. She was pregnant! There was no doubt about it. She had bought herself a pregnancy-testing kit and the positive result had sent her rushing off to her doctor who confirmed it. She was six weeks pregnant.

Trish wanted this baby. She wanted it more than anything else in the world. But how was she going to explain it to Adrian? He was crazy already. If she told him the truth, it would probably send him over the edge completely.

She had a hurried lunch in a sandwich bar while she pondered her options. Could she seduce Adrian into bed and then pass the child off as his? It would be difficult but not impossible. But it couldn’t be done while he remained at home, obsessed with his damned novel. And then the solution came to her like a flash of blinding light. She gave a little squeal of delight and then quickly suppressed it when the couple at the next table turned round and stared.

She quickly finished her meal, collected her bag and headed out to the street. Five minutes later she was in a travel agency.

“I’d like to book a holiday,” she said to the eager young woman behind the desk. “For two people.”

“When would you prefer to travel, madam?”

“Next week,” Trish said.

Adrian’s school was breaking up for the Easter holidays on Friday. The timing was ideal.

But the woman didn’t appear too encouraging. “You’ve left it rather late.”

“You must have something,” Trish said, desperately. “I don’t mind where it is.”

The woman scrolled through the computer for a few minutes and then seemed to brighten up.

“I’ve just the place. Tenerife. The weather will be ideal at this time of year.”

“I’ll take it,” Trish said quickly, in case the woman changed her mind.

“It’s a one-bedroom self-catering apartment.”

“Single or double beds?”

The woman checked the computer again. “Double. Is that all right?”

“Perfect,” Trish said. “What’s it called?”

“Hotel Las Flores,” the young woman replied. “The Flowers Hotel.”