Chapter Three
ONDINE
Ireland is the geographic equivalent to Prozac. If psychiatrists prescribed a week in the Emerald Isle, the world would be a mentally healthier place.
My heavy mood lifted moments after landing in Dublin. First, the An Garda Síochána working in the Passport Control booth complimented my hair. Then, a super sexy Chris Evans lookalike police officer flirted with me while I waited at the baggage carousel.
Even the double-decker bus ride from the airport to my hotel was filled with pleasant surprises, like free Wi-Fi and a sign that read, NOTICE TO NITELINK PASSENGERS: LADIES, THE POLES ARE FITTED FOR YOUR SAFETY. NO DANCING.
I cashed in my Hilton Honors points for two nights at the Morrison, a sleek boutique hotel favored by musicians and actors. The girl at the front desk apologized because my room wasn’t ready by offering me a glass of champagne and an upgrade to a suite. When she said the concierge could assist in making restaurant reservations, arranging for spa services, recommending night life hot spots, and procuring theater tickets, I asked her if he could get me a date with Colin Monaghan.
“Ah, so ya fancy our Colin, do ya?” she said, then leaned over the counter and lowered her voice. “He was here last week. Had dinner in our own Morrison Grill.”
“Shut up! You’re not serious?”
“Ah, sure.” She smiled. “He’s over County Kerry way, shooting an action film.”
“I know,” I said, returning her smile. “I am headed there next. In fact, finding Colin is the whole reason I came to Ireland.”
She frowned and glanced over at the burly valet standing at the door
“Not in a creepy, stalker kinda way, though.”
Now, I am making my way through the narrow alleys of the Temple Bar district, reading the bright neon signs promising PIZZA & BOOZE; SOUP OF THE DAY: WHISKEY; and BOOZE: BECAUSE NO GREAT STORY EVER STARTED WITH SALAD.
My phone vibrates, alerting me to a new text. I pull it out of my pocket and open the message, which is from Vivia.
I made a few phone calls, pulled a few strings, promised my firstborn, and I have hooked a sister up! Check your e-mail ASAP!!
I walk down the street, over a bridge spanning the River Liffey, and to a colorful, bustling Christmas market with stalls selling mugs of steaming whiskey-infused hot chocolate and bowls of seafood chowder, woolen sweaters, handmade scarves, artisan jewelry, jars of Shines Wild Irish Tuna, and Butlers chocolate reindeers. I step beneath a large candy cane with a FREE WI-FI sign hanging from it and wait for my e-mail to download.
To: Grace Murphy
From: Vivia Perpetua Grant
Subj: Get your groove on
Fáilte go hÉirinn! (That means “Welcome to Ireland!”) If you are reading this, it means you have landed in the Isle O’Monaghan. I hope you have packed your dancing shoes because I scored you two VIP tickets to Lillie’s Bordello, an uber-posh club that is the Dublin hang-place for celebs, including your boy, Colin. Grab a hot Irishman as your plus one. Do everything I would do and snap selfies to prove it (See attachment for the address to Lillie’s Bordello, the POC, and your tickets).
I’ve also been burning up Google and calling all of my contacts in Hollywood. I found out exactly where Colin is filming in County Kerry. The shoot is near a little place called Sneem. They are looking for extras for the film. I have included the name and phone number of the casting director. Give her a call.
Love, V
I squeal. Literally squeal like a tween at a 5 Seconds of Summer concert.
“Are ya pissed from drinking too much whiskey nog at the Jameson booth or did Michael Fassbender just send you a sexty?”
I turn in the direction of the voice and find a pretty redhead leaning against a booth selling silver jewelry.
“Excuse me?”
“Ya just squealed.”
“I did, didn’t I?”
She nods her head and a long lock of her coppery hair falls over her eye. “If ya just got a sexty from Michael, be a pal and let me take a look,” she says, blowing the hair away from her eye. “It is Christmas, after all.”
I laugh.
“Sorry, no sexties from Michael Fassbender.”
“Damn.”
I walk over to her booth.
“My girlfriend just sent me two VIP tickets to some posh club called Lillie’s Bordello.”
“Feck me.” She whistles. “That is a reason to squeal.”
“Right?”
She nods her head. “Lillie’s Bordello is jammers with celebs. Bono, Rihanna, Mick Jagger, Colin Monaghan, and even Michael Fassbender. They all party there.”
“I am Grace, by the way.”
“Pleased to meet ya, Grace,” she says, grinning. “I’m Ondine.”
“Nice to meet you, Ondine,” I say. “Your jewelry is very pretty. Do you make it?”
“Guilty.”
I pick up a delicate silver necklace with a round polished silver pendant engraved with strange words.
“Is this Gaelic?”
“Yes. It says, ‘What lies behind us and what lies ahead of us are tiny matters compared to what lies within us.’”
“Are you kidding me?”
“No,” she says, frowning. “Why?”
“It’s like”—I shake my head—“serendipity brought me to you. You can’t begin to know how much the saying on your necklace resonates with me. I’ll take it.”
“Sounds like ya got a story to tell.”
“A long story.”
“Ooo, those are the best kinds.” She pats the stool beside her. “I’ve got the time.”
“Seriously?”
“Come on, then,” she says, smiling. “Tell me your story while I wrap up your necklace.”
I step into the booth, take a seat on her stool, warm my feet by her space heater, and unload my whole heavy story on her. I even tell her the bit about coming to Ireland to find Colin Monaghan . . . but not in a creepy way.
“You are brave to travel to a strange country, alone, for the holidays.”
“So you don’t think I am crazy?”
She laughs. “Oh, I think you are mad as a box of frogs! But, no worries, I like mad.”
Ondine tells me her story. She’s half Irish, half American. Her father is Irish and her mother is American. They couldn’t bridge the cultural divide and divorced when she was ten years old. She has been bouncing back and forth between Ireland and the States ever since, studying international law at Columbia and spending summers and holidays working at her father’s pub and restaurant in County Kerry, near her father’s home. She tells me about her large family scattered from Dublin to Denver.
“It must be nice to have such a large family.”
“Exhausting,” she says, rolling her eyes. “What about you? Do you have a large family?”
I shake my head. “I don’t have a family.”
“Everyone has a family.”
“Not me.”
“Go on with ya.”
I give her a pathetic half smile, half frown and shrug my shoulders.
“So you will be spending Christmas alone?”
“Yes . . . unless Colin invites me back to his place for a little whiskey nog.”
“Listen,” she says, handing me the wrapped box containing my necklace. “I know we just met, but you are welcome to spend Christmas with me, at my father’s house.”
My stomach clenches. It happens every time someone looks at me like I am a homeless, crippled war vet. Poor, pitiful Grace.
“Thank you, but . . .”
“Think on it,” she says. “You said you were headed to Sneem. I live in Sneem. If that’s not serendipity at work, I don’t know what is.”
I am about to stand up and say good-bye when I decide to step out of character. Instead of letting my pride get in the way of accepting a kindly offered handout, I decide to grab it with both hands.
“I would be happy to spend Christmas with you, but only if you agree to be my plus one at Lillie’s Bordello tonight.”
“Are ya fecking serious?”
I nod my head.
“I can’t believe it. Lillie’s Bordello! We are going to catch some good craic!”
“Crack?” I stand up. “I’m sorry, Ondine, but I don’t do drugs.”
“No, no,” she says, laughing. “Craic doesn’t mean what you think it means. Craic is Irish for ‘fun, having a good time.’”
“Oh,” I laugh. “Then we are going to have loads of craic.”
Later, as I am stepping into a cab to go to Lillie’s Bordello, I realize this trip is just like that old Nissan Sentra commercial—the one where a guy named Bob is speeding down a highway in a Nissan Sentra. A policeman pulls him over, but doesn’t give him a ticket because . . . it’s Bob. He passes a sign that says, NO PARKING, EXCEPT FOR BOB. Everything is golden for Bob.
I am Bob. And I am loving it.
Lillie’s Bordello turns out to be a super swanky nightclub with a Victorian brothel vibe. Crushed red velvet wallpaper, leather sofas, wood paneling, and cozy nooks in dark corners perfect for getting down and dirty in a hurry. We order martinis and stand near the dance floor. A cute DJ with a buzz cut and mirrored sunglasses is spinning a pulsating electro beat while a bouncer aims a huffing fog machine at the people on the dance floor.
A gorgeous man in an Armani suit sans tie asks me to dance and before I know it we are grinding to a Calvin Harris and Rihanna remix. When the dance floor becomes too crowded, he takes my hand and leads me up the stairs to a members-only room called the library. He tells me he works as a second-unit director.
“For movies?”
“Movies and television shows,” he says, draping his arm over my shoulders and leaning in close enough for me to smell the spicy cologne on his heated skin. “I just finished filming in County Wicklow. A show called The Marauders.”
I am dying to ask him if he has ever worked with Colin Monaghan, but he is absently toying with the slender straps of my LBD and making it hard for me to concentrate. He leans in to kiss me and I let him. He tastes of whiskey and brash self-confidence. He tastes like a bad boy. If I am not careful, assistant director Seán’s Armani suit is going to be balled up on my hotel room floor and I am going to be adding another notch to my lunatic belt.
By the time Ondine links her arm through mine and we stagger out of the club, past the golden velvet rope separating the in-crowd from the crowd outside, we are pissed on martinis and totally feeling the craic. We have also become fast friends.
Before parting ways, she asks me if I would like to drive with her to Sneem and crash on her pullout sofa at her cottage.
“You’re serious? I wouldn’t be an imposition?”
“Ah, away with ye then,” she says, laughing. “I’d love to have ya. Besides, if ya manage to track down Colin, ya have to promise to come back and help me track down Michael Fassbender—but not in a creepy way.”