The Summer of Serendipity: The magical feel good perfect holiday read Read online

  ‘It is business. But we don’t want everyone knowing why we’re here, do we? You know how it is: people in these types of communities tend to close ranks and become very tight-lipped if they think strangers are going to try and take something that’s theirs.’

  ‘But we’re not trying to take something. We’re trying to find something – a house for our client, Mr Dempsey.’

  ‘Yes, but not every house I find is for sale, is it? Sometimes, the current owner has to be persuaded to sell.’

  ‘Usually with money,’ Kiki sighs as we exit the lift and look for our room. ‘I love this job, you know that, Ren,’ she whispers as we walk along the stylishly decorated corridor. ‘Best thing I’ve ever done. But it saddens me that everything is always about money in the end. Where are people’s morals, their disciples?’

  I try not to laugh. Kiki was being her usual earnest self; it was one of the things I liked about her. But she was also prone to muddling her words, and would often ask the daftest of questions, that made sense to Kiki, but seemed hilarious to the rest of us.

  ‘You mean their principles,’ I correct her gently as we arrive at our room. I pause before entering. ‘As it happens, I agree with you. I wish people would follow their heart instead of looking to make a quick profit. But, sadly, money talks, and that money not only pays our wages, it will help us find Mr Dempsey the perfect house with the perfect Irish views.’

  Kiki nods as I run one of the key cards through the scanner. Then as we open the door we both gasp at the exquisite room laid out before us.

  ‘Well, if this is money talking, then I’m all for it on this occasion!’ Kiki announces before launching herself across the room on to one of the sumptuous double beds.

  And as I look around the spotless room at the ornate gilt-framed mirrors and luxurious coordinating gilt and purple décor, I have to agree with her: this is a special room. But, not for the first time since we’ve arrived here, a strange feeling in the pit of my stomach tells me the room’s not the only thing that’s going to be special about this trip.

  Two

  As soon as we’ve unpacked, we head out into the town of Ballykiltara for some basic supplies like water, and the Diet Pepsi Kiki can’t live without. As we walk through the centre of town we pass many pubs, some with traditional names like Molly Malone’s and Fitzgerald’s, and some slightly odder, like The Raven’s Knowledge. The one thing they all have in common is signboards advertising live Irish music and traditional pints of Guinness. The shopfronts between the many pubs are occupied by gift shops selling any item you could ever possibly want with a shamrock, a sheep or sometimes both embellished upon them. At last, hidden away amongst all this, we find a small food store selling basic necessities.

  ‘This place is soo cute!’ Kiki declares as we head back towards the hotel, having decided that on our first night in a strange town a meal in the hotel bar will be our best bet. ‘I love it!’

  ‘You love every new place we visit,’ I tell her, enjoying Kiki’s characteristic display of enthusiasm.

  ‘I know, but this place feels special, doesn’t it? It’s enchanted – or even magical!’

  I look around me as we enter the hotel grounds. ‘Yes, I suppose it does have a certain charm. But I think magical is a bit strong.’

  ‘Oh, puddings!’ Kiki declares. ‘I won’t stand for your dourness today, Ren Parker. I like Ballykissangel, and I won’t hear you say otherwise!’

  ‘Ballykiltara,’ I correct her. ‘Ballykissangel was a TV programme set in Ireland, about an English priest.’

  Kiki thinks about this, ‘Oh yes, you’re right – that guy from DCI Banks was in it, wasn’t he? He was in that one set in Africa too.’

  ‘That was called Wild at Heart, and the actor’s name is Stephen Tomkinson.’

  ‘He’s the chappie! We should get you on a pub quiz team, Ren, you’re brilliant at common knowledge.’

  ‘General knowledge.’

  ‘Yes, that too.’

  ‘Good evening, ladies.’ Eddie pops up from behind a bush with some garden shears clutched in his hands.

  ‘Hello, Eddie!’ Kiki sings, waving at him. ‘Isn’t it a beautiful evening!’

  Eddie looks up at the now darkening skies. ‘It is indeed, if you like to get wet. There will be rain within the hour if I’m not mistaken.’

  Kiki looks up. ‘Oh, really? What a shame.’

  ‘No, miss, we like it round here – overnight, at least, so it doesn’t affect the tourists like. We’re not called the Emerald Isle for nothing.’

  ‘Oh, I thought you were called that because lots of emeralds had been found here over the years.’

  Eddie looks at Kiki to see if she’s joking, but quickly realises she’s not.

  ‘Excuse my learned friend here,’ I say, leading Kiki in the direction of reception. ‘She’s the one who’s a bit green.’ I wink at Eddie, and he nods knowingly back.

  ‘Why is it called the Emerald Isle then?’ Kiki whispers furiously as we enter the hotel.

  ‘Because of all the grass,’ I whisper back, smiling sweetly at a new receptionist – a man this time – who’s standing at the desk watching us with interest.

  ‘Drugs?’ Kiki asks, a horrified expression crossing her face.

  ‘No, you fool. Grass, the sort that grows in the ground!’

  Kiki looks relieved. ‘Well, that makes sense,’ she says matter-of-factly, immediately dismissing her faux pas. ‘Now, shall I take these things up to our room while you get us a table in the bar? I’ll try that Guinness, since you’re buying.’

  I watch her for a moment as she heads towards the lift.

  I look at the receptionist again, and notice for the first time he’s not wearing a uniform like the other staff I’ve seen about the hotel so far. Instead he wears black jeans and a casual red checked shirt as he stands behind the desk, an amused expression on his face.

  ‘You’re eating in our bar tonight?’ he asks professionally, instead of the actual question he likely wanted an answer to: Who is your crazy friend?

  ‘Yes please, if that’s OK?’

  ‘Sure, go on in. We’re not too busy this evening. Midweek tends to be pretty quiet; we get much busier over the weekend.’

  I pause for a moment, fascinated by his accent. It definitely has an Irish ring to it, but it’s different to Orla and Eddie’s, or even the lady that served us in the shop just now. It’s . . . Oh, I can’t think what it is at the moment, but I will.

  ‘We have a fancier restaurant too, if that’s the type of thing you’re after?’ he continues. I look for his name tag – all the other staff seem to wear one, but this guy doesn’t. The only thing covering his well-developed chest is his shirt. I realise I’m gazing a little too long at it and I look up swiftly. ‘But between you and I,’ he leans in towards me as if he’s sharing a secret, ‘you’ll get more craic in the bar.’

  ‘Sure . . . ’ I murmur, captivated momentarily by his bright green eyes that twinkle like emeralds under the bright reception lights. ‘I mean, yes, thank you, we want a bit of crack.’

  An impish grin breaks out across his face; it’s a perfect match for his mischievous eyes.

  Oh Lord! I hurriedly try and recover my composure. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean— I know what you meant when you said craic – a good time, right? We definitely want a good time.’

  ‘Don’t we all?’ he winks, but he’s more cheeky Irish chappie than leery lech when he does.

  I give in and smile. ‘I’m making a bit of an idiot of myself, aren’t I?’ I hold out my hand formally. ‘Ren Parker.’

  He takes my hand over the desk with a firm grip, and shakes it solidly. I’m secretly pleased. I make it my policy never to trust anyone with a weak, limp handshake.

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Ren. Finn Cassidy, at your service. I’m the manager of the hotel.’

  ‘Ah, I wondered why you weren’t in the same uniform as the others.’

  He grins. ‘They keep trying – but I just keep resi
sting. Can’t be flapping around like a trussed up penguin now, can I?’

  I smile as another man arrives behind the desk, looking very penguin-like in a black three-piece suit with a crisp white shirt.

  ‘Donal,’ Finn announces, ‘meet our new guest, Ren Parker.’

  ‘Welcome to The Stag,’ Donal says, giving the tiniest of bows. ‘I’m guest services manager here, so anything you need or want during your stay, I’m the man to see.’

  ‘Thank you, Donal. I’ll be sure to do that.’

  ‘Now, where are you eating tonight?’ Donal enquires. ‘I can recommend some wonderful restaurants in the town.’

  ‘Oh, we’re eating here tonight. In the bar,’ I explain.

  ‘Ah well, that’s a good choice too. I don’t know if Finn told you, but we have a beautiful restaurant in addition to our bar. It looks out over the hills, and one of the lakes. It’s a gorgeous view, so it is.’

  ‘He did, thank you. But your bar will be fine. My friend wants to try her first pint of Guinness tonight – I doubt that will fit too well in your restaurant.’

  ‘Ah, a pint of the black stuff, another good choice.’ Donal folds his hands in front of him and rests them on his stomach approvingly. ‘And will you be joining her?’

  I screw up my face. ‘Sadly no, it’s not one of my favourite drinks.’

  ‘Have you ever had it in Ireland before?’ Finn asks. ‘There’s a huge difference in the taste here. I don’t know why, when it’s exported all around the world. But you can’t beat a pint on home soil.’

  ‘No, I haven’t, this is my first time in Ireland.’

  Orla joins us at reception. She smiles at me.

  ‘Thanks for covering, Finn,’ she says. ‘Sarah’s kicking off in the kitchen – something about the wrong meat being delivered.

  She nearly swung for Eddie with a meat cleaver. I think you’d better go and sort it out.’

  Finn sighs, and gives me an apologetic smile. ‘The joys of being in charge!’ he says ruefully. ‘Head through to the bar, Ren,’ he gestures towards the entrance. ‘I’ll come and pour you that Guinness in a moment, if you’re game?’

  I nod, grateful to be allowed to escape. I’m heading through the foyer in the direction of the bar when Kiki steps out of the lift.

  ‘Aren’t you even in there yet?’ she asks, falling into step beside me. I notice she’s changed her shoes from the trainers she went out in earlier to a pair of purple suede pixie boots. ‘I thought you’d have got the first round in by now. What’s been keeping you?’

  I glance back towards the desk in time to see Finn striding towards a door marked Private.

  ‘Oh, nothing much,’ I reply as we enter the cosy bar with another log fire burning merrily away at one end. ‘Nothing much at all . . . ’

  Three

  Finn is right – Guinness is better in Ireland.

  As promised, when he’s dealt with the crisis in the kitchen, he arrives behind the bar, and I see him actively seek me out as he scans the room. He smiles when his eyes rest upon me, and he holds up an empty pint-glass with the Guinness logo etched across the top.

  I shrug and hold up my own almost empty wine glass.

  ‘Who is that?’ Kiki demands as she watches our silent exchange. ‘He’s a bit of all right!’

  ‘That’s Finn, he’s the hotel manager,’ I reply, ignoring her innuendo.

  ‘Nice . . . but why isn’t he wearing a uniform like the others?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I think he likes to be his own man.’

  ‘He sure is . . . ’ Kiki murmurs dreamily. ‘Oh look, he’s coming over.’

  Finn crosses the bar to greet us. ‘Just letting your pints of Guinness settle,’ he says.

  ‘Ooh, about time,’ Kiki replies before I can speak. ‘Ren says it’s like drinking cat pee, but I can’t wait to try it.’

  Finn looks with amusement at Kiki while I squirm.

  ‘I did not say that,’ I tell him, feeling my cheeks redden. ‘I don’t care for it, that’s all. I believe it might be an acquired taste.’

  ‘Talking of acquired tastes,’ Kiki says, leaping to her feet and holding her hand out to Finn. ‘I’m Kiki. Kiki Fisher.’

  ‘Welcome to The Stag Hotel, Kiki Fisher,’ Finn says, taking her hand. ‘I hope you’re enjoying your stay so far?’

  ‘It’s ace, Finn. This is quite the hotel you have here.’

  ‘Well, it’s not exactly mine. I only manage it for the owners, the O’Connells. They own Tara, too – the island across the water. You might have seen it as you drove in?’

  ‘I do remember seeing something out there,’ I say, remembering. ‘But I was concentrating pretty hard on the road; the car we’ve hired isn’t the best. They own an island, that’s very cool.’

  ‘Indeed it is.’ He looks back at the bar. ‘Right, let me get you those pints, they should have a nice, calm head on them by now.’

  Kiki looks at me with delight as she sits down again. ‘Just when I thought this hotel couldn’t get any better – another hot Irishman appears!’

  ‘Stop it now,’ I tell her, a tad jealous of her self-confidence. ‘He’s probably married.’

  ‘He doesn’t have a ring.’

  ‘A girlfriend then.’

  Kiki looks across at Finn, who’s carrying two full pints of Guinness over to our table.

  ‘Only one way to find out,’ she whispers, as Finn arrives and carefully places our glasses on two mats.

  Before I have a chance to protest, she pats the velvet-covered stool next to her and says, ‘Finn, why don’t you join us for a bit? I’d love to hear all about what you get up to here at the hotel . . . ’ It’s all I can do to stop myself rolling my eyes as she adds coyly, ‘ . . . and in your spare time too.’

  ‘Ah, I’d love to, ladies, but I have to go and check on some things back at reception,’ he says in a regretful voice, but I suspect he’s only being polite. ‘Try your Guinness,’ he says, gesturing to our glasses, ‘I think you might like it.’ He looks at me: ‘I’ll see you around – maybe tomorrow?’

  ‘Yes, we’re here for a few nights.’

  ‘Good,’ he says, giving us the briefest of farewell nods before making his way back through the bar and out the door.

  ‘He fancies you,’ Kiki says matter-of-factly as we watch him leave.

  ‘What? Where on earth have you got that idea from?’

  ‘I just know,’ she says, lifting up her pint of Guinness and inspecting the white froth that rests on top of the rich black liquid below. ‘Call it my fifth sense.’

  ‘Sixth sense,’ I correct. ‘But we never even found out if he has a girlfriend or,’ I add as another thought occurs, ‘boyfriend . . . ’

  Kiki, about to take a sip of her Guinness, splutters the froth over the side of her glass, so several tiny spots of white now decorate our table along with our unwrapped cutlery still waiting to be used, and the tiny posy of flowers that decorates every table in the bar.

  ‘No,’ she says firmly, recovering her composure while at the same time wiping a thin white line of Guinness from her top lip. ‘Impossible.’

  ‘Why is it?’ I tease. I’ve had conversations like this with Kiki before. She’s always adamant that a man she finds attractive can never be gay.

  ‘He’s far too macho, for one thing. Not that gay men can’t be, of course – remember Lucien from the gym? He was ripped!’ She shakes her head. ‘But in this instance, definitely not.’

  ‘Perhaps you mean masculine,’ I ask, hiding a smile, ‘rather than macho?’

  ‘Nope, this time I actually do mean the word I’ve said. Finn is macho, like . . . ’ she struggles to find an analogy. ‘Like, can’t you imagine him outside in the fresh air, digging a field or something, looking like he did just now?’

  I think about this while she continues:

  ‘His strong muscular body, hot and sweaty as he toils under the midday sun . . . ’ She holds her hand up, anticipating my interruption. ‘He stops for a moment,�
�� she resumes, lost in her fantasy, ‘and wipes the sweat from his brow, then he pushes his strong but sensitive fingers through his mane of jet-black hair, before eventually deciding it’s too hot, and he simply must remove his red tartan shirt . . . ’

  I have to admit, Kiki got me going for a few seconds there. The image of Finn she’d conjured up wasn’t an unpleasant one. She’s right: he’s the archetypal tall, dark and handsome Irish man. An Irish client once told me there are two types of Irishmen – tall and dark, or small and ginger, depending on what clan they’d descended from. I wasn’t sure that was exactly true, but Finn definitely fitted into the first category.

  ‘His shirt isn’t tartan,’ I correct her. ‘The Americans would probably call it plaid, we just call it checked.’

  ‘All that and you correct me about the pattern on his shirt!’ Kiki asks, astonished. ‘What about his hot, sweaty body?’

  ‘Enough of this,’ I tell her before she gets going again. ‘We’re here to work, remember, not make up stories—’

  ‘Fantasies.’ Kiki corrects me this time.

  I eye her. ‘Make things up about the hotel staff.’

  ‘I don’t want to make things up about all the staff, only Finn.’

  ‘What about Eddie?’ I ask. ‘He’s cute.’

  Kiki considers this. ‘Yeah, I suppose, if you like that type.’ She lifts up her Guinness and takes a sip, and I watch as her face crumples. ‘Ewww! What is this – toilet cleaner?’ she asks, pulling a sour face.

  ‘Told you,’ I say, lifting my own glass. I hesitantly take a sip. But instead of the bitter, unpleasant flavour I’m expecting my taste buds to reject, they seem to positively rejoice at the nectar I’m dousing them with.

  ‘Are you actually enjoying that?’ Kiki asks, as I take another sip and a satisfied sigh escapes from my mouth.

  ‘I actually am. Finn was right, it does taste different here. In fact it’s rather nice.’

  Kiki shakes her head. ‘I think your judgement is being swayed by a pretty face. If Finn hadn’t served us, you wouldn’t have liked it anywhere near as much.’