Excerpt
Fiona smiled. Ian knew it was an unkind thought, but every time Fiona smiled she reminded him of a horse about to munch a proffered handful of grass. He wished she would refrain from smiling. She was an attractive woman when her mouth was closed. And aren’t they all? he thought cynically. Then Nora came to mind, smiling her beguiling smile, and he realised that some exceptions had to be made.
‘You just missed Clifford,’ Fiona remarked. ‘Oh, have you had breakfast?’
‘Yes thanks, Fiona. I had bacon and eggs on the boat.’
‘Oh God, you don’t call that steamship stuff breakfast, do you?’
‘Well it filled me up.’
‘With grease, no doubt.’
‘Whatever it was I’m still quite satisfied. Thank you, Fiona.’ Ian lit a cigarette and reached for the ashtray.
‘So what are you going to do for the rest of your holiday?’ Fiona asked.
‘Well that’s actually one reason for calling round this morning. I wondered if I could use the cottage. I think I need to be away somewhere quiet for a while. Just relax, read, catch up with the trade journals. Play some golf maybe.’
‘Carraghlin has the most superb golf course,’ Fiona said ecstatically. Her teacup rattled in the saucer. ‘Right along the seafront behind the Drumard Strand Hotel, with that gorgeous view of Slieve Corragh itself in the background.’
Ian hated that glowering mountain that towered above the town. It was an evil pagan presence, glooming Carraghlin. Ian hated all mountains. He hated Goat Fell behind Brodick. He hated Arthur’s Seat above Edinburgh. He hated the Cave Hill above Belfast. They were obstacles to expansion and progress. It irked him to think that there was nothing he could do about them. They crouched in his path like obscene animals, smirking.
‘So you won’t be using the place for a while. The cottage, I mean.’
‘Even if we are, Ian, there’s still room for you. Take the small bedroom downstairs.’
Fiona drained her cup and placed it on the bookcase. ‘Look, I know what I’ll do. I’ll give you the front door key of the cottage. Why don’t you go down to Stacey’s on the main road now and have a copy cut for yourself. Then you can use the cottage whenever you please.’
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Ian sat in the Slieve Corragh Room of the Drumard Strand Hotel, drinking Scotch and talking with an Englishman called Jim Copplestone, a short,
