Page 98 of Road Trip
“Orangina. Two ice cubes.”
Therese mixed the drink for Esme, and, as an afterthought, fixed one for herself. She set both drinks on the table then sat back down.
Esme tasted the drink and grimaced. “Little light on the gin. Have another go at it.”
“Please.”
“I beg your pardon?” Esme said.
“Let’s get one thing straight,” Therese said. “I’m not your servant. So it’s please, and thank you.”
Esme waited. Finally, in a barely audible voice: “More gin, please. And thank you.”
When her drink was fortified, Esme tasted and nodded her satisfaction. She took two more sips, then cleared her throat before speaking.
“My marriage wasn’t just unhappy, it was disastrous. It was Papa’s idea, he and Sheff’s father were at Harrow together. They thought marriage and a change of scenery would make a man of Sheff. Letters were written, and Sheff accepted a position at an insurance firm in Dublin. Nobody asked whether I wanted to live in Dublin.”
“Why did his father feel your husband needed a change of scenery?”
Esme shrugged. “He was a poof.”
“Poof?”
“Homosexual,” Esme snapped. “We were both miserable. Hewas drinking heavily, going to unsavory clubs, bringing home these street boys. I had no friends in Dublin and was going mad with boredom. I wanted to leave Sheff, go home to Tarrymore and have my own life, but Papa threatened to cut off my allowance, so I stayed, coward that I was.”
For the first time since meeting her, Therese felt a twinge of sympathy for the old girl.
“Running into Peggy at that coffee shop felt like a miracle. She’d changed since we’d met in London, and not just her name. We were about the same age, but she seemed older, more worldly. She invited me to come to meetings, introduced me to her friends.”
“Her IRA friends?”
“Yes. They were a ragtag lot, but they were united in their hatred for the Brits and what was happening in Northern Ireland. I was flattered when they asked me to join their cause. It was exciting, you see, to be part of something so… subversive. So forbidden.”
“Go on,” Therese urged.
Before Esme could continue, Sinead jumped down from her lap, went to the door, and scratched at the screen.
“She wants walking,” Esme said, her tone imperious. “You take her.”
“Please.”
“Yes, please, thank you, whatever. I find myself quite knackered, so could you for God’s sake please take Sinead for a walk. Her leash is just there.” Esme pointed to a hook by the door.
“I’m happy to walk her, since you asked so nicely,” Therese said.
The little cockertrotted ahead on the path in front of the cottage. She found a clump of shrubbery to her liking, and while she did her business, Therese went over to the pickup truck. She opened the driver’s side door and looked inside. The truck was, as she suspected, brand new, with less than a hundred miles on the odometer.
The Jaguar, by contrast, looked to be an antique. The windows were completely filmed over with decades of accumulated grime.The doors were all locked, but she used the hem of her T-shirt to wipe a clear spot on the windshield. The leather upholstery was cracked with age, and she could see that the front floorboards had completely rusted through. It was a crime, Therese thought, to let such a beautiful classic car sit and rot. There was a story here. She wondered if Esme would be willing to spill it.
Her hostess seemedto have revived herself during Therese’s absence. She was still sitting at the table, but her drink had been refilled, and she’d lit herself a cigarette. A small plate of water crackers and Stilton cheese sat in the middle of the table.
Esme exhaled and released a stream of smoke through her nostrils. “Thank you,” she said pointedly. She gestured to the cocker spaniel. “Come to Mummy, my angel.” The dog promptly hopped onto her lap.
“You’re welcome. Sinead is a sweet little girl. How long have you had her?”
“Let me think.” Esme closed her eyes. “Ah yes, she was born the year after the queen died, so that would make her nearly three years old.” She stroked the dog’s long, silky ears. “She’s quite indispensable to me.”
“When we were talking at the Willow Tree, you mentioned in passing that your infant son is buried at Tarrymore,” Therese said.
