Page 70 of Bedazzled
A genteel tap on my door dragged me kicking and screaming out of my exhausted sleep, and I was about to shout, “Go away!” until I remembered that I was currently enjoying the “hospitality” of Nolan O’Rourke. I rolled on my back, groaning. I used to be happy when I woke up. Now there’s this life-sized cloud of doom the minute I open my eyes.
Checking my phone, I groaned. It was almost 10 am here in rainy Dublin and my exhaustion was completely my own fault for staying up for another three hours after my bedtime call from my host.
But I’d isolated so many juicy little money caches! The O’Connell Mob may be vicious, murderous pricks, but they sucked at hiding money. It made me wonder how they were going to pull off something as detail-oriented as money laundering.
There was a second knock on my door, less genteel than the first and I called out, “Come in!” in my most pleasant guest voice.
This was a mistake.
A parade of women marched through, the first carrying a big breakfast tray - yay! - followed by others pushing a dress rack and hauling bags and cases.
“Uh, what’s up, ladies?” I croaked.
“Good morning, Mrs. Morozov,” the woman carrying the tray placed it on my lap. “I’m Mrs. Walsh, the housekeeper of Malahide Castle and these are your stylists. They are here to get you ready.”
I was silently thankful I had fallen asleep in my clothes last night. Naked and in a room full of strange women was more than I was ready for this morning. “Okay, thank you, Mrs. Walsh. What um… am I getting ready for?”
One of the women wearing a black smock seated herself comfortably on a pretty silk-covered chair next to the bed while the housekeeper poured me coffee. “Hi, I’m Marie, and Mr. O’Rourke has given us quite a lot to do in a very short time, so if you could just hurry breakfast along, I’ll debrief you on the assignment, all right?”
Clutching a muffin in one hand and my coffee in the other, I nodded a little too fast. “Sure, debriefing.” I looked down at the exquisite china cup Mrs. Walsh had used for my coffee. It was delicate Limoges porcelain and I was afraid to hold it too tightly. I wouldnotbe the one who broke a cup and ruined a matching set of what was likely two-hundred-year-old castle china. Taking one tremulous sip, I moaned in delight at the perfectly roasted coffee with fresh cream. Realizing Marie was still seated stiffly next to me on her chair and looking a little uncomfortable with my flavor-gasm, I stuffed a piece of muffin in my mouth and nodded invitingly at her.
“You’ll be impersonating Maureen Ryan, the Libation Historian at the O’Connell Distillery whiskey unveiling, so-”
“Libation Historian?” I tried not to spit out my muffin. “What would that be, exactly?”
“The Libation Historian joins the master distiller in celebrating the new O’Connell Collection by telling the story of the liquor’s origin,” Marie explained, “we will make you look exactly like Maureen and you will be hosting the new brand’s unveiling at the O’Connell Distillery tonight.”
I choked on my mouthful of coffee.
“T- tonight?” I wheezed.
“Mm-hmm,” she nodded brightly, “and there’s quite a bit of information to absorb, since the Libation Historian is expected to be the expert on single pot still whiskey, and there will be questions, of course, about the triple distillation and heritage barley grain used in the process.”
Seizing the fine linen napkin off the breakfast tray, I jammed it against my mouth until I was sure I wasn’t going to throw up.
The other women, also sporting matching black smocks, were unpacking a trunk load of makeup, six wigs, and several outfits.
Marie was still talking. “...so as soon as you finish breakfast, we can get started.”
“Could you give me a moment?” I squeaked out. “Mrs. Walsh, could I trouble you to take me to see Nolan? It seems I have some questions since my job description keeps… evolving.”
She folded her hands, smiling pleasantly at me. “Mr. O’Rourke anticipated your response but wished me to impart that he is unavailable this morning but will meet with you this afternoon to examine you in character as Maureen Ryan.”
My left eyelid twitched as I attempted to smile at her.
“I cannot do this in an Irish accent.”
I was reading through the thick notebook of information I was expected to memorize before tonight, and the makeup artist kept clucking irritably as she blotted the sweat off my face.
“Fortunately, Maureen Ryan is American-born Irish, so your accent is acceptable,” Marie said, trying one pair of glasses on me, and then another.
“We’ve been at this for six hours and I need another six days to pull this off. Or more like six weeks. I can’t become a whiskey expert in six hours - I don’t even like whiskey!” I was trying to keep calm because showing agitation just meant they would all go a little harder with their tasks; jamming wigs on my head, and aggressively blending foundation to the point the top layer of skin was gone from my cheeks and nose.
“Tell me about the process of distilling The O’Connell Collection again,” she said, relentless and indifferent to my fear.
My head drops back as I groan, looking at the magnificent fresco painted on my bedroom ceiling. I think it’s Aphrodite sailing onto land in her fancy clamshell. Gathering my scattered thoughts, I try to recall everything I’d memorized today.
“The O’Connell Collection is a thirty-year-old triple-distilled single malt whiskey,” I recited dutifully, “the unique process of a single pot still gives the drink a singular blend of heritage Irish barley, both malted and green.”
