As they pulled into the Dublin traffic, she became aware that Dominic was saying something to her.
“I beg your pardon?” she queried, trying to sound calm and collected. “I didn’t catch what you said.”
“No, I gathered that,” he answered, with a half smile. “You seemed to be fairly tied up with your own conversation.”
Maura flushed with colour. She must have been talking aloud! She knew she had a rather bad habit of doing that, especially when she was trying to motivate herself. With any luck he wouldn’t have understood a mumbled Australian accent.
Embarrassed, she tried to sound even more businesslike. “Well, you have my full attention now, if you could please repeat what you were saying.”
“I asked, would you mind if I put on the radio?”
Oh, was that all? Maura thought. She nodded readily, grateful as the sound of classical music cut out any need for conversation. A week of this tension, she thought with a faint feeling of dread. She’d be worn out.
The music also gave her the opportunity to gaze out of the window at the scenery which was new to her yet still felt strangely familiar. The colours were definitely softer, the light not as bright as the Australian glare.
She recalled the brief conversation she had had with Nick that morning. She had finally had a chance to ring in the few minutes before Dominic arrived to collect her.
He had found the whole idea of the mystery food critic turning up in Dublin absolutely hilarious.
“That poor bloke,” Nick had laughed. “The real critic was probably sitting at the next table watching all of this going on and wondering what sort of a nuthouse he’d walked in on!”
That hadn’t even occurred to Maura. She’d been too shocked at Dominic turning up to even think about the real critic. Well, it was too late to do anything about him now, she decided. And she couldn’t do much from Dublin anyway. She changed the subject to Fran and was relieved to hear she was well.
“We had a bit of a scare the day after you left, when we thought the baby wanted to arrive early, but things have settled down again.” Maura could hear the worry in Nick’s voice, despite his attempts to reassure her that everything was fine.
He answered her unspoken question. “I’ll ring you as soon as anything happens, you know that. And don’t worry, really, Fran’s fine, I’m fine, and Gemma’s doing brilliantly in the kitchen too. We’re dying to hear all your adventures, especially how you get on when you start looking around County Clare.”
She had interrupted him there. “Nick, don’t start on all that again.”
“I won’t, I won’t, I promise. Just enjoy yourself and don’t let that bloke give you a hard time!”
She had hung up determined even more to make a success of this trip, for Nick as much as for herself.
An hour into the journey, a lively burst of jazz from the radio heralded a food-discussion programme. Maura settled back and listened with interest, until Dominic reached over and switched stations, muttering something about the rubbish on the radio.
It certainly broke the silence between them. She turned in her seat to look right at him. “Just what is it with you and food?” she asked, genuinely puzzled. “First you talk about the hype and pretension of Australian food, then you tell me you’ve closed OzTaste down. Were you brought up in a monastery or something?”
He answered without looking at her but she saw a nerve twitch in his jaw.
“No, it was a normal house, as a matter of fact. A normal house where food was served because it’s what your body needs to keep going, not because some new ingredient is suddenly trendy, or some desperate chef has travelled to some exotic country and stolen traditional ideas and called them his or her own.”
She was astonished. “That’s just inverted snobbery. Most chefs aren’t like that at all.”
“Did you ever actually read OzTaste?” he asked. “It was more of a food pornography magazine than a genuine discussion of cooking. Endless close up photographs of artistically arranged chillis and vanilla beans and other food most people never see, let alone eat. It was no wonder it hardly sold. I was amazed to hear it had lasted as long as it did.”
“So you’ll close down all the other magazines that don’t match up with your ideal of what people should and shouldn’t be eating, or wearing or enjoying, is that it? That’s not publishing, that’s making moral judgements.” She was getting fired up now.
“Not at all,” he said mildly. “I don’t care in the least if some people choose to spend four hours every day concocting jus or wilting their spinach or whatever the latest fad is. But as a publisher my job is to publish magazines people will actually read.”
She was indignant. “So it’s goodbye to Business Woman as well, is it?” she said, naming another magazine in his stable. “Presumably you would also prefer women to stay at home and cook stews and bake their own bread, rather than be out working for a living?”
He acknowledged her sarcasm with a slight smile. “At the moment Business Woman isn’t selling, so yes, I may look at closing it down.”
“How can you make those sorts of judgements?” She was wide-eyed at his coolness.
“It’s not a judgement, it’s a business decision. If you put a particular dish on your menu at Lorikeet Hill every day for two years just because you liked it, yet no one ever ordered it, would you keep it on the menu?”
She took a deep breath. “Well, of course not.”
“Then what’s the difference? You’d be making a sound business decision, based on market research, and that’s exactly what I’m doing with OzTaste and any other magazine that’s not performing.”
“But how can you just march into Australia and axe all these magazines? You don’t even know the country, or the people.”
“How can you march into Ireland with your Australian wine, and your Australian style of food, and presume everyone here will enjoy it too?”
“Because food and wine are universal. Everyone, well, everyone except you by the sounds of things, enjoys good food and wine and relaxed company.”
“I enjoy good food, good wine and good company, very much. And as much as it might surprise you, I like to cook too,” he said quietly. “What I object to is when it is turned into some sort of high fashion.”
She was about to argue the point again when their attention was taken by the sudden braking of the car ahead. She sat silently as the reason for the sudden stop emerged – a herd of cattle being driven across the road. She smiled to herself. She’d known if she waited long enough she’d see some of that touristy Ireland. If it had been Bernadette she was travelling with they would have enjoyed a laugh, maybe hopped out to take a photograph with the camera she had ready. Instead, neither she nor Dominic spoke a word.
The current affairs programme on the radio was the only sound in the car for some time.
Grateful she was saved from attempting a conversation for a little while, Maura watched the passing scenery with great interest, taking mental photographs and looking forward to checking her guidebooks and asking Bernadette what sights they would have driven past. The last thing she wanted to do was ask Dominic any questions. So far they hadn’t seemed able to have a reasonable conversation. She closed her eyes for a moment. This couldn’t go on between them. They had to work together. Lorikeet Hill needed this to work. She practised yet another apology in her head.
She opened her eyes, about to speak, when the sight of an enormous mountain rising ahead of them suddenly caught her attention. It had the most unusual shape, as though a whole layer had just been swiped off the top of it.
“That’s Ben Bulben,” Dominic spoke suddenly. “There’s a little churchyard at the foot of it and the poet WB Yeats is buried there. He wrote his own epitaph in a poem called ‘Under Ben Bulben’. It’s on his gravestone – Cast a cold eye, On life, on death, Horseman, pass by!”
She looked at him in surprise.
He smiled across at her. “Did I surprise you? I’ve always th
ought everybody should know some poetry.”
“I have to confess I know very little. I guess I didn’t expect a hardnosed business man to have an interest in something so ethereal.” She grinned suddenly, to take the edge off her words.
“Well, you know what they say, music and poetry are like food for the soul.” He smiled again and she realised he too was offering her an olive branch.
They looked over at Ben Bulben again. “It’s not quite Ayers Rock but it’s pretty impressive, isn’t it?” he said. A swirling layer of mist was drifting across the top, and the mountainside itself looked like it had been draped in great swathes of dark-green cloths.
She seized the opportunity to continue the conversation. “Did you see the Rock when you were in Australia last month?”
“Not this time. I saw it on my first trip there on business, about five years ago. I try to have a few days’ holiday on the end of each trip. Try out the latest restaurants, you know the sort of thing.”
She knew he was teasing her, but wasn’t sure enough of the new truce to snap a retort back. Instead she went on with her questioning.
“And had Carla been to Australia before?”
“Once.” He didn’t elaborate.
“On holiday?” she asked, quite curious where someone as exotic as Carla would go. The Gold Coast, probably. Or to one of the island resorts.
“No,” Dominic answered shortly.
“Oh, was she working?” Maura asked. Perhaps Carla had worked as a model at one of the new gala Fashion Weeks. The sponsors had flown in quite a few international models to give the local industry a kick.
“No, she wasn’t working.” His voice was suddenly hard. She looked over at him in surprise. It was as though a shutter had come down on his face. She was about to say something when he pointedly leaned over and turned up the volume on the radio as the news came on.
Maura felt the chill settle in around them again. ‘I bet it was business,’ she thought. ‘The business of keeping Carla happy so you can get her father’s money.’ Carla had probably taken a sudden fancy for a cruise on Sydney Harbour and Dominic hadn’t dared to refuse her.
Chapter Nine
As the empty fields gave way to clusters of houses, Maura realised they were coming into Sligo. According to the notes the Wine Society had supplied, the first off-licence on her itinerary, The Auld Drop, was on the outskirts of the town and was run by a young man from the local area.
The shop was in a good position in the middle of a busy street. Maura felt a touch of excitement as she walked in through the front door. The wine-tasting in Dublin had felt like a party. This seemed like the real start to her promotional tour.
The manager had certainly gone to an enormous amount of trouble with the display, Maura thought, as she fought her way into the shop past all the props. But she wasn’t quite sure if she could get the connection.
The floor was covered with thousands of foam balls, as if a dozen bean-bags had been opened and emptied everywhere. A pair of snow-skis were placed up against the counter. Maura guessed the foam balls were supposed to represent beach sand, and maybe snow-skis were the closest things to water-skis here in Ireland.
Standing beside the counter was a young woman wearing a brightly coloured knee-length dress and a ruffled white apron.
“Hello,” Maura said tentatively. “This is Dominic Hanrahan from the Wine Society and I’m Maura Carmody, from Lorikeet Hill Wines. We’re here for the wine-tasting.”
The girl smiled broadly, put out her hand and gave a nervous cough. “Guten Tag, Fraulein and Herr. Ich heisse Nancy.” She pulled her hand back suddenly and leaned down to operate something under the counter. The sound of accordion music suddenly filled the store.
Maura and Dominic both jumped at the noise. The young woman apologised profusely, before starting to speak directly to Maura in a very slow, very loud voice.
“You are very welcome. I just wanted to make you feel as much at home as possible. I love your wine here. And look, we’ve made a big sign especially in your honour.”
She practically skipped toward the door, where she unfurled a big banner on which huge letters had been painted:
Meet an Austrian Winemaker Here Today.
Maura swallowed deeply, turning around just in time to see Dominic make a strange sound which turned into a cough. He busied himself with the bottles of wine on display.
“Nancy I’m not sure how to say this,” said Maura, “but I’m actually Australian, not Austrian.”
Nancy looked completely shocked. “Australian? As in Neighbours Australia? Home and Away Australia? Down Under Australia?”
Maura nodded.
“What’s an Australian doing in Austria making wine?” Nancy asked, in a puzzled voice.
“I’m not from Austria. I’m from Australia, where we make Australian wine,” Maura said gently.
“You don’t have any connections with Austria at all?” Nancy asked desperately.
“Uhm, I have seen The Sound of Music a few times,” Maura offered.
A look of dismay came over Nancy’s face. She began to speak very quickly. “I’m so sorry, I actually don’t even work here. I normally work in the pharmacy across the way, but my brother’s had the flu the last few days and I’ve been looking after the place for him. I was sure he said you were coming from Austria!”
Maura tried to make the best of it but the young woman was not to be consoled, as she tried in vain to remove the Austrian-style apron from around her waist.
Maura looked around at the foam balls and snow-skis and bit at her lip in an effort to stop herself from laughing, but to no avail.
Nancy looked up from her sobs and caught Maura’s eye just as she started to laugh. A wan smile spread across the young girl’s face, as she realised the funny side of it too.
“It’s really not that bad,” Maura said through her laughter. “Come on, we’ll go ahead anyway.”
Maura quickly set up a tasting table beside the wooden models of Austrian chalets, while Nancy hastily wrote some new signs. Nancy did manage to find one CD of Australian music, before Maura gently suggested Austrian accordion music might be a better lure than AC DC belting out heavy-metal anthems.
Within minutes quite a few people had wandered into the store, lured by the signs and the jaunty sound of Austrian music piping onto the footpath. The local shoppers didn’t seem to mind in the least that Maura was Australian not Austrian, and the tasting and sales went along quite briskly.
Maura looked around the shop during a brief lull in the wine-tasting, suddenly realising that Dominic had disappeared. Well, thank you for your support, she thought, a little crossly. Several minutes later she saw him come back in, accompanied by a young woman carrying a bulky-looking camera around her neck.
Dominic seemed to be explaining something to her, at which the young woman stopped, looked around and burst into gales of laughter.
The pair of them came up to her at the wine-tasting table. “Maura, may I introduce Orla Keenan from the local newspaper. I thought that if Nancy doesn’t mind, this might make a great photo story.”
Orla had composed herself and was smiling at Maura.
“God help us, you must think you’ve arrived in the land of eejits altogether. Still, it’s a great story, maybe even a front-page pic – much better coverage than you would have got normally.” She winked.
Maura took back her mean thoughts, and gave Dominic a grateful smile. She would never have thought of contacting the local paper.
By the time they left an hour later, Nancy was greatly consoled by the attention the shop had received and by the steady stream of people who had come to have a look, many attracted by Orla setting up the photographic session outside the shop.
As they climbed back into the car and waved goodbye to Nancy, Maura looked over at Dominic. “Thanks for your help there,” she smiled. “That was a great idea to contact the newspaper.”
He inclined his head, and gave her a warm grin. “
You’re very welcome,” he said softly.
Leaning her head back against the comfortable headrest, she thought again with a jolt how strikingly attractive he was. If only they hadn’t got off to such a bad start. If only he wasn’t with Carla. If only she hadn’t found out he had sold a few years of his life for a few million dollars.
Chapter Ten
Rita rang on the car phone just as they were driving away from the final appointment of the day, a wine-tasting with the Sligo Wine Appreciation Club. It was past six and Maura’s mind was swirling with the conversations she’d had. The entire day had flown by in a blur of off-licences, wine bottles and glasses. She hoped Nick’s ears were burning with all the compliments his wine was receiving.
Dominic switched the phone into hands-free mode and Maura felt very selfconscious as she conducted her conversation, feeling like she was speaking into the glovebox. She quickly filled Rita in on their adventures so far, expressing her surprise at how short the travelling times had been.
“I thought we’d have to drive like demons to get from place to place when I looked at them all on the map,” she said. “I was expecting Australian distances, I guess. This is a breeze.”
Rita laughed at the story of the Austrian display, and thanked Maura for taking it in such good spirits. Then her voice became conspiratorial. “I’ve just had one of the poor off-licence owners from Kerry on the phone, complaining that Mrs Rogers had been in like a human tornado. He said he’s spent days doing his display and she came in and completely rearranged it within seconds, while her poor husband cowered in the background.”
Maura laughed out loud. “Which counties are they visiting?” she asked.
“Kerry, Cork and Waterford,” Rita said. Her voice dropped to a whisper again, as if she was scared Mrs Rogers would overhear the conversation. “Actually, the Rogers were originally scheduled to travel around Wexford, Kilkenny and Carlow in the South East, until Mrs Rogers did her research and discovered that Kerry is one of the most popular counties in the country. So she made a fuss, threatened to pull out of the trip and cancel any funding to the Society unless we changed it around. So we had to.”
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