A pub with a brightly coloured mural out the front featuring musicians, writers and poets caught her eye. Dominic caught her interest and led her into its lively front bar.
There were very few seats left, though she noticed an entire corner empty except for a collection of instrument cases lined up along the bench seats.
“That’s for the musicians later,” Dominic explained, as he found a spare bench seat just beside the musician’s corner.
She listened to the music playing in the background and recognised it immediately. The Waterboys, one of her favourite bands. She knew from reading about them that they weren’t strictly Irish, but in her mind she had always associated their music with Ireland. She liked the coincidence, to be hearing them on her first visit to the country.
“They’re one of my favourite bands too,” Dominic said. She looked up. “The Waterboys. I saw you smiling. I saw them play live a couple of times – they were absolutely brilliant.”
He must have put on a different personality too when he dressed up in his rugged windswept-poet costume, she thought. He didn’t seem like the serious publishing mogul tonight. Or Carla’s eagle-eyed minder. He just seemed like your every-day, run-of-the-mill, gorgeous, handsome, sexy, thirty-five-year-old Irishman, she thought, looking away quickly as he caught her staring at him again.
The dinner menu was short and simple, and she quickly chose a seafood platter, which promised smoked salmon, local oysters and poached salmon served with homemade tartare sauce.
“More seafood?” Dominic noticed.
“While I can get it,” she smiled back.
Dominic offered to fetch two pints of Guinness from the bar and, while he waited by the long wooden counter, she took the opportunity to look around the pub. Every wall was painted with a bright mural, depicting well-known Irish actors, musicians and writers. There was also a collection of artifacts hanging from the ceiling: old buckets, washboards and what looked like old farming equipment, strung from wires and hanging precariously above the bar.
Irish theme pubs had become a boom business in Australia in the last two years, and Maura had been to her share of them on visits to Adelaide and Sydney. She’d always found the idea of them quite strange – you could interior-decorate until you were blue (or green) in the face, but you were never going to get the mood or atmosphere to mirror that of another country. Being in the real thing didn’t make her change her mind. There was a history to this pub that you could nearly feel. The feeling with the Irish theme pubs that she had visited was an overwhelming air of fakery: as though, if the Irish decoration didn’t work then next week it could just as easily be turned into an Arabian Nights theme pub or retro 1950s bar.
As they began to eat their meal, the musicians began to assemble in the corner. More and more people arrived into the pub. The seats around them filled up and she found herself pushed closer and closer up against Dominic. Reminded again too clearly of the night in the hotel room together, she felt a touch of shame, while at the same time enjoying the feeling of his thigh pressed close against hers. I’m like a schoolgirl at her first dance, she thought in embarrassment.
She turned the conversation around to the musicians, asking Dominic about the unfamiliar instruments as they began to tune up. He named the bodhrán, uileann pipes and the accordion, and told her about Sharon Shannon, a young accordion player from County Clare who had given the instrument a new lease of life in Irish traditional music.
“At least I can recognise a tin whistle,” she said, remembering too late the CD she had played at top volume when Dominic and Carla had visited Lorikeet Hill in Australia. “You seem to know a lot about music – can you play any instruments yourself?” she asked quickly, hoping she hadn’t reminded him of their unfortunate first meeting.
“Oh, I was marched off to classes for years when I was little. My father was a wonderful fiddle player and he wanted me to learn too. I played a lot when I was in Ireland, but not much after I went to America.”
Maura was about to ask more when the musicians suddenly started up, launching straight into a lively tune that she recognised from tapes Terri used to play at home. The rhythms were absolutely infectious. Her feet started tapping, and she looked around the bar in pleasure at the reaction of the others in the crowd.
Maura felt the closed compartment in her mind open slightly and wondered about her emotional response to the Irish tunes. Maybe it was hereditary, maybe the music was stirring her more deeply the closer she came to County Clare . . .
As the musicians stopped for a break Dominic leaned toward her to ask if she would like another Guinness. She had just nodded when one of the musicians came up behind Dominic and clasped him on the shoulder.
“Dominic, is it you? Dominic Hanrahan?”
Dominic looked up and his face creased into smiles.
He stood up to greet the man. “Gerry Conway, I didn’t recognise you with that beard! I don’t believe it, how are you?”
“I’m great, just great. What are you doing back from New York? And who is this – your beautiful American wife?” The stranger looked at Maura admiringly.
“Ever the imagination, Gerry. Let me introduce you to Maura Carmody, from one of the New World wineries. I’m on a trade mission with her.”
Maura stood up and shook hands with the man, who was looking astonished to see his old friend.
“This is Gerry Conway, an old school friend of mine,” said Dominic. “We used to suffer fiddle classes in Cork together.”
Maura listened as Gerry and Dominic had an animated conversation, catching up on twenty years in a very brief few minutes.
“This is brilliant,” Gerry said, smiling broadly. “You have to join us for a tune, for old time’s sake.”
“I’ll do nothing of the sort,” Dominic said, attempting to take his seat again.
“Ah now, Maura, wouldn’t you like to hear the magic this man can produce?”
“Sure,” Maura agreed, enjoying the teasing Dominic’s friend was giving him.
Dominic seemed about to take up the challenge, when a loud voice right behind them called his name, several times. Dominic, Gerry and Maura turned and stared.
“Dominic Hanrahan, isn’t it? It is you, I know it is! What a coincidence!” It was Sylvie Rogers. “We’ve driven up from Cork for a night. We just had to look around Galway while we were in Ireland.”
Maura’s heart sank as Sylvie jostled her way past a group of people at a table next to them and walked up to Dominic.
She gave Maura a cursory glance, ignoring her fixed smile. “Laura, isn’t it?” she dismissed her.
Maura swallowed a retort. “Maura, actually. Hello, Mrs Rogers, Mr Rogers.” She nodded to the man behind Sylvie. He was carrying a number of large parcels that virtually obscured his face.
Sylvie turned her full offensive onto Dominic. “Mr Hanrahan, how lovely to see you again! I said to William as we were walking past, why, I’m sure that’s Dominic Hanrahan the publisher,” she gushed.
She hadn’t forgotten his name, Maura noticed.
Sylvie moved closer to Dominic. “How wonderful to run into you like this. I had the most charming chat with your lovely ladyfriend Carla at the cocktail party on Saturday night. She was telling me all about your trip to Australia, and how you’ve turned the magazine world there upside-down. And planning to do the same thing here, a little bird tells me. So I thought to myself, now there’s someone on the move, with energy and vision, like myself. So sit yourself down there, I’ve a few little business matters I’d like to discuss.”
She grabbed his elbow and nearly pushed him onto the bench, plonking herself beside him. Gerry Conway quickly sized up the situation and, with a wink at Dominic, mouthed that he’d see him later.
Maura had no choice but to sit down in the small space left beside Sylvie, while William Rogers slunk in beside her. The four of them were jammed very close together. Luckily the musicians had started up again, giving herself and William something to look
at. He didn’t seem all that keen to make conversation, despite her best efforts. She wondered what his story was. His father Harry Rogers had been a legend in Australian winemaking circles, one of the few winemakers who had resisted the trend to pull up old vineyards and plant them with fruit-trees in the early days of the industry. As a result, The Glen property in New South Wales had some of the country’s oldest Shiraz vineyards, which year after year produced award-winning, rich red wines. It was that vineyard that had made the family money, and kept it pouring in ever since.
William suddenly took a pack of cards out of his pocket. Was he going to suggest a game of Snap, Maura wondered. Then as she watched, he suddenly began flicking them through his hands, and over and around his fingers.
“That’s very clever,” she said. “Where did you learn to do that?”
“I don’t spend a lot of time talking,” he said, with a wry look in his wife’s direction. Sylvie was still talking non-stop and loudly, and it was easy to hear that The Glen wines were, unsurprisingly, the current topic of conversation. William was continuing his explanation, all the while making the cards flip and skip around his hands. “And as you know, there’s a lot of waiting around in the wine game. I needed a hobby, and this is it.” He suddenly leaned close to her. “That’s what I’d really like to do for a living,” he said.
“Do card tricks? Can you make a living doing that?” she asked in amazement. She couldn’t quite imagine it.
“I wanted to try, even as a part-time occupation, performing at kids’ parties and fetes and things. But it wasn’t quite in keeping with Sylvie’s image of a winemaker, I’m afraid.” To Maura’s surprise, he suddenly started imitating his wife’s voice. “’Now William, people won’t take a man seriously as a winemaker if they’ve seen him take a Jack of Spades out of someone’s ear, now will they?’ She’s right, of course, she always is.” He sighed. “Anyway, I get plenty of time to myself to practise – the wine nearly makes itself these days.”
That’s not quite what I’ve heard, Maura thought, thinking back to the rumours she’d heard at the party about Sylvie hiring winemakers.
“But we travel a lot, and Sylvie keeps busy and happy, and if she’s happy then I’m happy.”
Maura looked closely at him and realised he actually meant it.
It seemed that was the end of their conversation. He didn’t ask her about Lorikeet Hill or South Australia or her trip so far, but simply went back to his card-shuffling.
She turned in Sylvie and Dominic’s direction, just in time to see the older woman make a move to stand up, still talking nine to the dozen at Dominic.
“Good evening, then, and thank you for your time. I look forward to doing business with you,” she was saying. As Maura watched, she took Dominic’s hand firmly in hers and gave it half a dozen hefty shakes.
She barely looked at Maura as she sailed past, a gesture from her bringing William to his feet and trotting after her in a moment. He gave Maura a little wave goodbye.
“What was that?” Dominic asked. “Cyclone Sylvie?”
“I think you were in its path, not me,” Maura laughed. “What on earth was she talking about?”
“Oh, just trying to drum up business,” he said vaguely. “How did you get on with the husband?”
Maura shook her head in amazement, still not sure if she had imagined the conversation. She told him about the card tricks.
“Shame he can’t make his wife disappear,” he murmured.
Gerry Conway had obviously been keeping an eye on them and came over again. This time Dominic steadfastly refused to join the musicians, and instead Gerry fetched another round of drinks and joined them at their table.
“They can do without a fiddle player for a few songs,” he said with a grin. “And anyway it’s my band - what are they going to do, sack me?”
Maura watched with enjoyment as they caught up, wondering if she’d learn anything more about Dominic, and especially about Dominic and Carla. But she soon realised he was very skilled in evasive answers and she learnt more about Gerry and his relative success with his band than she did about Dominic. Carla didn’t even rate a mention, Maura noticed curiously.
By the time Maura and Dominic walked through the still lively streets to their hotel their mood was lighthearted. The combination of the Guinness and the music had made her quite giddy and she invited him to join her for a final drink in the hotel bar before they went to their rooms.
He hesitated slightly, then agreed with a smile. They were heading into the bar when the receptionist called them over. “Mr Hanrahan?”
Dominic nodded.
“Two urgent messages for you, sir,” she called.
Maura stood politely to one side, watching from the corner of her eye as he read the first message. He turned to her. His whole mood suddenly changed, his face hardened. Even his voice changed. The relaxed tone was replaced by a terse, clipped manner.
“I’m afraid I can’t join you for a drink after all, something urgent has come up,” he said.
“Oh, is Carla having trouble finding a taxi?” Even as she heard the words coming out of her mouth, she knew she had made a mistake. Her lighthearted remark fell very flat.
Dominic gave her a long look, shook his head in answer and then said a very formal good night.
Maura watched him walk up the stairs. “Damn,” she said aloud.
Chapter Sixteen
As she sat eating breakfast in her hotel room on Friday morning, Maura’s eyes kept straying to her itinerary for today. County Clare, at last. She felt a flicker of nervousness, though what she was afraid of she couldn’t be sure. Finding out too much, or finding nothing at all?
“Or telling Nick either way,” she spoke aloud, with a wry smile. If it hadn’t been for his urging she would have let the opportunity go by. She hated to admit it, but he was right. Now she was this close, she would have to find out what she could. But in her own way, and in her own time, she vowed.
She had rung home when she got back to her room the night before, too worked up by the night out and the sudden end to the evening to go to bed straight away.
She’d been happy to hear from Nick that Fran was keeping well.
“She’s getting tired of me asking how she is, but apart from that she’s in great shape,” he said. “But I’ve some fantastic news, we’ve been chosen as a finalist in the Australian Restaurant Awards. And you’ll never guess who one of the judges was!”
Maura named several well-known food writers, as Nick laughingly said no to each one.
“Tell me,” she insisted finally.
“Do you remember the elderly couple who arrived just after poor Dominic and his girlfriend had dripped their way to their car?”
Maura wrinkled her brow, suddenly recalling a rather ill-tempered fellow and his wife who had seemed very unimpressed with the jollity in the kitchen.
“He was the critic from OzTaste, The Diner himself! He was moonlighting, judging for the Awards as well as writing his reviews.”
“But we practically ignored the poor man!”
“I know, but he said in his Award nomination that we had, hang on, let me get it and read it to you –” He was back in a second. “Listen to this – ‘Lorikeet Hill Winery Café has a remarkably unfussy and relaxed approach, coupled with an innovative and unusual mixture of dishes, which would be celebrated in a major city, let alone an isolated regional area.’ Isolated regional area?” he scoffed. “We’re less than two hours from Adelaide!”
“Don’t complain – if he thinks it’s incredible that we can buy lemongrass and coriander out in the bush, it’s not for us to shatter his illusions. Isn’t it brilliant!” Maura was amazed.
“Thank God that Dominic copped all of that revenge lunch or we wouldn’t have had a hope in hell. We owe him a drink,” Nick said with a laugh.
“I’ll get through this trip first, then we’ll see who owes who,” she said.
“Well, hurry home, and start preparing your win
ning speech. I’ve a good feeling about this.”
Gathering her luggage together, Maura’s mind strayed again to the uncomfortable end to the previous evening with Dominic. She wondered again about the phone calls, and squirmed at her wisecrack about Carla and the taxi. It was getting to the stage she should just issue a blanket apology to this man to cover the rest of their time together.
She thought of the other Australian winemakers undertaking similar trips around Ireland this week, Sylvie and William in particular. She would bet her last dollar they weren’t worrying about their hosts. As last night had proved, they were too busy networking and taking advantage of every opportunity to promote their winery. She decided then and there to do the same. Enough of this emotional carry-on. No more Miss Pleasant. It was time to get out there and behave like the New World businesswoman she was.
She came down the stairs carrying her suitcases, back erect and hoping she would look the part when Dominic set eyes on her. But the moment was lost when she scanned the foyer. There was no sign of him.
Instead, the receptionist called her name. “I’m sorry, madam, Mr Hanrahan had to leave suddenly this morning. He’s left you this message.”
Maura quickly opened the envelope and read his handwritten note.
Good morning, Maura,
My apologies for this short notice, but I’ve had to unexpectedly return to Dublin for the day. I’ve explained the situation to Rita, and she is driving to Galway this morning to meet you and manage today’s itinerary. I’ll meet you both in Ennis tonight.
Dominic Hanrahan
The phone calls the night before must have been important, Maura thought. She had just finished reading the note again, an odd feeling of disappointment trickling through her, when the receptionist called her name.
“You’re in demand today, Miss Carmody,” she smiled. “A phone call for you now.”
It was Rita, calling en route from Dublin on her mobile phone. “Hello there, Maura, did you get Dominic’s message? I’m afraid you’re stuck with me for the day instead!”
A Taste for It Page 13