A Taste for It Read online

  He continued. “Our first appointment is in Sligo at lunchtime. I’ll collect you from the foyer here at nine o’clock on Tuesday morning, if that suits you?” He gave her a sudden sympathetic smile, as if he had realised how unsettled she was by the changed plans.

  Maura gave a tired nod, suddenly too weary to argue any more. In a daze she let Rita lead her to the door and escort her to her room. She wanted to ring Bernadette to check that she was okay and call Nick to fill him in on everything, but the sight of her turned-down bed proved too inviting. She simply pulled off the damp red dress and fell straight into a twelve-hour sleep.

  Chapter Six

  When she woke up it was nearly noon. She stretched luxuriously, glad of the long sleep. She felt refreshed and optimistic and ready to face the new situation. She would simply explain to Dominic how sorry she was for his treatment at Lorikeet Hill and try to make light of the case of mistaken identity. Hopefully that would dispel the strange tension between them. She would even apologise to Carla – if she had to.

  Her good intentions were flung out of the window just minutes after she picked up the newspaper that was delivered with her room-service brunch.

  Carla’s gossip columnist friend had written a spiteful piece about Carla and Dominic’s experience at Lorikeet Hill, without any explanation about the case of mistaken identity. She had made Maura sound like a cross between a madwoman and a drop-out from a high-school home economics class. God only knew how, but she had even managed to dig up details about Maura and Richard’s restaurant in Sydney, adding that Richard was now living in London and enjoying great success there.

  Maura couldn’t imagine how she had known about Richard. Then she remembered Carla talking to Sylvie. The old witch must have filled her in on the whole story.

  As Maura read the article again, her heart sank further. The columnist hinted that Maura’s growing reputation in Australian food circles owed much more to Richard’s influence than any talent she had herself. There was even a quote attributed to Dominic, saying that he was always willing to give people a second chance. How dare he be so patronising! As if she would make a habit of serving that sort of food or emptying cold water over complete strangers!

  Maura resisted the temptation to crawl under her bed and not come out until the four weeks were over. This make-or-break trip for Lorikeet Hill was certainly off to a flying start. Céad Míle Fáilte, Aidan had said to her yesterday. A hundred thousand welcomes. A hundred thousand nightmares more like it.

  She felt like howling in frustration. It had taken nearly three years at Lorikeet Hill to rebuild her confidence and to believe in her own abilities. The growing success of the Lorikeet Hill Café was proof that she really did have what it takes. She had hoped this trip would finally banish Richard’s ghost for good and help her make her own name. And now this.

  If she were back home in the Clare Valley, she’d be sitting at her desk writing out her menus, or out in the sunshine digging in her herb garden. Instead here she was, stuck in Dublin on the trip from hell. In one remark she had ruined Joel’s career chances. Poor Bernadette was injured and her house a wreck. Even the weather was reflecting the change in her fortunes. Yesterday’s dry skies had faded away with the night and she could see a constant fall of rain from her window.

  “Brilliant, keep raining,” she said aloud. “Bring on the torrents.” With luck, Dublin would have its worst rain in centuries. All the wine merchants would be flooded. Every bottle of Lorikeet Hill wine they had in stock would float away and the Wine Society would have no choice but to call the whole trip off. She closed her eyes and wished fervently.

  Her heart leapt as the phone rang. She thought her prayers had been answered as she heard a female Irish voice, thinking it was Rita.

  Then a familiar cheeky laugh made her realise with pleasure who her caller was.

  “Bernadette!” Maura exclaimed. “How are you? How is your poor foot and your poor roof?”

  In seconds, Maura was curled up again on her comfortable bed, hearing the whole story of the sudden storm. Bernadette assured her the damage to both foot and roof had looked worse than it actually was.

  “They’ll both just take a month or so to mend, and then I’ll be right as rain again. Now, tell me, have you met my proxy driver? Don’t you think he’s absolutely gorgeous?”

  Maura smiled into the phone. “Well, they’re not quite the adjectives I would have chosen.” In minutes she had related the whole story, buoyed by the sound of gales of laughter from Bernadette.

  “Oh, you poor thing, you must have nearly died,” Bernadette said. “Don’t worry about anything, especially that old gossip column. People fight for a mention in it and it doesn’t matter if it’s bad or if it’s good, as long as you’re in it. People will remember your name, not what was written about you.”

  “It’s all right for you,” Maura said with feeling. “You’re not going to be stuck in a car with a sworn enemy for a week. Who is this Dominic Hanrahan anyway?”

  “To be honest, I only met him myself late last year. The story is he headed off to America when he was just a young fellow. He became a big shot in newspaper and magazine publishing or something, apparently. He suddenly arrived back in the country about six months ago, with Carla in tow.”

  “Ah yes, the lovely, Carla, straight out of Charm School.”

  Bernadette laughed. “Oh, you’re wicked. Yes, she’s a moody young one, isn’t she? She always looks as though she’d rather be somewhere else.”

  “What are the two of them doing in Ireland?” Maura asked.

  “I’m not really sure. Dominic doesn’t give much away. He said he wanted Carla to spend some time here. The local gossip is he’s got some plans to set up the Clare mansion as a country retreat. It’s been renovated until it’s practically unrecognizable – new kitchen, ensuite bedrooms, the whole kit and caboodle. That’s why we’re so lucky he was able to step in when my house fell down like a pack of cards.”

  “I can’t quite see Carla stuck in the middle of the country.”

  Bernadette laughed again. “No, she doesn’t strike me as the rural type, either. Perhaps she plans to fill up the country retreat with famous pop stars and soccer players. Listen, enough about them, you just enjoy yourself as best you can with the wine trip. I’ll be up and mobile in no time and we’ll still cook up a storm together next week.”

  Maura hung up, feeling much more cheerful. There was no point thinking the trip was in ruins – she’d simply have to make the best of it. Besides, she couldn’t let Nick and Fran down just because she was feeling a bit embarrassed and cross.

  She showered and dressed quickly and tied her hair back into a loose plait. Picking up her bag and coat, she headed downstairs. She had a couple of hours to herself before the early evening wine-tasting. Time to get her bearings again, she thought.

  Maura walked toward Grafton Street, planning to make a start on her souvenir-shopping and try and take in some of Dublin’s tourist attractions. Then she’d have a coffee in Bewley’s in Grafton Street. At the party last night Rita had assured her it was an essential experience for any visitor to Dublin.

  But first she would have a look in Aidan’s family’s wine shop just a few streets away from the Shelbourne Hotel. She wanted to get a sense of which Australian wines were known in Ireland before she gave her first talk.

  Finding the shop easily, she gazed in at the window display. She was so intent on looking at the Australian selection that she didn’t notice a young man sidling up beside her. It happened in an instant – he grabbed at the strap of her bag and tugged fiercely, nearly pulling her off her feet.

  Maura cried out in shock, spinning around in fright. She stared straight into her assailant’s eyes, as he swore at her and wrenched at the leather handle again. They had a vicious tug of war until Maura felt a sudden rush of fury.

  She let out a full-blooded scream – “No!” – and kicked sharply at his ankle. To her surprise he let go of the handle and tore
off down the street.

  Her shout attracted the attention of the man behind the counter of the wine store. He ran out just in time to see the attacker dart down a side street.

  Maura leaned against the window in shock, rubbing her wrist. The fierce tugging had left a nasty welt on her skin.

  “Are you okay? You were very brave – did he get anything?” The shop assistant looked at her with concern.

  “I’m fine, no, I wasn’t and no, he didn’t,” Maura reassured the man, still rubbing at her wrist.

  Then her helper noticed she was trembling. “Ah now, Miss, come and sit down in here and let me give you a drink. You’re a visitor, right? That’s an awful way to be greeted to Ireland. But at least you’re seeing the real thing. Some people spend thousands looking for a glimpse of the real Dublin and you had it come right up and say hello to you.”

  Maura managed a smile as he guided her into the wine store and fussed around her.

  “Is that an Australian or a New Zealand accent I detected? You’re here on holiday, are you?” he asked, as he fetched a glass and poured her a generous measure of fine brandy.

  Maura explained why she was in Ireland and had been outside the shop in the first place.

  “Ah, you’re not! I’m going to hear someone give a talk about Australian wine this afternoon – I’ll show you the invitation.”

  The young man reached behind the counter and retrieved an elegantly written card on which her name and two of her fellow Australian winemakers’ names were written.

  ‘That’s me,” she said, pointing to her name.

  “Maura Carmody,” the man read aloud. “Well, aren’t I the lucky one, getting a personal audience! Well, hold on a minute now, Miss Carmody, and I’ll get myself a chair and you can get started. It’ll save me the bother of going all the way down to Temple Bar.”

  His relentless good humour and waterfall of chatter were soon helping her recover from the shock of the attempted mugging. He introduced himself as Cormac Sheehan, the manager of Aidan’s family’s shop.

  “I know Aidan very well. Aidan’s studying marketing, so of course he would do his best to get you to come and have a look at the shop. Here, let me show you around,” he said with an expansive wave, as if the shop was ten times bigger than the small area it actually covered.

  They fell into an easy conversation about the Irish wine market. Maura was very impressed with his knowledge of wines ‘from the New World’ as he put it.

  Cormac explained that the French hold on the quality wine market had been gradually decreasing for over a decade in the UK and Ireland.

  “It’s gas how quickly Australian wine has taken off here in the last while – it used to be so exotic to drink Jacob’s Creek but sure now there are whole sections of Australian wine in the off-licences and supermarkets. And Croatian wine and Argentinian wine and Chilean wine, Jaysus, there’ll be Hawaiian wine yet.”

  She laughed aloud, holding the glass of brandy between her hands. “What’s behind the sudden interest, do you think? Surely the attraction of Guinness isn’t wearing off?”

  “Hell will freeze over before that happens,” Cormac laughed. “I suppose as people travel more, they get more adventurous in their tastes, in wine and food. And since Ireland’s joined the EU and that Celtic Tiger has started running around, there’s more money around. People want to try different things. And there’s such a connection between Ireland and Australia, we’re almost duty bound to try some of your beautiful wine.”

  Maura checked her watch and realised how much time had passed. Cormac looked around – the last customer had left and they were alone in the shop.

  “Look, I’m due to close in twenty minutes anyway – an early finish won’t hurt anyone. I can walk you down to Temple Bar. Let me show you a little bit of Dublin in return for that sneak preview of this afternoon’s talk.”

  Chapter Seven

  Maura stood outside the shop, sheltering from the fine mist of rain, while Cormac locked up. With a gentle hand on her back, he guided her down the street in the direction of Trinity College.

  “So apart from getting mugged, what have you been doing since you arrived and what have the Wine Society got planned for you?” he asked. “I hope they’re looking after you well, or I’ll have something to say to Aidan.”

  She briefly explained that she’d had a few surprises since she arrived. She didn’t mention the incident in South Australia but told Cormac about Bernadette’s misfortune and how she’d be travelling with a completely new person.

  “That’s a shame, for you and Bernadette. I’ve known her for a few years, she’s a great woman,” he said, before stopping briefly and pointing out the Mansion House, the Lord Mayor of Dublin’s residence. She was about to ask a few questions when Cormac changed the subject back to her trip.

  “What’s your new guide’s name? I know a lot of the members of the Wine Society,” Cormac asked. At the mention of Dominic Hanrahan’s name he stopped dead in his tracks, to the annoyance of other pedestrians on the crowded footpath.

  “Is something wrong? Do you know him?” Maura asked, puzzled at his reaction.

  “Only by reputation, I’ve never actually met him. You know he’s just come back from New York with some glamorous American woman?”

  Maura nodded. “Yes, I’ve met the glamorous American woman too,” she said wryly.

  As Cormac set off down the road again, she had to almost skip to keep within earshot. He continued his story. “You’ve met Carla? A good friend of mine worked in Carla’s father’s company in New York. That’s how Dominic first made his money – the old man heard about some street magazine Dominic had started and bought it off him. There were quite a few stories in the business pages here when it happened about three years ago. Anyway, my friend says Carla was a bit of a tearaway – you know, the usual story, only child, filthy rich, spoilt rotten.”

  Surprise, surprise, Maura thought.

  “Apparently the old man thought Dominic was the bee’s knees and tried to matchmake him and Carla.”

  Maura struggled again to keep up with Cormac as they turned left and walked right into a group of people streaming from a tour bus into a large shop devoted to woollen goods and Irish crafts. Maura looked longingly over her shoulder at the beautiful glasswear in the window, but it seemed Cormac had no intention of slowing down just yet.

  He turned to make sure she was keeping up with him and the story. “Her mother died when she was a kid and then the old man died last year. The gossip in the company is that the old man appointed Dominic as her informal guardian. Apparently if Dominic keeps an eye on her until she turns twenty-five he’s set to inherit something like a million dollars. Even more if her marries her.”

  It was Maura’s turn to stop walking. “What?”

  Cormac arched one eyebrow. “Well, that’s apparently why she is rarely out of his sight. Wouldn’t you keep her close by, if you had that much money riding on it?”

  “I thought they were lovers.”

  “Oh, apparently they are. At least, that’s what the word is.”

  Maura was shocked. How could Dominic be so mercenary? Imagine wheedling your way into an old man’s affections, seducing the daughter, just for money! It was like something out of the Dark Ages.

  For a moment she almost felt sorry for Carla. Maura wondered if she knew about the deal. She gave Cormac a grateful look. “Thanks for filling me in. Forewarned is forearmed, as they say.” They had reached the end of Grafton Street and Maura could see the statue of Molly Malone across the busy street. She was on the point of asking Cormac about it when another thought struck her.

  “If Dominic is that mercenary, why would he have stepped in so quickly when Bernadette’s roof fell in? Surely that’s a generous gesture?” she asked.

  “On the surface, yes, but I bet there’s more to it. I’ve heard he’s just done hundreds of thousands of pounds worth of renovations on his house,” Cormac answered.

  Maura nodded. Bernadette
had said the same thing.

  “Well, there’s talk he’s planning on opening one of those luxurious country house retreats for rich Americans to come and wind down in. It’s the ideal setup for a trial run. The hard work’s already been done by the Wine Society. He gets to show his luxurious new country house to all the rich young things doing your cooking course and the food writers who would otherwise have been writing about Bernadette’s house. And he gets a reputation as a good guy for getting the Society out of a fix. He can’t lose. And there are a few rumours floating around that someone has plans to set up a classy food and wine magazine here in Ireland. If that someone just happens to be Dominic then this could be a handy research trip for him as well.”

  For reasons she couldn’t quite understand, Maura felt quite disappointed. She had wanted to accept Bernadette’s opinion on Dominic’s generosity. But from what Cormac was saying it was complete skullduggery.

  Cormac looked closely at her. “Ah, I’m sorry, I’ve depressed you, haven’t I? I’m very sorry. Really, none of it affects you – you can still talk about your wine and cook to your heart’s content, regardless of who you’re travelling with or what house you’re in. And you’ll get to see lots of our lovely countryside. And sure, maybe I’ll even make the odd trip over to Clare to take you out for a bit of craic in the local pub. The pubs in the West of Ireland are the best in the world.”

  Maura decided that, no, she wasn’t depressed, it was definitely disappointment. But why on earth would she feel disappointed by Dominic’s behaviour?

  Cormac was determined to buoy her up again and was practically skipping around her.

  “Now, what tourist spots have you already seen, or what do I still have to show off?”

  He was aghast to hear that she was leaving Dublin in the morning and hadn’t had time to do any serious sightseeing. He looked at his watch. “You don’t have to be at the wine-tasting for at least forty minutes. Hang on tight – I’m about to give you the fastest-ever tour of Dublin.”