this?” she gesticulated at the luggage. “I’ve no booking for this person. You know I don’t take in passers-by.”
Pat shrugged at his sister.
“Sure, how was I to know? She said to come here, she knew your man was here anyway.” He scratched his head.
“I haven’t said he is here. She could be anyone, a reporter, a stalker, anything,” she hissed at Pat.
“I thought the Irish were supposed to be hospitable,” the woman snapped at them.
“So did I, in fairness.” Pat looked glumly at the bags.
“Well, I can’t have people just wander in, willy-nilly, asking to see my guests, who may be here incognito or not even here at all.” Joyce was indignant.
The front door opened and Ryan, hair awry, appeared squinting in the sunlight.
“Thanks for your concern, Joyce, but I know who this is,” he said.
“Am I right then, a stalker, a reporter or some such?” Joyce was intrigued.
The woman spun on her heels to face him.
“And howdy to you too!” she said.
“It’s my wife,” Ryan said sadly. “Ex-wife actually.”
“Jeez,” wheezed Pat, spitting his cigarette butt onto the path. The woman sighed dramatically. Joyce looked at her more closely. She had the look of a foreigner alright, a bit too plastic for Joyce’s taste.
“Really Ryan, I know this ain’t Texas, but these people are downright uncouth.” She moved towards the open door, “And where, do tell, is my son? I certainly hope you have not left him in the care of that whore you’re shacked-up with. I mean really, where is this all going to end?”
Ryan placed his foot across the threshold, barring her way.
“Any more talk like that, Angelique, and I’ll tell you where it will end: here and now and you’ll never see our son again,” he said coldly, glaring back at her, making sure she understood every word.
Angelique threw her shiny hair over her shoulder and eyeballed Ryan.
“Any more of this threatening behaviour, Ryan, and you’ll end up with absolutely nothing. No son, no marriage and no career. So don’t push it. I’ve come a long way to reason with you.” And suddenly she smiled, “Can’t we at least talk?” she said in a little-girl voice.
Joyce was now standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Ryan, arms folded.
“How did you know where I was?” he asked.
She raised her eyes to heaven. “As long as I want to know where you are, I’m going to know where you are, you should know that by now, Ryan.”
He blinked back at her. She was right. Angelique was well-connected; she knew her way round and how to get what she wanted. She always had.
“I only came to talk,” she said, using that soft tone again.
“Talking’s good,” offered Pat. “I’d love a cup of tea myself. We could all have a nice chat over a cup of tea.”
“Shut up, Pat,” Joyce snapped. Ryan stared at Angelique. Angelique continued to smile back.
“Okay, I apologise for calling, what’s-her-name a whore, I take it right back. I’m sure she’s a nice person for a home-wrecker. But I’m desperate to see Joey, we can’t go on like this.” She stifled a sob. Ryan looked at Joyce.
“A cup of tea, so,” said the mistress of the house, “but anymore foul-mouthing against my kith and kin and you’re out the door lady. I don’t care how far you’ve come, or who you think you are!”
“I’m with Joyce on that,” said Ryan.
“Thank feck for that,” said Pat. “I’m dying of thirst.” Joyce stood back to let Angelique inside, as Ryan led the way to the kitchen.
“Isn’t she an actress?” Pat asked his sister en route.
“Well if she is, she’s not a very good one. Wouldn’t trust her as far as I could throw her,” retorted Joyce.
But Pat was busy thinking, making the connection between Ryan’s estranged wife and the famous movie director Franco Rossini. The taxi rank at Knock Airport was not the busiest in the world, Pat had plenty of time to read the
Pat shrugged at his sister.
“Sure, how was I to know? She said to come here, she knew your man was here anyway.” He scratched his head.
“I haven’t said he is here. She could be anyone, a reporter, a stalker, anything,” she hissed at Pat.
“I thought the Irish were supposed to be hospitable,” the woman snapped at them.
“So did I, in fairness.” Pat looked glumly at the bags.
“Well, I can’t have people just wander in, willy-nilly, asking to see my guests, who may be here incognito or not even here at all.” Joyce was indignant.
The front door opened and Ryan, hair awry, appeared squinting in the sunlight.
“Thanks for your concern, Joyce, but I know who this is,” he said.
“Am I right then, a stalker, a reporter or some such?” Joyce was intrigued.
The woman spun on her heels to face him.
“And howdy to you too!” she said.
“It’s my wife,” Ryan said sadly. “Ex-wife actually.”
“Jeez,” wheezed Pat, spitting his cigarette butt onto the path. The woman sighed dramatically. Joyce looked at her more closely. She had the look of a foreigner alright, a bit too plastic for Joyce’s taste.
“Really Ryan, I know this ain’t Texas, but these people are downright uncouth.” She moved towards the open door, “And where, do tell, is my son? I certainly hope you have not left him in the care of that whore you’re shacked-up with. I mean really, where is this all going to end?”
Ryan placed his foot across the threshold, barring her way.
“Any more talk like that, Angelique, and I’ll tell you where it will end: here and now and you’ll never see our son again,” he said coldly, glaring back at her, making sure she understood every word.
Angelique threw her shiny hair over her shoulder and eyeballed Ryan.
“Any more of this threatening behaviour, Ryan, and you’ll end up with absolutely nothing. No son, no marriage and no career. So don’t push it. I’ve come a long way to reason with you.” And suddenly she smiled, “Can’t we at least talk?” she said in a little-girl voice.
Joyce was now standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Ryan, arms folded.
“How did you know where I was?” he asked.
She raised her eyes to heaven. “As long as I want to know where you are, I’m going to know where you are, you should know that by now, Ryan.”
He blinked back at her. She was right. Angelique was well-connected; she knew her way round and how to get what she wanted. She always had.
“I only came to talk,” she said, using that soft tone again.
“Talking’s good,” offered Pat. “I’d love a cup of tea myself. We could all have a nice chat over a cup of tea.”
“Shut up, Pat,” Joyce snapped. Ryan stared at Angelique. Angelique continued to smile back.
“Okay, I apologise for calling, what’s-her-name a whore, I take it right back. I’m sure she’s a nice person for a home-wrecker. But I’m desperate to see Joey, we can’t go on like this.” She stifled a sob. Ryan looked at Joyce.
“A cup of tea, so,” said the mistress of the house, “but anymore foul-mouthing against my kith and kin and you’re out the door lady. I don’t care how far you’ve come, or who you think you are!”
“I’m with Joyce on that,” said Ryan.
“Thank feck for that,” said Pat. “I’m dying of thirst.” Joyce stood back to let Angelique inside, as Ryan led the way to the kitchen.
“Isn’t she an actress?” Pat asked his sister en route.
“Well if she is, she’s not a very good one. Wouldn’t trust her as far as I could throw her,” retorted Joyce.
But Pat was busy thinking, making the connection between Ryan’s estranged wife and the famous movie director Franco Rossini. The taxi rank at Knock Airport was not the busiest in the world, Pat had plenty of time to read the
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