Breakfast at Darcy's by Ali McNamara

them were from slightly odd types, who I wasn’t sure about spending two minutes in a lift with, let alone a year living
     on an island. But Niall and I managed to sift through the cranks and loonies, and filter it down to the people we felt might
     be worth seeing.
    The three of us held interviews in Dublin for all the lucky candidates, where we met people who were perfect for the island,
     and some who were not quite so perfect. Although who I considered the ideal person to spend a year on an island with was not
     Dermot’s idea of ideal, and vice-versa. As usual, Niall chose to remain impartial throughout.
    After the interviews, it seemed quite obvious to me who we should choose to come and share this experience with us. But, as
     always, Dermot had to make it difficult.
    *
    ‘But
why
?’ I ask him over and over again as we sit around a table discussing our choices in the lounge of the hotel we’ve been holding
     our interviews in. ‘What’s wrong with them this time?’ I glance at the application form Dermot is brandishing in his hand;
     attached is a photo of a cheerful-looking man with chubby cheeks.
    ‘Just why is The Little Chef coming to Tara?’ he asks, waving the form at me. ‘Darcy, you need people over there who can work
     for a year to make this island as self-sufficient as possible, not eat all the profits before we’ve made any.’
    I’m trying to remain calm, but this has been a long day, and it’s fast turning into a very long and tortuous night.
Have I done the right thing in asking Dermot to come with us?
He seems to be causing a lot of trouble already, and this is before we’ve even got there. ‘Dermot, we are not simply trying
     to pick people on a “who can work the hardest” basis, like they’re some sort of human pack horse. We do have to live with
     these people for a whole year; we have to be able to get on with each other.’
    Dermot stares at me for a few seconds, then shakes his head. ‘I wondered how long it would take you to revert to type,’ he
     says, dropping the pile of applications back down on the table. ‘You’ve already forgotten all about the practical side of
     living out there on that island, in favour of this becoming some sort of Irish soap opera where we’re all popping in and out
     of each other’s houses for cups of tea and coffee every morning.’
    ‘No I haven’t!’ I’ve lost my grip on the calmness now. ‘I know exactly what we’re trying to do here; I’ve got complete control
     over the situation. And don’t you dare say I’m of a type. You have
no idea
what type of person I am, you … you barely
know
me!’
    ‘Actually,’ Dermot smirks, ‘you’re backing up my point pretty well right now.’
    I glare at him, and swipe my drink up off the table.
    Niall, using his best United Nations negotiation techniques, finally managed to reopen discussions again a few minutes later.
     But when the debate continued into the early hours of the next morning and we were still not getting anywhere, I felt I had
     to put my foot down.
    ‘Dermot,’ I’m trying to remain diplomatic. ‘I’ve listened to your point of view, and yes, with a few of these people I can
     see that you have got a valid point. But,’ I add, as that same triumphant expression begins to cross his face, ‘with more
     than a few here, I can’t see what your problem is. What, for instance, is your issue with Conor?’
    The last person to enter the interview room that day had been Conor, the cute guy who had taken us across to the island in
     the motorboat on my first visit. He wasn’t on our shortlist, but as Niall pointed out while we hastily got him to fill out
     an application form, someone local would know the island better than most, so we had decided to give him an interview.
    ‘Thanks for giving me a shot,’ Conor grins as he sits down in front of us. He looks very different to how I remember him from
     the boat, so much so that I almost mistake him for someone else.