your first love?" Marcus asked suddenly.
"Of course: Trish the unemployed activist."
"No, not who. Do you really remember what it was like?"
Puzzled, Síle weighed her memories. "Only some of it," she admitted. "The surprise. The glee."
Marcus nodded. "You're such a goggle-eyed baby the first time, aren't you? Having your big adventure, making landfall on a mysterious island. But then the fruit turns out to be sour or a storm blows up, and you paddle off again on your raft. Only now you're getting to be a seasoned island-hopper, and no matter how beautiful the next is, you can't forget that it's just one of many, the sea's littered with islands."
"Jaysus wept," said Síle under her breath.
"Sorry, I'll shut up and put on the radio, will I?"
A Mozart concert took them through Meath, Westmeath, Longford ... The midlands of Ireland had once been a lake, and as far as Síle was concerned they should have stayed that way. After soup and scones in Carrick-on-Shannon, Marcus turned off the N4 onto a series of little winding roads, cutting north to the Iron Mountains.
"Last week, I flew to L.A. and back twice with that fluffhead Noreen Cassidy," Síle was telling him, "and by the time the shuttle dropped me home I was ready to stick a plastic fork in her Botoxed cheek."
"Is she the one with an obsession with Christmas?" asked Marcus.
"No, you're thinking of Tara Dempsey. Tara bakes her Christmas cakes in August, gets her shopping done in September," cooed Síle. "Noreen's the one—remember, we were all in a Persian restaurant in Chicago once, and I'd just had a manicure, and you insisted on explaining to the group why women of my persuasion don't tend to have long nails?"
He hooted. "When she finally got it—she was scarlet, " he recalled in his best faux-Dublin accent. "Seriously, Síle, how do you stick it? They're not in your league."
"By what measure?" she asked.
"Brain-cell count, politics, sense of humour, ability to tell Almodóvar from Alessi..."
She shrugged. "Nuala's a decent sort, and Catherine, and Justin. And nobody gives me a hard time for being queer, not since that one pilot who moved to Qantas."
"That's the law, not a basis for gratitude," snapped Marcus. "My point is, with your talents, you should be..."
"What? If you know of the ideal job—"
He puffed out a breath. "Sparkling companion to technical artist?"
She laughed. "Buy a penthouse in Manhattan and we'll talk."
They'd been on the road more than four hours when the van rattled across two cattle grids and turned sharply right up a muddy lane. Marcus braked in the yard beside what looked like a derelict barn. "Ta-da!"
The barn had windows, Síle noticed as she walked up to it, which meant it was actually the house.
Marcus slung his arm over her shoulder. "I warned you I couldn't afford anything fit for human habitation. I'm going to turn into one of those grotesque, decaying bachelors out of a Molly Keane novel."
"It's big," she managed. "Lots of room for, for improvement."
Marcus laughed and sniffed the moist March air. "The soil's peaty but the drainage isn't bad at all, for Leitrim. See the corner where the slates have come off? That's going to be my office; it gets the morning light. All I have to do is persuade them to put in a land line, so I can get broadband Internet."
"It doesn't even have a phone?"
"C'mon, let's have a cuppa, that's the thing for shock. The kitchen's got glass in the windows," he assured her.
On her third cup of tea, Síle stared out the window at the lone sheep munching the grass. All she could hear was her heartbeat and the occasional squeak of a bird. "Well, if you don't die of pleurisy by the summer..."
Marcus threw another log into the new yellow Aga. "You're such an urbanite, you wouldn't be able to sleep without the constant shriek of car alarms. James, he's the neighbour I was telling you about, he and Sorcha run this organic farm that abuts my land—"
"Listen to you with your new country
"Of course: Trish the unemployed activist."
"No, not who. Do you really remember what it was like?"
Puzzled, Síle weighed her memories. "Only some of it," she admitted. "The surprise. The glee."
Marcus nodded. "You're such a goggle-eyed baby the first time, aren't you? Having your big adventure, making landfall on a mysterious island. But then the fruit turns out to be sour or a storm blows up, and you paddle off again on your raft. Only now you're getting to be a seasoned island-hopper, and no matter how beautiful the next is, you can't forget that it's just one of many, the sea's littered with islands."
"Jaysus wept," said Síle under her breath.
"Sorry, I'll shut up and put on the radio, will I?"
A Mozart concert took them through Meath, Westmeath, Longford ... The midlands of Ireland had once been a lake, and as far as Síle was concerned they should have stayed that way. After soup and scones in Carrick-on-Shannon, Marcus turned off the N4 onto a series of little winding roads, cutting north to the Iron Mountains.
"Last week, I flew to L.A. and back twice with that fluffhead Noreen Cassidy," Síle was telling him, "and by the time the shuttle dropped me home I was ready to stick a plastic fork in her Botoxed cheek."
"Is she the one with an obsession with Christmas?" asked Marcus.
"No, you're thinking of Tara Dempsey. Tara bakes her Christmas cakes in August, gets her shopping done in September," cooed Síle. "Noreen's the one—remember, we were all in a Persian restaurant in Chicago once, and I'd just had a manicure, and you insisted on explaining to the group why women of my persuasion don't tend to have long nails?"
He hooted. "When she finally got it—she was scarlet, " he recalled in his best faux-Dublin accent. "Seriously, Síle, how do you stick it? They're not in your league."
"By what measure?" she asked.
"Brain-cell count, politics, sense of humour, ability to tell Almodóvar from Alessi..."
She shrugged. "Nuala's a decent sort, and Catherine, and Justin. And nobody gives me a hard time for being queer, not since that one pilot who moved to Qantas."
"That's the law, not a basis for gratitude," snapped Marcus. "My point is, with your talents, you should be..."
"What? If you know of the ideal job—"
He puffed out a breath. "Sparkling companion to technical artist?"
She laughed. "Buy a penthouse in Manhattan and we'll talk."
They'd been on the road more than four hours when the van rattled across two cattle grids and turned sharply right up a muddy lane. Marcus braked in the yard beside what looked like a derelict barn. "Ta-da!"
The barn had windows, Síle noticed as she walked up to it, which meant it was actually the house.
Marcus slung his arm over her shoulder. "I warned you I couldn't afford anything fit for human habitation. I'm going to turn into one of those grotesque, decaying bachelors out of a Molly Keane novel."
"It's big," she managed. "Lots of room for, for improvement."
Marcus laughed and sniffed the moist March air. "The soil's peaty but the drainage isn't bad at all, for Leitrim. See the corner where the slates have come off? That's going to be my office; it gets the morning light. All I have to do is persuade them to put in a land line, so I can get broadband Internet."
"It doesn't even have a phone?"
"C'mon, let's have a cuppa, that's the thing for shock. The kitchen's got glass in the windows," he assured her.
On her third cup of tea, Síle stared out the window at the lone sheep munching the grass. All she could hear was her heartbeat and the occasional squeak of a bird. "Well, if you don't die of pleurisy by the summer..."
Marcus threw another log into the new yellow Aga. "You're such an urbanite, you wouldn't be able to sleep without the constant shriek of car alarms. James, he's the neighbour I was telling you about, he and Sorcha run this organic farm that abuts my land—"
"Listen to you with your new country
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