with Ireland, I know he’d love to meet you. And now I think of it, I reckon he’s exactly what you need to get over Dermot.’ Eva looked at her friend and shook her head. ‘Exactly when did you become a matchmaker, Lainey Byrne?’ Lainey grinned and held up her glass in a toast. ‘About ten seconds ago.’
In Sydney at that same moment, Joseph stood at the window of his hotel room, his mobile phone to his ear. In front of him was the harbour, all blue glinting water and white sails. To his right was the Sydney Opera House. To his left he could just see the Sydney Harbour Bridge. This felt more like a tourism commercial than a work trip, he thought. ‘Joseph? You there?’
‘Sorry, Dave. Distracted by the view from my window.’ His university friend gave a booming laugh. ‘Wait till you see what I’m organising for Friday night, then. The finest wine, women and song Sydney has to offer. So I’ll see you at my place at Bondi, okay? Around nine?’ Joseph noticed the upward inflection at the end of each sentence. ‘Dave, is that the beginnings of an Australian accent I hear? Already?’ ‘If you can’t beat them, join them, that’s my motto. Anyway, better go. Welcome again, enjoy your conference and see you Friday. Ciao!’ ‘You’re speaking Italian as well as Australian?’ ‘German as well. Aufwiedersehen!’ Joseph laughed. ‘Goodbye. See you Friday.’ He checked the time. He’d been in Australia for four hours and had already managed to get some work done, before he’d even left the airport. Standing at the luggage carousel, he’d watched bags of all shapes and sizes emerge through the rubber curtain and begin their sashay on the moving catwalk. The designer in him had dismissed key elements in most of them. Too gaudy. Too rigid. Too unwieldy. Some were just dead ugly. He kept a particular watch for backpacks, though there were few brands he hadn’t already studied in great detail. Some were so full they were nearly bursting. One or two actually had rips. The material he’d used in his backpack made a rip
nearly impossible. He saw one backpack with what appeared to be a nappy taped onto the backstraps, presumably for extra comfort. He’d thought of that too. His design had cotton wadding built into the strap material. A driver had been waiting for him at the airport concourse, holding up a sign bearing his name. Twenty minutes later he’d arrived at this stylish waterside hotel, where two porters, speaking into headsets, had been waiting to greet him at the lobby. He’d been checked in before he even reached the desk, his key being passed over with a flourish. His room was more like a fashionable apartment than a sterile hotel suite. There had been a welcome card awaiting him from the conference organiser, with a reminder about the technical rehearsal at the nearby venue later that afternoon. He checked the time. He wasn’t due there for another two hours. But he’d slept well in his business class seat from Singapore to Sydney, he didn’t need to go to bed. And he was in work mode now. He might as well go there and get it under way. What was he talking about, he was in work mode now? He was always in work mode these days. He picked up his presentation notes and headed out the door.
Chapter nine
In Dublin, Meg was taking herself on a tour around the contents of the front-counter display cabinet, notebook in hand.
Sitting in the storeroom, Ambrose overheard her muttering to herself.
‘Goats’ cheese. Artichoke hearts. Anchovies. Semi-dried tomatoes … what’s this one, Uncle Ambrose?’
He peered out. She was holding something up in a pair of tongs.
Standing up with a small groan, he walked closer. ‘That’s pickled ginger. You use it in Chinese food.’
‘Oh, right. I love Chinese food. We did a few classes at Ardmahon House about international food and my teacher Maura said that one day there won’t be such a thing as regional cooking. That as the world gets smaller, as
In Sydney at that same moment, Joseph stood at the window of his hotel room, his mobile phone to his ear. In front of him was the harbour, all blue glinting water and white sails. To his right was the Sydney Opera House. To his left he could just see the Sydney Harbour Bridge. This felt more like a tourism commercial than a work trip, he thought. ‘Joseph? You there?’
‘Sorry, Dave. Distracted by the view from my window.’ His university friend gave a booming laugh. ‘Wait till you see what I’m organising for Friday night, then. The finest wine, women and song Sydney has to offer. So I’ll see you at my place at Bondi, okay? Around nine?’ Joseph noticed the upward inflection at the end of each sentence. ‘Dave, is that the beginnings of an Australian accent I hear? Already?’ ‘If you can’t beat them, join them, that’s my motto. Anyway, better go. Welcome again, enjoy your conference and see you Friday. Ciao!’ ‘You’re speaking Italian as well as Australian?’ ‘German as well. Aufwiedersehen!’ Joseph laughed. ‘Goodbye. See you Friday.’ He checked the time. He’d been in Australia for four hours and had already managed to get some work done, before he’d even left the airport. Standing at the luggage carousel, he’d watched bags of all shapes and sizes emerge through the rubber curtain and begin their sashay on the moving catwalk. The designer in him had dismissed key elements in most of them. Too gaudy. Too rigid. Too unwieldy. Some were just dead ugly. He kept a particular watch for backpacks, though there were few brands he hadn’t already studied in great detail. Some were so full they were nearly bursting. One or two actually had rips. The material he’d used in his backpack made a rip
nearly impossible. He saw one backpack with what appeared to be a nappy taped onto the backstraps, presumably for extra comfort. He’d thought of that too. His design had cotton wadding built into the strap material. A driver had been waiting for him at the airport concourse, holding up a sign bearing his name. Twenty minutes later he’d arrived at this stylish waterside hotel, where two porters, speaking into headsets, had been waiting to greet him at the lobby. He’d been checked in before he even reached the desk, his key being passed over with a flourish. His room was more like a fashionable apartment than a sterile hotel suite. There had been a welcome card awaiting him from the conference organiser, with a reminder about the technical rehearsal at the nearby venue later that afternoon. He checked the time. He wasn’t due there for another two hours. But he’d slept well in his business class seat from Singapore to Sydney, he didn’t need to go to bed. And he was in work mode now. He might as well go there and get it under way. What was he talking about, he was in work mode now? He was always in work mode these days. He picked up his presentation notes and headed out the door.
Chapter nine
In Dublin, Meg was taking herself on a tour around the contents of the front-counter display cabinet, notebook in hand.
Sitting in the storeroom, Ambrose overheard her muttering to herself.
‘Goats’ cheese. Artichoke hearts. Anchovies. Semi-dried tomatoes … what’s this one, Uncle Ambrose?’
He peered out. She was holding something up in a pair of tongs.
Standing up with a small groan, he walked closer. ‘That’s pickled ginger. You use it in Chinese food.’
‘Oh, right. I love Chinese food. We did a few classes at Ardmahon House about international food and my teacher Maura said that one day there won’t be such a thing as regional cooking. That as the world gets smaller, as
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