later the phone pipped, telling her she had a message. She was right. Marina no doubt desperate to know if her meeting with Venture Capital had been a success. But whatever about pretending to her dad that everything was going great, right now she wasn’t ready to lie to Marina and get all enthusiastic about the new project. She’d call her later.
Hauling her briefcase from the footwell of the passenger seat, Alex climbed out of the car. She’d managed to hold it together for most of the day, but now, yards from the front door of her pale pink Victorian cottage, weariness hit her like a hangover. Above her the dense canopy of foliage spilling over the drive from the neighbouring wood caught the breeze, the leaves rustling, whispering their sympathy. And from behind the house, the distant pull of the turning tide added its soothing voice. Thank God she was home.
Leaving her briefcase on the floor of the black and white tiled hall, closing the front door firmly behind her, she felt like a snail retreating into its shell. A warm pink shell, with central heating and loads of hot water, and at the very end of a leafy lane with woodland all around it, where no one could find her.
Usually, Alex arrived home from work, she set herself up in the kitchen, a glass of wine at her side, as she pulled together the events of the day, making notes on her meetings, getting the last of her work over and done with so she that could spend what little was left of the evening relaxing, curled up in front of the TV or reading a book. But not tonight. Tonight, her heels clicking on the polished wooden floors, she headed straight up the narrow stairs and into her bedroom at the back of the house. Slipping off her jacket and tossing it onto the bed, she pulled out the tails of her linen shirt, kicked off her shoes and reached for her black velvet track pants and sweatshirt. She pulled out the band tying her ponytail. Right now she needed to relax and unwind.
As she unbuttoned her shirt, she took a moment to look out the tiny sash window and down at the wild garden that hung on the edge of the hillside before falling away to the sea. The water was boiling around the rocky outcrop of a beach below, the crescent moon already high in a sky filling with an invading army of heavy cloud. Alex couldn’t remember whether she’d heard the weather forecast, but it looked stormy, the wind whipping the unkempt rhododendron and wild buddleia at the end of the garden into a bizarre dance. Waving or drowning? Running her hand through the strands of hair that had escaped her ponytail, pulling at the roots, Alex sighed. Was she waving or drowning? She wasn’t sure, but at least she was home.
It had taken her a while to find this house in the picturesque seaside village of Dalkey, ideally located only thirty minutes from Dublin city centre. From the moment Senor Marquez had called with the news that he was retaining Impromptu to design the Cultural Institute, she’d started looking for somewhere suitable to stay. She had considered hotels and apartments, but after she had got the call about her father’s accident, a house seemed a more sensible, more economical proposition in the long run. She knew she needed a property on the DART train line, needed the freedom to leave her rental car at home if she had a meeting in the city. She wanted to spend as much time as possible with her dad, rather than wasting time sitting in traffic jams.
From the moment she had started clicking on the McKenna and Co website, and spotted the two-bedroom house, it had seemed perfect. Sitting in her office in a very cloudy Barcelona, she could almost hear the chill waves of the Irish Sea breaking on the shore behind it, the birds calling through her open bedroom window each morning. Wonderful.
In her parents’ tiny cottage on the estate in Kildare, she’d woken up every day to a cuckoo heralding the dawn, joined by blackbirds and thrushes in a cacophony of sound that you
Hauling her briefcase from the footwell of the passenger seat, Alex climbed out of the car. She’d managed to hold it together for most of the day, but now, yards from the front door of her pale pink Victorian cottage, weariness hit her like a hangover. Above her the dense canopy of foliage spilling over the drive from the neighbouring wood caught the breeze, the leaves rustling, whispering their sympathy. And from behind the house, the distant pull of the turning tide added its soothing voice. Thank God she was home.
Leaving her briefcase on the floor of the black and white tiled hall, closing the front door firmly behind her, she felt like a snail retreating into its shell. A warm pink shell, with central heating and loads of hot water, and at the very end of a leafy lane with woodland all around it, where no one could find her.
Usually, Alex arrived home from work, she set herself up in the kitchen, a glass of wine at her side, as she pulled together the events of the day, making notes on her meetings, getting the last of her work over and done with so she that could spend what little was left of the evening relaxing, curled up in front of the TV or reading a book. But not tonight. Tonight, her heels clicking on the polished wooden floors, she headed straight up the narrow stairs and into her bedroom at the back of the house. Slipping off her jacket and tossing it onto the bed, she pulled out the tails of her linen shirt, kicked off her shoes and reached for her black velvet track pants and sweatshirt. She pulled out the band tying her ponytail. Right now she needed to relax and unwind.
As she unbuttoned her shirt, she took a moment to look out the tiny sash window and down at the wild garden that hung on the edge of the hillside before falling away to the sea. The water was boiling around the rocky outcrop of a beach below, the crescent moon already high in a sky filling with an invading army of heavy cloud. Alex couldn’t remember whether she’d heard the weather forecast, but it looked stormy, the wind whipping the unkempt rhododendron and wild buddleia at the end of the garden into a bizarre dance. Waving or drowning? Running her hand through the strands of hair that had escaped her ponytail, pulling at the roots, Alex sighed. Was she waving or drowning? She wasn’t sure, but at least she was home.
It had taken her a while to find this house in the picturesque seaside village of Dalkey, ideally located only thirty minutes from Dublin city centre. From the moment Senor Marquez had called with the news that he was retaining Impromptu to design the Cultural Institute, she’d started looking for somewhere suitable to stay. She had considered hotels and apartments, but after she had got the call about her father’s accident, a house seemed a more sensible, more economical proposition in the long run. She knew she needed a property on the DART train line, needed the freedom to leave her rental car at home if she had a meeting in the city. She wanted to spend as much time as possible with her dad, rather than wasting time sitting in traffic jams.
From the moment she had started clicking on the McKenna and Co website, and spotted the two-bedroom house, it had seemed perfect. Sitting in her office in a very cloudy Barcelona, she could almost hear the chill waves of the Irish Sea breaking on the shore behind it, the birds calling through her open bedroom window each morning. Wonderful.
In her parents’ tiny cottage on the estate in Kildare, she’d woken up every day to a cuckoo heralding the dawn, joined by blackbirds and thrushes in a cacophony of sound that you
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