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upstairs to
where the VIP room was. It was empty except for a couple of Jo’s
uni mates snogging on one of sofas. Tara looked embarrassed to be
in their company but Alex just ignored them, sitting down on one of
the sofas. Tara sat opposite her, still clutching her orange juice
for grim death.
    ‘ So what’s so
urgent?’ Alex asked.
    ‘ I had a
telephone call from Amelia at Tarrant Hanratty, the agency who are
looking for an estate manager for me. They’ve an applicant they
think is really suitable and want me to see him. Trouble is there’s
one really big snag.’
    ‘ What’s
that?’
    ‘ He’s a
Sheridan.’
    ‘ We’re
Sheridans!’
    ‘ Yes, but he’s
from the other side. Amelia had no idea, she just thought it
wonderful a relative of mine was applying for a job, but I’m not
sure.’
    ‘ Who is
he?’
    ‘ A Tom
Montague. He seems really well qualified; he’s been running the
estate at Troyton House for six years and before that he worked for
the Museum of the City of London. But to be a Montague, he must be
related to that horrible Sorcha woman.’
    ‘ Umm,’ Alex
pondered. ‘Gran used to hate her didn’t she?’
    ‘ With a
vengeance.’
    ‘ But I could
have sworn she had three daughters, so why is he
Montague?’
    ‘ I don’t know.
Do you think I should see him?’
    ‘ Well I
suppose we can’t let petty family squabbles get in the way.
Interview him but don’t make a decision there and then. When are
you seeing him?’
    ‘ Tuesday.’
    ‘ Okay, I’ll be
in Ibiza. But ring me and let me know what you think.’
    ‘ Thanks Alex,’
Tara smiled. ‘I’ll be glad of the help. I don’t want to make a
horrible decision and end up with my family hating me.’
    ‘ That won’t
happen. I think we’ve all got Gran’s sixth sense for sniffing out
bullshitters. You’ll do the right thing.’

    ***
     
    Alex struggled to stay
awake on the Virgin Pondolino train up to Liverpool. Mel was as
alert as ever, not needing espresso and Red Bull just to be able to
concentrate. She tried to fill her exhausted friend in on some
background details on Jack. He was her mother’s sister’s son and he
was forty. He’d been a teenage boxer, then joined the army at
seventeen and stayed there until he was thirty. Returning to
boxing, he’d won a few middleweight bouts, making him enough money
to go into property. Liverpool was a booming area and Jack was
making the most of it by buying up cheap, run-down ex-council
houses and converting them. Apparently he’d been most excited at
the prospect of being involved in the conversion of a hotel and had
been going around scouting for buildings for them to look at. If
she wasn’t so tired after getting just three hours sleep, Alex
would have been quite excited by it all.
    By mid-morning they were
in Liverpool. Alex had last come here as a student, when she’d
accompanied one of her friends who’d come up to see her boyfriend
who was studying at John Moores. Alex had very little recollection
of it, seeing as they’d spent most of the weekend in his digs,
getting stoned and listening to old 1960s records.
    They were meeting Jack at
a bar in the Docks and as the cab took them the short distance from
Lime Street to the Albert Dock, Alex took in the City with sober
eyes. She wondered what her father would make of her investing his
money in Liverpool. It was going to be European City of Culture in
2008 and all that, but it was still a fairly run down northern
town. Even if she did invest here, she was determined her third
hotel would be in London.
    The Albert Dock sat on
the edge of the Mersey. The huge dark red buildings used to house
Liverpool’s maritime industry. In the eighties it had been
converted in an effort to keep up with London’s burgeoning
Docklands. Now those red buildings contained hotels, museums, clubs
and luxury flats. Next to the Tate Gallery was a bar called The
Waterline and it was here that Mel and Alex were meeting Jack. The
place was completely