‘But hasn’t Resolve been their home for donkey’s years?’
Pat laughed, but she didn’t reply. Mary, who’d never left Finfarran, couldn’t imagine the strange pull that the homeland had on an emigrant. Or the complex strands of guilt and resentment in the relationships between those who went away and those who didn’t. But she, with two emigrant sons and one who’d remained to build the family business, had an inkling: a knowledge augmented by that long-ago summer in Resolve. There’d been a time when she’d thought she might stay in the States herself and never come home again. But, in the end, she hadn’t been able to do that to poor Ger.
Chapter Four
Because of its remote location beyond the Knockinver Mountains, the tourist board sold Ballyfin as ‘Ireland’s Best-kept Secret’. In fact it was reached by a newly built road, which divided the southern and northern halves of the narrow Finfarran Peninsula and was known locally as ‘the motorway’. To accommodate its last few miles, the foothills of the mountain range had been blasted, and Ballyfin, once a little fishing port, was now a booming resort with jetsetters strolling its narrow streets and a string of fashionable restaurants where champagne and oysters were permanently on ice.
The Spa Hotel in Ballyfin crested a long golden beach, which curved away beyond a little marina. The doors were incised with a swirling pattern of seaweed and, on either side of the entrance, naked flames danced in shells supported by bronze mermaids. Fishiness was the core of the town’s brand image, not because of its maritime history but because of A Long Way to LA, the best-selling book that had turned the resort into a tourist trade phenomenon. It was the autobiography of a Hollywood star, who’d once spent a nervous breakdown angling in Ballyfin. Unaware that the town’s name derived from that of a medieval saint called Finbar, the designer of the book’s iconic cover had produced an image of a dorsal fin slicing through waves. Not to be outdone, the editor, who had written most of the text, had made it the story of the star’s struggle with neurosis and really big fish. This not only gave the book structure but added stature to its subject, who emerged as a kind of Captain Ahab battling with madness and monsters.
In a year unaccountably lacking in celebrity misery memoirs, A Long Way to LA became a global bestseller, helped by the fact that its publication coincided with the star’s marriage to a teenage singer with a huge online fan base. A film shot partly in Finfarran followed, in which the star was played by an actor half his age. The title song, performed by the wife, won an Oscar. And Ballyfin became a happening place. The star had long since faded, the singer had gone into rehab and, these days, Ballyfin had become a place to eat seafood expensively, rather than catch it. But the association with Hollywood, combined with stunning scenery, continued to draw phenomenal numbers of visitors.
Cassie ran up the shallow steps between the bronze mermaids. It would be a couple of months before the tourist season began in earnest, and most of the peninsula’s B-and-Bs and guesthouses were still closed, but the Spa Hotel was open all year round. Margot Ryan, who ran the hair salon, met Cassie at the lift and led her up to the rooftop spa. The reception area was floored in yards of highly polished parquet. Wall mirrors framed by gauze curtains reflected the light from the ocean, and a mirrored desk faced the gilded lift, which opened onto a terrace with a pool overlooking the beach. According to Margot, the vast sliding glass doors had been designed to bring the outdoors inside. ‘But there’s a hell of an onshore wind blowing, so they’re staying shut today. Come through to the office and we’ll have a look at the roster.’
They entered a room so small that it made the space outside seem even more like the set of a Hollywood musical. Margot lifted a pile of cushions off a chair. ‘Sit down. Sorry about the mess. We’re desperate to finish a makeover before the season kicks in, but all the work has to be done when we’re closed, so it drags on.’ She frowned at the cushions, which were cerise velvet trimmed with gold tassels. ‘What d’you think of these? They’re samples for the banquettes.’
Cassie accepted the seat. ‘I suppose it kind of depends on your overall theme.’
‘Which, let’s face it, is The Great Gatsby, not Gone with the Wind. You’re right. They’re awful.’
‘I didn’t say—’
‘I know you didn’t. But they are. They’ll have to go back.’ Margot wriggled behind the desk and sat down. She was blonde and efficient, and her smart knee-length uniform fitted her like a glove. Cassie had been rather pleased when she’d first seen the spa staff’s uniforms. The short sleeved button-through dress with its narrow white belt and collar was more Grease than The Great Gatsby, but the styling and fabric were lovely. Back when she’d had her interview, Margot had asked if she’d like to wear green or black. ‘We can choose. Mind you, they’re both buggers in a hair salon. Dark colours always are. You can wear a coverall when you’re cutting, though – they’re nylon so the hair shakes off. The uniforms are more about matching the rest of the staff. We all wear the same – masseuses, beauticians, us lot. Makes for a joined-up ambience, I’m told. And the colour choice avoids the suggestion of guards in an upmarket prison.’
Cassie had opted for black and decided she liked Margot. Part-time work in a salon was very different from spending weeks cooped up on a ship, but it was good to have a boss with a glint in her eye, which suggested she might be fun. She was about ten years older than Cassie and had worked abroad before coming home to Ballyfin. Today she was chatty and more relaxed than she’d been at the formal interview. Among the clutter on her desk was a framed photo of her fiancé, sitting at the prow of a yacht wearing oilskins and a big smile. He was a solid, dependable-looking guy, the manager of the marina, and, according to Margot, they were saving up to get married. ‘Well, for a deposit on a house. Property prices are mad here in Ballyfin. That’s the downside of the booming tourist trade. Still, you can’t have it both ways, and aren’t we lucky to have jobs that allow us to save? Paul got a raise a while back, and the tips I’d get here in summer would almost double my pay.’
Cassie could believe it. She’d checked the hotel’s room rates on the internet before applying for the job, and seen charges as high as those in London or Biarritz. The recently extended marina had brought a new level of wealth to an already thriving resort, and the Spa Hotel provided what the wealthy wanted.
Margot consulted the roster on her computer screen. ‘You’re still okay to start next week?’
‘No problem. I’m in Lissbeg Library on Tuesdays and out with the mobile Wednesdays and Fridays. So, like I said, I’ll take any shifts you’ve got on Mondays and Thursdays.’
‘That works perfectly. But I might give you a shout at short notice. Would that be okay?’
‘In principle, absolutely. My time’s my own.’
‘No boyfriend?’ Margot checked herself hastily. ‘Oh, sorry! I didn’t mean to be nosy. And I’m not suggesting it’s relevant . . .’
Cassie laughed. ‘No boyfriend. I’m staying with my gran in Lissbeg, though, and my granddad died after Christmas so she’s kind of my priority.’