Breakfast At Darcy's

by Ali McNamara

Genres: Women's Fiction; Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

When Darcy McCall loses her beloved Aunt Molly, she doesn't expect any sort of inheritance - let alone a small island. Located off the west coast of Ireland, Tara hasn't been lived on for years, but according to Molly's will Darcy must stay there for twelve months in order to fully inherit, and she needs to persuade a village full of people to settle there, too. Darcy has to leave behind her independent city life and swap stylish heels for muddy wellies. Between sorting everything from the plumbing to the pub, Darcy meets confident Conor and ever-grumpy Dermot - but who will make her feel really at home?

Release date: November 24, 2011

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 448

Sample

I’ve always liked funerals.


There’s a reassuring certainty to the whole thing.

Not like weddings. Lovely though they are, filled with all that hope and optimism for the future, I tend to have a slight
niggling doubt about whether the happy couple will still be together in a few years’ time. Or whether they might be filing
for divorce, and paying exorbitant solicitor’s fees to argue over one of the gorgeous but expensive wedding gifts still patiently
waiting to be unwrapped.


Christenings and baptisms are much the same for me, too. I often find myself wondering, Will this child really be able to
keep the faith when he or she is eighteen years old, and being tempted by the sins of the flesh? Especially when you notice
that one godparent at the font is updating his Twitter status, and the other’s checking her reflection in the holy water.


But then that’s me all over; I like to know what’s going to happen next. Be prepared – that’s what the Boy Scouts say. So
I always like to be. Although I’m not too sure your average Akela would advise taking six changes of outfit with me on a weekend
away, when – maybe – only three would be sufficient.


The funeral I’m at right now is my aunt Emmeline’s, or Aunt Molly as I used to call her when I was a child. Considering how
close we were when I was growing up, I’m extremely ashamed to admit that I haven’t actually seen my aunt Molly for more years
than I care to remember. I kept meaning to pop over here to visit again, but weeks kept turning into months, and then months
into years, and you know how quickly time seems to fly by these days.


When did that start to happen? Is it another of those EU regulations, like measuring everything in kilograms and litres? Was time
officially speeded up in Brussels one day, and I missed the big government announcement?


The ‘over here’ I mention is Ireland. Dublin, to be precise. At the moment I’m just outside of the fair city in the village
my aunt lived in for the last few years of her life. I don’t remember her in this small cottage the wake is now being held
in. The house I remember her living in was a huge, sprawling mansion by the sea in County Kerry. As a child, I used to travel
over from England to spend my holidays with her while my mother was working. I can remember happy days spent mostly outdoors
in the bright sunshine. Even in winter, when we were well wrapped up against the biting sea wind that would sweep across the
coast, the sun always seemed to be shining in my memories of Molly.


Why does the sun always seem to shine more in your childhood memories? Is that something to do with the EU, too?

As I ponder this thought, a lady with tight white curls breaks into my thoughts. ‘Now, another cup of tea, dear?’ She’s wearing a flowery apron, and is standing next to me waving
a pot of tea in my direction.


‘Oh, no, thank you, I’ve already had two,’ I say, placing my hand over the top of the cup.

‘Cake, then?’ She gestures towards a table groaning under the sheer weight of food upon it.

‘No, really, I’m fine, thank you.’

‘Not from round here, are you?’ She peers closely at me through a pair of silver spectacles.

‘No, I’ve come over from London for the funeral.’

‘Sure now, how would you be knowing Emmeline?’ she asks suspiciously, eyeing me up and down.

‘I’m her niece, actually.’

The woman’s expression immediately changes to one of pleasant surprise. ‘Oh, you must be Darcy, so y’are! Why didn’t you say
so before, child?’


‘Yes, that’s right.’ I smile at her. ‘But how did you know?’

‘I’m Maeve. Molly was my next-door neighbour.’ Sadness fills her blue eyes as she remembers her friend. But they begin to
brighten again as she talks with fondness about her. ‘Molly was always talking about you, so she was. About when you used
to come and visit her as a child – when she had the big house across in Kerry. Shame you didn’t come lately, though … ’ She
gives me a reproachful look.


‘It’s just … I’ve been a bit busy with my job and everything.’ Once again I feel the wave of guilt that has been flowing back
and forth all day wash over me.


‘What is it you do again, now? A newspaper reporter, isn’t that what Molly said?’

‘Kind of … I’m a features editor on a women’s health and beauty magazine.’


‘Health and beauty, you say?’ Maeve considers this. ‘Ah, what’s there to write about that? A good scrub down with a bar of
carbolic soap and some cold water, that’s what’s kept me going for over eighty years.’


I look with surprise at Maeve. She certainly doesn’t look over eighty. I would have guessed somewhere in her mid-to late sixties
at a push, and her skin doesn’t look anywhere near that.


‘Yes, that surprised you, didn’t it?’ She smooths out the ruffles in her apron proudly. ‘None of your expensive potions and
creams for me! You don’t need them.’ She leans in towards me. ‘You take a piece of advice from me, child. Stop wearing all
that slap on your face. It’ll fair ruin your skin in the long run. Good clean air and clean living is all you need to keep
yourself looking young.’


My hand goes subconsciously to the incredibly small Mulberry bag I’m carrying. It’s crammed with lipsticks, powders, brushes
and compacts – my make-up bag alone would normally be bigger than this tiny effort. But today I’ve chosen to carry this one
because the colour perfectly matches my new pewter-grey Louboutin shoes. I wanted to look my best for my aunt Molly’s funeral,
even if she wouldn’t be there to see me.


‘So now,’ Maeve says cheerily, suddenly seeming to forget all about her grave warning. ‘That’s grand someone from Molly’s
English family has been able to make it over to see her off.’


‘Yes, there aren’t too many of us left now,’I begin, but Maeve has been distracted by a large man deliberating over a plate of fruit cake.


‘Now, can I cut you a slice of that cake, dear?’ she asks him, glad to be of service to someone in the food department at
last.


As Maeve deftly cuts the man a large wedge of cake, I look around at the motley gathering of people now squashed into the
kitchen of the small stone cottage that had belonged to my aunt. I guess by their ages they must be mainly Molly’s friends
and acquaintances. I’d thought something similar in the church, that it was odd how everyone was so much older than me. Normally
at funerals there’s a slight variation in the age of the mourners, but everyone at Molly’s funeral is around my aunt’s age.
I’m assuming they must be her friends and acquaintances because I know for sure she had no brothers or sisters other than
my mother, and since she passed away when I was twenty, some seven years ago now, I’m the only one left on that side of the
family. I try desperately to remember some of the stories Molly told me when I was younger, about her time as a child in Ireland,
but as hard as I try nothing is immediately forthcoming. I find it frustrating that memories I want to recall remain buried
with those I would rather forget.


Sighing impatiently, I drain the last of my milky tea from my cup. How can I have let this happen? Aunt Molly meant so much
to me when I was younger; how can I have just let her drift out of my life like this? I should have tried harder to keep in
touch … I should have made the effort to come over here and visit her. It wasn’t like we’d ever fallen out, or anything. We’d
just drifted apart. No, that wasn’t fair; I’d allowed us to drift apart.


‘Excuse me?’

I turn to see a slim, smartly dressed young man wearing a suit and tie standing by my side. ‘Am I addressing Miss McCall?’


‘Yes, you are.’

‘Miss Darcy McCall?’

‘Yes.’

He looks relieved. ‘Oh, good. Then allow me to introduce myself.’ He holds out his hand. ‘Niall Kearney at your service, Miss
McCall.’


‘Pleased to meet you, Mr Kearney.’ Hesitantly I return his handshake.

He nods.

I smile, hoping it will prompt him into continuing.

‘I’m so sorry, of course you wouldn’t recognise the name, would you?’ He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a business
card. ‘Here’s my card. My father, Patrick Kearney, was your aunt’s solicitor and friend for many years. He sends his deepest
regrets that he’s not here himself today, but unfortunately he’s not too well at the moment, so I represent the company on
his behalf.’ As he proudly informs me of this, he squares his narrow shoulders underneath his slightly oversized jacket.


‘I see.’ I glance down at the card for a moment. ‘But what do you want with me, Mr Kearney?’

The young man furtively glances to either side of him before leaning in towards me. ‘First of all, Miss McCall,’ he whispers,
‘I must insist you call me Niall. I may be a solicitor, but I much prefer the more personal approach.’ He looks about him again in a clandestine manner. ‘And perhaps we could go somewhere a little bit more private
to continue our conversation?’


‘I’m not too sure … ’ I hesitate; this guy seems a bit odd.


‘It’s just,’ he looks about him again, gesturing for me to do the same. And indeed, although the others in the room are trying
to look like they’re sipping at their tea and deeply in conversation with their partners, pairs of eyes are swiftly darting
in our direction, then just as swiftly darting away again. Ears are definitely being tilted towards us and hearing aids adjusted,
as Niall and I stand awkwardly together on the other side of Molly’s kitchen. ‘What I have to tell you is of a somewhat delicate
nature. I really don’t think it needs broadcasting around the room and across the whole of the village in ten minutes flat.’


‘Perhaps we could go somewhere a bit quieter, then.’ I glance around me. ‘How about we step outside?’ I suggest seeing my
aunt’s garden through the kitchen window. ‘I doubt there’s anyone out there today, it’s too cold.’


I slip on my charcoal-grey military coat, which I’m secretly quite pleased to be wearing again. I’ve only recently acquired
this Vivienne Westwood gem online – a steal at seventy-five per cent off. I’d hummed and ha’ed at the time whether to buy
it, but on this freezing-cold January day it’s been well worth its price tag.


We escape out into the back garden one at a time, so as not to arouse any more suspicion. There is a definite chill to the
air as I step outside, and a strong wind immediately begins to gust around me, lifting my long hair up from my shoulders and
twisting it in knots around my face.


Damn wind. Of all weathers, I hate it with a passion. It always attacks me, usually when I’ve just done my hair – in my case, this
means my long blonde hair, smoothed and straightened to within an inch of its life. Then, just as I step outside, a strong wind will be lying in wait for me in the
sky above, like one of those cartoons of weather you see in children’s books. It grins down wickedly at me before beginning
its assault on my newly created coiffure. At least with rain you can try to put up some sort of fight with an umbrella. But
wind prevents even the use of that form of protection, so making it much the more powerful of the two evils.


The great outdoors and I aren’t generally the best of friends, in January, full stop. But after the stuffiness of the overflowing
house, even I’m glad to feel the cold, fresh air encircling my face and filling my lungs as I begin to talk to Niall.


‘So what’s the big secret, then?’ I ask politely, as I try and tuck my hair under the collar of my coat. This is all very
clandestine, meeting like this in Molly’s garden. It’s a shame Niall isn’t better looking, then this furtive outdoor meeting
with a stranger might be quite exciting.


I check myself. I must get out of this habit I’ve got into since I started working on Goddess magazine, of immediately judging everyone on their appearance. I know that’s what everyone does – forms their opinion of
someone in the first so many seconds of meeting them. But working in the beauty industry as I do, where your appearance counts
for everything, it makes this habit so much worse.


Besides, it isn’t Niall’s fault he’s, well, how can I put it kindly … let’s just say he’s no oil painting. The suit he’s wearing
consists of a plain grey single-breasted jacket and trousers, and he’s teamed it with a white shirt and a plain burgundy tie
– hardly the most exciting of combinations. He’s about five foot seven tall, slight of frame – OK, he’s skinny. He wears plain-rimmed silver spectacles. And he has wavy, mousy-coloured hair
cut into a neat a short back and sides – all very appropriate for a young up-and-coming Dublin solicitor. He isn’t really
ugly, I decide upon further inspection, but then he isn’t really attractive – he’s just … plain-looking.


‘No big secret, Miss McCall,’ Niall says, interrupting my thoughts. ‘I just need to arrange a meeting with you, that’s all.’

‘Why?’

‘To go through your aunt’s will.’

At the moment, I’m slightly distracted trying to prevent my Louboutin heels from sinking into the soft muddy grass. Just because
I bought them brand new off eBay from a woman who was selling them to pay for her daughter’s wedding, doesn’t mean I want
to dig the garden with them. ‘Molly left a will?’


‘Yes, and a very thorough one, if I may say so. She knew exactly what she wanted to happen with her estate when she passed
on.’


‘Her estate?’ My ears prick up: solicitors only usually use the word ‘estate’ if there’s a fair bit of money involved. ‘So
she had some money tucked away under her mattress, did she, my Aunt Molly?’ I joke, smiling at Niall.


‘Please, Miss McCall,’ he says, looking at me sombrely over his spectacles. ‘The reading of a deceased’s will is never a matter
to be taken lightly.’


‘No, of course not, Mr Kearney, I … I mean, Niall.’ I attempt to look serious and businesslike. ‘So when is the reading?’

‘That depends on you, Miss McCall.’ Niall scouts around him in that same stealthy manner he had earlier, back in the house. Then, as he tilts his head towards me, his pale blue eyes
dart around him one more time. ‘Because,’ he says in a tone so hushed I have to strain to hear him properly, ‘I’m pleased
to inform you, Miss Darcy McCall, that you are the sole beneficiary of Miss Emmeline Ava Aisling McCall’s entire estate.’


‘I’m what?’ I exclaim so loudly that a robin perching on a nearby holly bush in search of winter sustenance is forced to take shelter
on some guttering. It eyes us carefully, trying to decide whether the two interlopers to its garden are a threat to its winter
foraging.


Niall waves his hands at me in a shushing fashion. ‘Miss McCall,’ he hisses. ‘Please, we don’t want to draw attention to ourselves.’

‘Why?’ I demand, trying to push my hair – which has escaped from my collar and is still billowing around my head again – back
off my face. ‘What’s the problem?’


Frantically Niall looks about him again to check no one else has appeared in the garden with us. But only the robin watches
from his perch on the rooftop, his head cocked to one side in amusement.


‘Because I don’t want any of the others in there’ – he nods in the direction of the house – ‘hearing what we’re talking about out here. There’s a few people in your aunt’s house that might have expected to have been included in her will, and
they might not be too happy when they find out they’re not.’


‘Oh,’ I say, turning my gaze away from the house and back to Niall again. ‘Now I get it.’


‘Good,’ Niall pushes his glasses back up his nose. ‘I’m glad we’ve got that established at last. So now you understand what’s going
on, when can we meet to go through all the formalities?’


‘Formalities?’

‘The reading of the will.’

‘Right, of course. Well, when would you like to?’

‘How about tomorrow at my office?’

‘But I fly home tomorrow – to the UK.’

‘I see … What time?’

‘My flight is at eight-thirty in the morning.’

Niall pulls a face. ‘Ah. That makes it somewhat tricky, then.’

‘Can’t you just tell me now?’ I suggest, thinking maybe he could then simply pop a cheque in the post to me, or something.
After all, if I was the only beneficiary – which I still find difficult to believe – it’s not exactly going to be complicated,
is it?


‘Miss McCall, the reading of a deceased’s last will and testament is a matter that has to be dealt with in the proper manner,
with the proper procedures. We simply can’t perform a significant and meaningful act such as this between the two of us in
the deceased’s back garden!’


I manage to keep a straight face as Niall recites all this to me. He doesn’t appear to see the funny side of what he’s just
said at all – his face remains serious and solemn throughout. But as the corners of my mouth twitch a little, he realises
that the words he has chosen to demonstrate his point could be misconstrued, and his cheeks begin to flush a shade to rival that of our friendly onlooking robin’s breast.


‘I … I’m so sorry, Miss McCall,’ he stutters. ‘I didn’t mean … Of course it would never cross my mind … and at a funeral!
Not that you’re not a very attractive woman … Oh goodness.’


‘Niall,’ I say calmly, resting my hand gently on his arm. ‘Please, its fine, honestly. I understood what you meant. Look,
can I make a suggestion that may solve our problem?’


Niall nods hurriedly as his colour dulls to a salmon pink.

‘It may not be the usual, correct place where proper procedures like this normally happen, but I believe it’s where lots of procedures and decisions get made in Ireland. So how
about we meet down at the local pub, later on?’


Niall looks unsure.

‘I don’t see that we’ve got a lot of choice,’ I say, having to let go of Niall so I can gather my hair back in my hands, the
wind has got so strong. ‘The wake will probably continue now until teatime-ish, and then I leave first thing tomorrow. Or
you could always come to my hotel?’ I raise my eyebrows, and he blushes again. ‘But I don’t know what the local gossips would
say about that.’


‘No,’ Niall replies in a voice which, up until a few minutes ago, he’s been trying to lace with an air of authority, but is
now reduced to a mere squeak. ‘No, Mulligan’s down the road here will be just fine, Miss McCall. Say I meet you there about
sevenish?’


I nod. ‘Seven’s fine, Niall. Can I ask you to do one more thing for me, though?’

‘Yes, Miss McCall,’ he replies, looking apprehensive again.

‘Can you just call me, Darcy, please?’

Mulligan’s pub has comfortable fixtures and fittings, serves good, wholesome Irish food and, among many other alcoholic beverages,
the all-important pint of Guinness to its large and ever-changing clientele. It’s a traditional Irish pub; but not in the
way many an Irish-themed bar would try to have you believe, with shamrocks festooned every which way you turn, and tricolour
flags hanging from the optics. Neither is it the opposite: so traditional that there are wood shavings on the floor, and old
men propping up the bar like a couple of the pubs I remember my aunt slipping me into as a child, when she wanted to indulge
herself in a couple of bottles of beer on a Friday night. I don’t remember minding too much, though; I’d be treated to a glass
bottle of Coca-Cola complete with straw, and a packet of salt and vinegar Tayto crisps – both of which would keep me amused
for a good while in those days. I smile now at that memory, and the feeling of doing something naughty, hiding out in that
pub, knowing full well that if my mother had had any notion of where my aunt was taking me, my regular holidays in Ireland would have been quickly curtailed.


I’m pleased I’m allowing some childhood memories to filter back into my brain; too many of them are filed away in my inner
box marked ‘Do not disturb’. My parents divorced when I was seven, and most of my early memories consist of listening to shouting
matches from my bedroom upstairs, or doors banging when my father would storm out of the house after an argument. The worst
one was when the door banged and he never came back. My mother was never quite the same after that. I do remember some things
about my time with Aunt Molly, though; those were happier times. I really must start working on that internal filter, so that
my memories of Molly don’t get padlocked away with all the other stuff. Aunt Molly was one of the good things about my childhood,
and sitting in that church today listening to the priest talk about her life, it’s hit me now, when it’s too late to do anything
about it, that I’ve allowed her to get locked inside that box, when where she should have been was close by my side.


I take a swift gulp from my glass and find I’m having to swallow down more than just the rich black liquid of a mouthful of
Guinness. Taking another gulp, I place the glass on the mat and take a few deep breaths.


No, a pub is not the place for tears, I tell myself sternly. If you were going to cry, why didn’t you do it in the church?

I’d wanted to cry in the church, really. As I sat at the back of the church and watched the hunched shoulders in front of
me sobbing and dabbing at their eyes, I felt the deepest sorrow. Sorrow at the loss of my aunt’s life, sorrow for the grief
of the people sitting around me and sorrow that I hadn’t made more effort to keep in touch with this woman who had meant so much
to me when I was a child. But for some reason, the tears just didn’t appear.


But now as I’m sitting in a pub of all places, I can feel tears desperately wanting to fall from my eyes. And as hard as I
try not to let them, I can also hear my mother’s shrill voice ringing in my ears: ‘We do not show our emotions in a public
place, Darcy.’ I really don’t want to be seen sitting in the corner of the local bar sobbing and looking like the village
drunk, so I cast my eyes around the room in an attempt to distract my emotions and am relieved to see Niall appearing through
Mulligan’s big wooden door. He stands just inside the doorway and looks nervously around the room.


‘Niall, over here,’ I wave, beckoning him towards my table by the fire.

As he hurriedly makes his way over to me, I notice he hasn’t changed out of his formal funeral attire, as I have. I’m now
wearing a pair of gorgeous faded black Diesel jeans, a baby-pink French Connection soft wool jumper and a pair of black leather
Jimmy Choo boots, with heels so high you need to take flying lessons to wear them (thank heaven for sales and credit cards!).
Shame – I was quite looking forward to seeing what he’d choose as a casual option. But I also notice he’s now carrying a large
leather briefcase to complete his solicitor look, which is suddenly a much more interesting prospect.


‘Miss McCall,’ he inclines his head towards me.

I raise my eyebrows.

‘Oh, my apologies – Darcy, I completely forgot.’

‘Much better.’ Smiling, I gesture for him to take a seat at my table. ‘Can I get you a drink before we begin, Niall?’


‘Oh no, I never drink on duty – so to speak.’ Niall pulls out a chair and rests his briefcase on it.


‘But I bet you never perform your duties in a pub, do you? So there’s a first time for everything. You should really have
a drink – a Guinness, maybe?’


Niall looks at my half-empty pint glass in horror. ‘Maybe a small gin and tonic then, just to be polite. No, no, I shall get
these,’ he insists, holding up his hand as I attempt to stand up. ‘Can I get you another one, Darcy? Or maybe you’d like something
else?’


‘Another of these will be great, thanks, Niall.’

Niall nervously puts his order in with Michael at the bar. Then he stands and fidgets with a beer mat while he waits impatiently
for the Guinness to settle and separate into its two distinctive colours, before Michael will part with it and allow Niall
to carry it back over to me at the table.


‘There,’ he says, sitting down opposite me, eyeing up the rich black liquid suspiciously. ‘Never really been my cup of tea,
Guinness.’


‘Nor mine, when I’m in England,’ I admit. ‘It tastes completely different over there. But on the rare occasion I venture over
to Ireland I always have to have a pint – it’s like a tradition.’


The truth of the matter is I wouldn’t be seen dead drinking a pint of anything back in London. It’s usually an elegant-looking
glass I’m to be found clutching, more often than not containing a trendy cocktail.


‘Indeed,’ Niall takes a sip of his G&T. ‘So: on to business, then.’ He reaches down for his briefcase, snaps it open and pulls out some important-looking documents. Then he looks around
him, just like he’d been doing in the house and garden earlier.


‘We’re quite safe here, Niall. I really don’t think many of the people that were at Aunt Molly’s funeral frequent this pub.’

Niall smiles. ‘Probably not. Although the barman did ask me if I wanted a cherry on a stick with my gin and tonic, so maybe
they do have the more discerning clientele in here occasionally.’


I pinch myself under the table in an attempt to stop myself laughing. I decide pointing out to Niall that the only cherries
Michael ever saw in here were likely to be the ones on the fruit machine, and he was in fact making a joke at Niall’s expense,
was not only going to be a waste of time but probably a little cruel too. The sort of places Niall probably goes to drink
are trendy Dublin wine bars – all chrome seats and blue lighting. Just the kinds of place I end up in on nights out in London
with my colleagues from the magazine. Perhaps I’d do well to keep my thoughts to myself.


‘So,’ Niall continues, ‘how did the rest of the wake go? I’m sorry I had to leave but I had some other business to attend
to, and on finding out who I worked for, some of the other guests were beginning to ask some very awkward and rather probing
questions.’


‘It went as well as a wake ever goes, I suppose.’ I pause, hoping he’ll continue. ‘So … ’ I look at him encouragingly.

‘So.’ Niall looks at me blankly. ‘Right, yes, of course, you’ll be wanting to know about the will.’ He rearranges the papers
in front of him, picks one up as if he’s about to begin reading, then he pauses, looks at me and puts it back down again. ‘Before I begin, Darcy, may I first tell you how we in the office
all wish to say how much your aunt is to be congratulated on her very thorough tying-up of all her affairs. It’s made both
the organising of her funeral, and the arranging of this slightly unusual bequest, both easy, and, if I may say so, an actual pleasure on our behalf.’


I try to look gratified by his comments about my aunt, but all the time my mind is racing. What does he mean, ‘unusual’ bequest? Surely my being the only beneficiary makes this whole process quite simple? I haven’t really had much time this afternoon to think about my aunt’s will, and nor have I wanted to, really. After all,
we’ve only just spent the day saying goodbye to her. But now I’m here with Niall, I’m curious to know. Maybe her estate is
the little cottage we were in today, but why would that be unusual? It doesn’t make sense.


‘So I’ll just start by reading, if I may.’ Niall holds up the document again and adjusts his glasses before beginning. ‘I,
Emmeline Ava Aisling McCall, being of sound mind … ’ he begins in a solemn voice.


‘Niall,’ I interrupt. ‘I won’t mind if you don’t put on your so