Page 5 of An Angel's Share
Dad’s age is mellowing him, and Patrick has been on the rise for a few years, supported and encouraged by his ownfather. But my cousin is taking us under. Does no one see what I do? There will be nothing left if this continues.
I think perhaps my dad has seen it, and it’s that which is making him ill. Perhaps he understands how bad it is, but is powerless to change it. To fix things.
Dermot, my uncle and father of the two spawns from hell—Patrick and Conor—has made it so difficult. It’s been hard enough holding off Dermot at times, but when he backed Patrick, they created a force to be reckoned with.
With no one to keep him in check, Patrick continued to bully his way through, bringing in school and university friends as heads of departments, even if they were not qualified. Our diversity and inclusion programme, something once a hallmark of the business, was in tatters, totally disregarded. How can we make whiskey for the world to enjoy if everyone in a senior position is male, white, wealthy to a certain extent, and, oh yeah, stupid?
Only Conor, according to the meeting minutes, voiced any issues with the hiring policy. He was ignored, of course, as Patrick, always the loudest, bluffed and bulldozed his way forward. Always got his own way. I was away studying, too far away and preoccupied to get fully involved.
But that was then. This is now.
I arrived back just in time. My doctorate is complete, my outward views known. I should have maybe come back sooner, but Daddy never told me how bad he was. It wasn’t until I collared him on FaceTime that I saw the extent of the issue.
The Power of Attorney signed by Daddy for me to act totally in his stead was hot off the press. He needed the time away. And I think I actually saw relief in his eyes the day I alighted from that plane. Dad had even gone so far as tostart the transfer of his share of the family owned business to me.
That’s when I knew he really wasn’t well. The completion of transfer of shares going through. Nothing could stop it. (Not that Patrick or Conor were aware of that.) To say I was about as welcome as a fart in a lift is the understatement of the year.
“You look beautiful,” Christy says in awe as she reaches to touch the silk of my green, full length (if not a bit tight) dress. “There was no way I could have worn a dress like that at five months pregnant.”
Her mother laughs out, “You were huge to start with Christy. Pregnancy improved things, gave you a reason.”
My mouth drops open at the insult, and I see the pain in Christy’s eyes before she shuts it down. If she’s not going to retaliate, I will on her behalf. Hit them where it hurts. I know all their weak spots.
In a bored voice, I declare, “Ignore them Christy. They're too old to remember being pregnant. Distant memories. What are you both now, seventy or something?”
I wink at Christy, who tries to smile. Her expression widens to a genuine grin when both our mothers start to wail about how they spend hours on their skin care regimen. How good they look, and how dare I.
Oh, I dare.
“Your uncle Marshall rang to say he’s coming over. Everyone’s making a fuss. He’s bringing one of thoseGreystoneswith him.” Christy exaggerates the man’s name for comic effect. “The one who came last summer. Patrick said he’s the biggest pain in the arse.” I know she’s trying to distract the two mothers from more insults—flowing her way, anyway—lest they start on about her non-existent skin care regime.
“Yes he was, they all are,” Mammy declares, Chrisy’s tactic clearly working. “I’m not sure who they think they are. Last year, he caused so much trouble. I mean, at the end of the day, they’re farmers. He told me they lived on a farm.” She’s rolling her eyes like anyone who lives on a farm is stupid. “I know they own a lot of land nearer the coast, but please. They have no money, so they started to sell off the land. Marshall tried to buy it, but someone bid higher.” She looks at Maggie knowingly. “Marshall has lots of money.”
Just when I think she might divert off into Uncle Marshall's financial affairs, she decides a rant about the Greystones is more entertaining. “But this English lot are related somehow. Probably the poorer relations.” Her voice is full of condescension.
My mammy is as ill-informed as ever, can’t even get her facts straight. Even being away in America, I knew that Uncle Marshall had a daughter. Evie, I think her name is. English, and somehow weirdly related to the Greystone family.
A large landowning family local to us here in Ireland, the Greystones even have a village some three miles away near the coast named after them. They’d fallen on hard times over the last decade, but still very substantial. The English branch hadn’t followed suit on going downhill. According to Daddy, they were drowning in money.
“Marshall looked well, though, last summer. He hasn’t got married has he?” Maggie is a widow and looking to kickstart her life. The dating sites I know she frequents have as yet not yielded any fruit. Maybe she’s trying for what she considers an easy target. Low hanging fruit.
I try to hide my laugh with a cough, and Mammy gives me a dirty look.
“No, he's still free.” Mammy gives Maggie a knowinglook. “Think he’s a confirmed bachelor. And to be honest, Maggie, I don’t think he’d move back.” Mammy's voice is kind and soft. It’s the first nice words she’s spoken to anyone in months.
Then, as if that was all too much for her, her quota of nice used up, she starts again. This time with the index finger in full action.
“That girl has him hooked around her little finger. Wherever she goes, he does. Did you hear about her with two men? I’m sure she’s just had a little girl. God knows whose it is. I bet she doesn’t even know.” Her eyes are sparking at the perceived crime. The gossip has her lighting up.
“Mammy, stop,” I snap at her before she can ramp up the full gossip. “If Uncle Marshall hears you, that will be it. From what I hear, albeit from the gossip sites, they’re all together. In love and loving life. I, for one, say good luck.” I glare at her as she opens her mouth to speak, then cut her off. “Have you seen those men? Marcus Russell and Xander Barclay. Rock stars, Mammy. Gorgeous rock stars.”
“Marcus Russell is mega gorgeous. I looked them up last time Marshall was here. I couldn’t stop looking at his abs. Have you seen them, Aoife?” I shake my head, grinning as Christy gets her phone out to show me a screen shot. I smirk as it’s at the top of her camera roll. She’s pinned it.
A torso cut from the gods comes onto her screen, and my blood runs cold. An image of a different very cut torso flitters into my mind. Hot, sweaty, the feel of muscles moving under my hands. Jesus Christ. Is any hot man going to push me into delirium? My hormones really must be kicking in.
“Wow,” I declare. “He’s absolutely gorgeous. She’s onelucky woman. I need to meet her and them. Maybe I’ll get Marshall to arrange a visit to see us.”
I’m licking my lips at the men in front of me as Christy shows me Xander Barclay. Just as ripped, dark hair flopping onto his smirking face. Blue eyes that make me drift off to a pleasure dome. It seems if you're that gorgeous, knowing it and flaunting it goes hand in hand. Stomping all over women’s common sense and boundaries. Christy has a dreamy look in her eyes. Patrick has competition.
