Breakfast at Darcy's (29 page)

‘Hmm, toughie,’ Roxi says, looking around the room. Then she grins. ‘You, Darcy, are not going to need to cook at all. Leave
that minor detail with me. You’ve got a much more difficult problem to deal with than your lack of cookery skills.’

‘Such as?’

‘Getting Mr Cowell over there to come to the dinner party at all.’

‘But you
have
to come, Dermot,’ I insist, when yet again Dermot is proving elusive on the subject of whether he will turn up later or not.

‘Why do I? So I can watch you and Casanova drooling over each other at the table all evening?’

‘No.’ I must remain calm if I’m to get Dermot to come. My hand reaches for the rose quartz that I now carry around with me
always in my pocket. ‘Because otherwise my numbers will be out. You always have a dinner party with an even number of people.’

‘Is that the best you can come up with?’ he asks, while he adjusts some loose guttering on one of the holiday cottages. He
sighs heavily. ‘Go on then, I’ll come. But I’m not dressing up.’

‘I wouldn’t expect you to, Dermot,’ I reply, calmly trying to contain my joy. ‘Just make sure you turn up at my cottage at
seven o’clock tonight wearing some clean, decent clothes, and I’ll be happy.’

‘I am capable of dressing myself, Darcy,’ he mumbles through the nails he holds in his mouth. ‘I’m not a child.’

I’m about to leave him to his repairs, happy I’ve at least got him to agree to attend, when I turn back. ‘Just out of interest,
Dermot, what
are
you thinking of wearing?’

Dermot pulls the nails from his mouth and looks down at me from the ladder he’s balancing on. ‘Why?’

‘I was just wondering, that’s all. I mean, you are going to make an effort, aren’t you?’

Dermot narrows his eyes. ‘Depends what you mean by making an effort. I’ll be having a wash and putting a clean shirt on, what
more do you want?’

‘Is that it? There’s nothing wrong with a man trying to look his best, you know, especially when he’s going out to dinner
with a lady.’

‘I’m not going out to dinner with a lady, though, am I? I’m going round to your cottage for supper.’

‘Thanks,’ I say, rolling my eyes.

‘You know what I mean. And I’ve never been one of these metrosexual types that put creams and potions all over themselves.’

‘No, I know, I saw inside your bathroom, remember. I couldn’t help but notice your lack of equipment.’

Dermot gives me a wry smile. ‘Can I ask you to rephrase that statement if you repeat it to anyone else, for both our sakes?’

Blushing, I think quickly. ‘How about I come over to your cottage this afternoon and give you a bit of a makeover before tonight?’

‘Uh-uh,’ Dermot shakes his head. ‘No way are you bringing
that tool kit full of make-up you have in your cottage and using it on me.’

‘No, I don’t mean make-
up
. I mean a make
over
, like they do on television
.
If you like you could think of it more in terms of home improvements, only on yourself instead.’ I smile at Dermot, hoping
he’ll like this analogy.

Dermot grimaces. ‘Nice try, Darcy, but DIY’s answer to Gok Wan you are not. Just forget it and pass me up that hammer, will
you? I am not having, and nor do I need, a make-over.’

Hmm, I don’t give up that easily, Dermot. You’re not the only one that likes a challenge …

I reach into his tool box and pass him the hammer, and as I do I have an idea. ‘How about if I can pass you the next three
tools you name out of your tool box, you have to let me give you a makeover later?’

Dermot’s eyes sparkle with interest. I knew he wouldn’t be able to resist.

‘Deal,’ he climbs down from his ladder so we can shake on it. ‘You’ve no chance.’

‘Right, so what’s the first one?’ I ask, folding my arms and casually standing back so he can choose.

‘A plumb-bob,’ Dermot says, without thinking too hard.

‘Easy,’ I reach down, and after moving a couple of things about in the metal box I find a small brass pendulum-like weight,
hanging on a piece of string.

‘This what you’re looking for?’ I ask, holding it up and swinging it in front of his nose.

‘That’d be it.’ Dermot snatches the weight from me. ‘Good guess. Bet you don’t know that it’s for, though.’

‘Measuring vertical lines, isn’t it?’ I say calmly. ‘That’s what I’d use it for, anyway.’

‘Hmm,’ Dermot eyes me suspiciously. ‘Right, well, I’ll take a spokeshave next, then.’

After a few seconds of rummaging in the box, I lift up something similar to a plane for smoothing wood. ‘Would this be it?’
I ask, handing over the tool.

‘Yes … ’ Dermot examines it warily. ‘I should have thought that one through a bit better. The word
shave
must have given it away.’

‘Perhaps.’ I shrug. ‘But if I get this next one right, I’ll have you doing a lot more than just shaving before you go to dinner
tonight.’ I wiggle my fingers like a magician about to perform an illusion. ‘The tools in my beauty box don’t have such fancy
names as yours, but they still do just as good a job where they’re required.’

Dermot winces.He takes his time before laying down his final challenge. ‘How about you find me a grubbing mattock, Darcy?’
he announces, trying to keep the satisfaction from his voice.

I look him steadily in the eye for a moment before pretending to bend down towards the tool box again. ‘Nice try, Dermot,’
I say, standing up again to face him, my hands on my hips. ‘But I’m not going to find a grubbing mattock in there now, am
I? Looking a bit like a pick axe, it’s far too big to fit inside your tool box!’

‘How do you know all this?’ Dermot demands. ‘The only tools you know about are nail files and hair straighteners.’

‘My first job in journalism was on a building trade magazine. I had to write about this kind of stuff all the time. Pretty
boring, but the information stuck.’

Dermot shakes his head. ‘You conned me.’

‘No, I didn’t. I didn’t say I knew nothing about building tools; you just assumed. I told you once before, Dermot, don’t assume
you know me when quite clearly you don’t.’

Dermot’s deep brown eyes scan my face. ‘I disagree, Darcy. Every day we spend on this island I think I’m getting to know you
just that little bit better.’

I’m not really sure how to take this. ‘So, then … ’ I glance at my watch. ‘Shall we say your cottage, four o’clock?’

‘For?’

‘For your makeover, Dermot,’ I flamboyantly spin around on the grass with my hands held out. ‘Move over, Mr Gok Wan, Miss
Darcy McCall’s coming to town!’

At four on the dot I turn up at Dermot’s cottage with my beauty box clutched tightly in my hand. It had seemed like a good
idea earlier, taking on this challenge – I wanted Dermot to look good tonight for Caitlin’s sake. But now, as I knock on the
front door of his cottage, I feel quite apprehensive.

Back at my cottage, preparations are in full swing for the dinner party tonight. Roxi has suggested to Kathleen and Aiden
that they help out by cooking food to serve at the pub, Aiden being a baker. Tonight is a trial run, to see if their culinary
skills reach beyond baking bread and cakes. Roxi’s managed to find a way around my complete lack of cooking skills and arrived
at a new way to generate revenue on the island – sometimes I temporarily forget how amazing she is.

When I’d gone over to see them in their cottage earlier, they’d been happily discussing suitable menus for the evening and
told me that they’d always dreamed of starting
up their own restaurant but had never had the finances to do so. They were thrilled to be given the chance to have a go here
on Tara.

So now I’ve left them cooking away in my little kitchen, while Roxi bosses Conor as he moves furniture about in the front
room so that we can fit in the table and chairs borrowed from the pub. Roxi insists she’s going to decorate the front room
to a theme for our dinner guests – in addition to myself and Roxi, we’ll have Conor, Dermot, Caitlin and Niall around the
table.

I’ve been surprised how enthusiastic Conor has been about the dinner party. He hadn’t seemed too keen at first, but once we’d
explained it was to try and get Caitlin and Dermot together he’d sprung into action, offering help and assistance wherever
it was required.

But it’s got so stressful at the cottage over the last hour with all the plans and preparations that I’m quite glad to get
away for a while and head over to see Dermot.

‘All right?’ Dermot enquires, eyeing up my box as he opens the door to his cottage.

‘Yes, fine thanks. You?’

‘I’ll let you know that in a while.’

I follow Dermot through into his cottage. ‘Right, shall we start in the bedroom then?’ I ask, walking past him and heading
in that direction.

Dermot grins. ‘I’ve met some forward women in my time, Darcy, but that takes the biscuit.’

I stop at the bedroom door as I feel my cheeks begin to flush. I turn back to face him. ‘In your dreams, Dermot,’ I say, deliberately
keeping my face poker straight. ‘Since it’s a
bedroom, I assume you keep your very limited wardrobe somewhere in here.’

Dermot nods, still smiling. ‘Yes, my clothes are in there. In you go.’

As I head purposefully across the bedroom I pause for a moment to place my beauty box on the chest of drawers, and I notice
that the photo of the little girl has been put away. Dermot obviously doesn’t want me delving into anything deeper than his
wardrobe today, so I go over to it and pull open the wooden doors.

‘Is this it?’ I enquire, looking at the pitiful array of clothing hanging up in front of me. ‘I’ve seen more clothes hanging
on a scarecrow.’

‘Very funny,’ Dermot says, leaning up against the door frame. ‘I’ve got a few things in the chest of drawers, too.’

‘Like?’

‘T-shirts, underwear, socks … That kind of thing.’

‘I suppose if this is all you’ve got, then this is what we’ll have to work with.’

‘Why does all this matter so much to you anyway?’ Dermot asks, watching me as I begin to pull from the wardrobe various shirts,
jeans and jumpers, hoping magically to put together a good-looking outfit for the dinner party later.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Appearance. What people look like seems to be very high on your list of priorities.’

‘Not really.’ I’m holding up a blue-and red-checked shirt against a pair of blue jeans, hoping to gain some inspiration. Why
are so many of Dermot’s shirts checked? Does he have a secret longing to become a lumberjack? ‘That makes me sound very shallow.’

Dermot watches me silently from the door.

I turn towards him. ‘Are you saying I am shallow?’

‘No, it’s just that when I first met you, you seemed to put a lot of importance on what you and other people look like. But
since you’ve been on Tara, I think you’ve realised that having the latest designer handbag over your shoulder and straightening
your hair every five minutes isn’t the be-all and end-all. That there is more to life.’

‘I never thought those things were that important before, actually!’ I feel my cheeks begin to burn with frustration. How
does Dermot always manage to push my buttons like this? ‘But what’s wrong with trying to look your best? When people look
good, they feel good.’

Dermot sits down on the end of his bed. ‘I take your point. But you can go over the top. Your appearance should reflect your
personality, not be a mask to what’s underneath. Why try and hide what’s really going on with a lot of unnecessary gift-wrapping?
Let your hair down for once, Darcy, as well as your guard.’

I stare at Dermot as he blinks unwaveringly back into my eyes; it feels right now like he’s the one digging around in the
things I want to keep locked away, not the other way around.

This is all getting a bit too intense, so I decided to lighten the mood.

‘Can’t do that here, can I?’ I turn back towards the wardrobe and begin pulling a few more items off the rail.

‘Why on earth not?’

‘I’ve tried letting my hair down on Tara, but it’s just too windy. It gets in a complete mess and takes far too long to sort
out, it’s just not worth the hassle.’

I hear Dermot sigh.

‘So,’ I say lightly, ‘I’m thinking this shirt,’ I hold up a plain mid-blue cotton shirt, ‘and these jeans. But what we really
need is a nice white t-shirt to go underneath it. Have you got one in here?’ I head over towards the chest of drawers.

‘No, that’s OK, I’ll get it!’ Dermot leaps off the bed, intercepting me before I can get there.

‘Ooh, what have you got hidden in there?’ I laugh, before immediately realising that’s probably where he’s put the photo.

Dermot hurriedly pulls a plain white t-shirt from the middle drawer and snaps it shut again. ‘Will this do you?’ he says,
passing me the shirt.

‘Yep, that’s perfect.’ I look at the drawer for a moment, wondering if this would be a good time to mention the photo. But
Dermot doesn’t look like he’d willingly share his secrets, even though he’s just been doing his best to convince me to open
up and share mine.

‘So, I’ve tried to keep the outfit plain,’ I say, gesturing to the clothes I’m now arranging into an outfit out on the bed.
‘Just like your decor in here. You seem to like keeping things plain and uncomplicated.’

‘Can’t be doing with a lot of fuss,’ Dermot says, suspiciously regarding the clothes on the bed as if they’re going to jump
up and force themselves on his body at any moment.

‘You don’t seem to have brought many knick-knacks from home or anything,’ I continue. ‘You only have the furniture from the
hotel. Didn’t you bring any personal mementos with you, like photos, for instance?’

Dermot looks at me suspiciously now. ‘Tell me, Darcy, how many photos do you have in your cottage?’

Damn
. ‘None, but—’

‘There you go; maybe we don’t want our friends and family on display for others to see.’

It was no good. Dermot is as inflexible as one of Tara’s huge mountainous rocks when he digs his heels in. There’s no way
I’m getting anything out of him if he doesn’t want to be moved on the subject. I decided to give up – for now.