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knowing he was going to earn some extra cash. She attempted to compose herself and Sam told her how amazing she was, how talented, beautiful, graceful and elegant. He sounded like a fan.
    “You’re incredible,” he said.
    “And yet you’re leaving.”
    “I have to.”
    She snorted, her pain turning to anger. “Take me with you,” she pleaded, as she picked up her handbag.
    “I can’t,” he said, and watched her bottom lip tremble.
    “So take me home,” she said, standing up. Her makeup was streaked.
    “Do you want to wash your face?” he asked, aware that every cameraman in Manhattan would be outside, waiting.
    “No,” she said, striding towards the door. “It doesn’t matter.”
    He followed her out, but this time when the bulbs flashed into her bleary eyes, he stood right beside her as the vultures descended.

4. New town, new man?
    The rain had stopped, the sky was bright blue and Mary was in work for eleven o’clock. She sat up at the bar while her dad, whose name was Jack, poured coffee. Pierre the French chef breezed past and grunted hello. Mary gave him the fingers.
    “Oh, yes, Marie, so very sexy of you!”
    “I try to please.”
    “Well, try harder!” He gave her a prod, and her dad laughed.
    Pierre was soon safely ensconced in the back kitchen blasting out MC Solaar. Mary’s dad sighed to illustrate his distaste of French rap, which was one step too far up the musical ladder for him. Mary liked Solaar, not that she would have admitted it to Pierre.
    Her dad pulled up a stool. “I hear he’s American,” he said.
    She returned his smile. “Who is?”
    “Your new neighbour.”
    “How the hell –” She didn’t bother to finish – very little happened in Kenmare without her father hearing about it.
    “I know things,” he said, tapping his nose. “Have you met him?”
    “No,” she said.
    “He has money,” he told her, watching her from the corner of his eye.
    “Really,” she said, in a tone that suggested disinterest.
    “Unmarried.” She ignored him. “He’s alone.”
    “Aren’t we all?” she said, becoming irritated.
    “So it’s all to play for,” he concluded.
    “How do you know so much about this American?” she asked.
    “Mattie Moore was in first thing this morning. It seems Jerry Letter took a lift with the American last night. Mattie says he was quiet enough.”
    “Jerry or the American?” She got up to wash her cup, turning her back to signify that the conversation was nearing its end.
    “You know well enough. Jerry will lead the rosary at his own funeral.” He was resigned to his daughter’s ways but secretly wished she’d show some interest in anything other than work and that feckin’ dribbling dog.
    Lunchtime was hectic. They ran out of leeks – Jessie, waitress and general factotum, had forgotten to reorder them. Mrs Lennon waited fifteen minutes for an omelette, then received one smothered in tomatoes, which she’d specifically asked them to leave out: an allergy made her head swell to the size of a small country. Fiona, their latest part-timer, dropped a trayful of monkfish, causing near-hysteria in Pierre, who tore a strip off her. She burst into tears and ran out of the kitchen mumbling something about the money not being worth it.
    When Pierre attempted to give Jessie shit, she roared, “I forgot the leeks, so I forgot them! Live with it!” As a fifty-year-old mother of four she wasn’t about to have some jumped-up tourist tell her what was what.
    “Jessie, he didn’t mean anything,” said Mary, acting as peacemaker for the second time that day.
    “Marie, she can’t forget – the ticks are there to show her!”
    “Is he calling me thick?” Jessie asked, knowing that he was referring to the ingredients tick-box, which had been designed especially so that she wouldn’t forget key ingredients.
    Mary was annoyed now. “Jessie, get a grip.”
    Jessie backed down, and Mary walked out before they could start another argument.
    It was