I turn and make my way back to the B&B, following the left-turn-at-the-lamp directions given earlier. The wonky picket fence and ghostly outlines of fucked up gnomes come into view and I know I’m safely home. Now I can go lie in bed and wonder what the hell I said to make Donal take off in such a hurry. I find I care way more about that answer than I should.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

ERIN

I TIPTOE BACK UP THE GARDEN PATH TO THE B&B and look for a key to let myself in as quietly as I can. Surely one must be hidden somewhere around here. The dawn chorus is in full swing, and there’s already enough light to see the foggy dew that clings to the grass in Mrs. O'Grady’s front garden.

The door is locked and none of her cheeky gnomes are giving up the goods. “Bollox,” I mutter, looking around for an alternative. I search in my bag for my phone and send a text to Ridlee. The ping of the text registering ricochets back to me from the open window directly above my head.

“Riiiddddd-leeee!” I hiss. I am pretty good at the whisper-yell, even if I do say so myself.

No answer.

I immediately get a vision of my friend, prostrate on the bed, her face buried in the feather-down pillow, completely out of it. She probably still has her boots on. That girl has taken to the Guinness like she suckled on it as a child. There’ll be no getting any sense out of her until at least lunchtime if previous hangovers are anything to go by.

I walk round the side of the house looking for another way in. Every window and door is bolted shut. “Whatever happened to trust?” I mutter, crossly. “Jesus Christ, it’s Doolin, not downtown LA.” I wiggle each window I pass like the expert burglar I clearly am not.

Bingo! One of the windows gives as I wiggle it. It is a small frosted glass at the side of the house. But the opening is too small. I peer through and can make out a handle about half way down the rest of the window. Another window. And one that I might possibly fit through. It’s high, so I search around for a ladder, but there’s nothing.

Then, I spy an old bicycle leaning against the wall. That’ll do. Everything is going well — the latch on the bigger window surrenders without much trouble¸ and the bike feels pretty stable — until I try to haul myself through. I am in all the way to my waist when I hear the bike collapse noisily to the ground. I squeeze my eyes shut tight and wait for the clamor of old Mrs. O'Grady coming to investigate.

Silence.

Great.

My legs are hanging out the window and my torso is all but in. I look down to see that the ground is a good five feet below me and there is absolutely nothing for me to use as leverage as I climb in. It’s a bathroom, and all that lies below me is a peach porcelain bath. I look around helplessly.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,” I mutter darkly. Giving one last push with my hands I let go and tumble into the bathtub below, hoping that by some miracle I won’t break my neck.

I’m moving way too fast. Instinctively, my hand reaches out for the peach shower curtain. That, along with the rail it’s attached to, and a whole host of shampoos and soaps comes down with me with an almighty thud as I land on my side. Remarkably, I am unhurt. Or is it that I’m just still too drunk to feel anything?

“Hello, dear. Are you alright in there?”

Shit. It’s Mrs. O'Grady.

I scramble to my feet and reattach the shower rail. Demonstrating some rather lightening-quick thinking, I wrap a towel around my head and open the door just a crack.

“Oh, there you are, dear. I thought I heard a noise. Are you in difficulty?”

“Mrs. O'Grady! Good morning. I’m so sorry, I dropped the shampoo bottle. I hope I didn’t wake you.”

“Not at all, dear. Sure, I’m an early riser like yourself. I’ll put the kettle on and start the breakfast. In fact it’ll be great for me to have it all out of the way before six-thirty. That way I can get to seven o’clock mass. Will your friend be joining us?”

Fabulous. There goes any chance of sleep. “That would be great. And, sure, of course Ridlee should join us. She wouldn’t miss a full Irish breakfast for the world. She just loves black pudding.”

She smiles at me, genuinely pleased. “Aren’t you great — up and showered, make-up on, and all before six in the morning? You’ve great energy, so ye do. Well, I’ll see you in the kitchen in a bit.” And with that she trundles off.

Closing the door, I lean back against it and almost weep with exhaustion. But then I remember what, or rather who, kept me out till all hours, and I smile.

Micheál was amazing. Who needs sleep?

I put the bathroom back in order and slip past the kitchen where Mrs. O'Grady is cooking sausages on the ancient stove. Sure enough, when I get up to our room, I find Ridlee face down on the bed, still fully dressed, and surprise, surprise, boots on.

“Ridlee.” I try to shake her awake. Nothing.

“Ridlee!” Still nothing.

“Ridlee!”

“God, there’s no need to yell,” she mumbles. “What’s all the fuss about?” She lifts her face a couple of millimeters out of the pillow. After a split second, she face-plants again. Silence. She has gone back to sleep.

Fabulous. There is an alarm clock on the small table between our twin beds. It’s one of those really old fashioned ones with the bell on top. I reach for it and reset the time, then set it to go off in a minute. Carefully, I put it in the nest of hair that is my friend. Sitting back on my own bed, I wait.

BRRRRRRRRIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIGGGGGGG !!!!!!!!!!

“I’m up, I’m up!” Ridlee goes from prostrate to sitting in the blink of an eye. “What the fuck?”

“Morning.” I smile sweetly.

“Already?”

“Well, more or less. Almost lunchtime, really. Mrs. O'Grady is just cooking our breakfast. It’s your favourite. Get dressed.”

Ridlee juts out her bottom lip, remorsefully. “What time is it?”

I nod in the direction of the alarm clock. “Almost ten. Mrs. O'Grady will stop serving breakfast soon.”

“Who cares about breakfast!” exclaims Ridlee flopping back on her bed. “I feel like I’ve barely slept at all.”

“Now, come on, Rid. That’s just the jet-lag talking. You love breakfast. Chop, chop. Big day today.”

Ridlee seems to remember something and reluctantly gets to her feet. “Do I have time for a shower?”

“A quick one,” I answer magnanimously. I have to try hard not to smile. If my sleep-deprived friend knew what time it really was, she’d kill me.

Ridlee looks like death warmed up when she arrives at our table in a small sitting room just off the kitchen. She is wearing an enormous pair of sunglasses, and I almost feel guilty as she flops into the chair opposite me.

“Come on, Rid, it can’t be that bad.”

She pulls the glasses down her nose to reveal bloodshot eyes.

“Oh,” is all I can say.

“Thanks, Erin. So, I look as bad as I feel then, huh?”

“You must have had a bad pint, Sweetie,” I say in an attempt to mollify her.

“A bad pint, Erin? Just one? Why didn’t you stop me? You know how too much alcohol affects me… You were too busy with the bow-wow player to keep an eye on your friend.” She looks sulkily out the window, but I know that she’s half-joking. But the other half requires some TLC, and pronto.