“Get a hold of yourself, Ms O’Neill.”

I sit. Then the tears start coming and they won’t stop. All my work. All the effort I’ve put into the bar, and she only gives me half. I sob uncontrollably.

The iron-lady softens. “Oh, no, don’t cry,” she says pushing a box of tissues across the table to me. “Here, have a tissue. I know this is a shock, and you’re still grieving, obviously.”

I sob more. How could she do this to me? It’s nothing short of betrayal. I understand that she had strong ideas about making your own way without help from family or friends — she hated nepotism of any kind — but this, this is down right cruel. Did she secretly hate me or something? I can’t even ask her to explain any of this. My heart is broken and I’m angry, but I also miss Margaret, damn her.

“I’m sure it will all work out for the best,” Mrs. Hanby says, almost kindly.

I stop sobbing with supreme force of will and pull myself together. Time to change tack.

“It’s just that I miss her so much,” I hiccup.

“Of course you do!” Now she’s on her feet and coming round the desk. She puts her arm around me. “She loved you very much, you know. She talked about you all the time.”

Funny, she never mentioned you. Or the fact that she was going to do me out of half my inheritance, which I built from scratch.

“She was a great lady,” is all I say aloud. And it’s true, she was. As shrewd a business woman as I ever knew, but in more of a bartering system way. Usually she was happy to be paid in goods or favours, which is why the large sums of money come as a bit of a shock.

I sit up and blow my nose hard, using two tissues. “But what shall I do with half a pub? It’s my only livelihood. Do we cut it down the middle? And who is this person who owns the other half?” I sniffle and then look up from under my lashes.

Mrs. Hanby appears to be struggling with her conscience. “I really shouldn’t say,” she mutters almost to herself.

I hold my tongue. Patience, Erin. Let her get there on her own.

“But then, you’re going to find out anyway, so it may as well be now.” She circles back round to her side of the desk and takes a sticky-note pad in hand. Writing something down, she peels the top one off and hands it to me triumphantly.

“Padraig Flanagan,” I read.

“Oookaaay…” I pause. Timing is everything here. “There are a lot of Padraig Flanagans in the world, you know.”

“Yes, but not in Ireland.” She looks at me as though she’s just given me the winning lottery ticket.

“Well, actually, I think you’ll find they’re more or less concentrated there. And contrary to popular opinion on this side of the pond, Ireland is not the kind of country where everybody is related to, or at the very least knows, everybody else.”

“Well, my dear, that’s the best I can do for you. Maybe you should start with your grandmother’s hometown.” She stands. “I don’t meant to rush you out, but I have a very busy day ahead.”

I stare stupidly at the sticky-note, but the brusqueness of her voice propels my body into action and I find myself standing and being led to the door.

“Thank you,” I stammer, though I’m not sure what exactly it is that I’m thanking her for.

“Gina will courier over copies of the will that relate to you, your mother, and your uncle and any other relevant documents. Have a nice day!”

And she’s gone.

Gina, the real secretary, has appeared and leads me to the elevator. On the way down, I try to make sense of what just went on in there. I shuffle awkwardly out into the autumn sunshine and stand on the pavement, my head reeling. There’s only one thing for it. Pulling out my phone, I text Ridlee.

SOS … LMIRL

Ping - Her reply comes instantly.

SUP?

I admire her gallant attempts at text abbreviations. We usually end up spelling everything because neither of us has nailed this textspeak thing the way other people our age have. We just can’t remember what all the acronyms mean. I write back.

Need to C U. UnLtd booze @ mine. ASAP!

I start walking toward the subway. I had imagined myself riding home from the lawyer’s office in a taxi, the official owner of The Pot O’Gold and maybe a few quid richer for good measure. But instead, here I am: half owner of the business that I spent years building and no cash prize from Granny. So it’s home on the T for me.

Don’t get me wrong; I loved my grandmother, for all her flaws, but she died at a good age — ninety-six, it turns out. It’s been a month now, and I’ve accepted her being gone. But this half a bar business? Now, that is unacceptable.

Ridlee will know what to do. I walk on, my step a little lighter. “Yeah, Rid’ll know what to do,” I say aloud. Just knowing my friend will be there for me makes everything better, less hopeless.

CHAPTER TWO

RIDLEE

“RIDLEE HERE!” I CHIRP INTO the phone, pretty much high on life since I just got some seriously awesome news. Everything is falling into place in my life, just as it should. “Keep it short and keep it sweet, cuz I’ve got wheels up in ten. And when I say wheels, I mean ankles.” I snort at my completely inappropriate joke. There’s only one person in the world who can truly appreciate my humor, and she’s on the other end of the phone right now. I wouldn’t dare talk this way to my co-workers or anyone else for that matter. To them, I am completely serious, entirely straight-laced, and always focused on my goals. And right now, my goal just happens to be getting laid.

“Who is it?” Erin says with suspicion lacing her voice. “It better not be that knacker Jeremy.”

“Jeremy is not a knacker, first of all. He’s a rapper, I told you that already.”

“He stole your iPod, Rid. Rappers rap. Knackers steal. Completely different career paths.”

“He borrowed my iPod while simultaneously forgetting to ask permission, which technically isn’t stealing since he was missing the malice aforethought required by law.” I sniff with feigned annoyance. “And it doesn’t matter because I got it back.” Erin’s right; Jeremy is kind of a tool, but he does have a couple of redeeming qualities. So what if they’re only any good to me in the bedroom? It’s not like I’m going to marry the guy.

“Remind me once more why you continue to go back to that gee-bag? Personally I wouldn’t ride him for practice.”

“And, remind me again what a gee-bag is, back on the old sod of Ireland?”

I can hear Erin sighing. She’s been trying to teach me Irish slang, but sometimes I get confused. “Gee-bag. Gee as in fanny, but our fanny, not yours; the front fanny. You know, vagina. A.k.a. minge, poonany, bearded oyster, vertical smile, cherry-pop, beaver. Do I need to go on?”

“So Jeremy’s a vagina-bag? Iiinteresting. Well, I can’t argue, I guess. He is pretty talented in that area.” I turn the corner, headed towards my car that’s parked on the street outside my employer’s office building. I imagine him naked and sigh.

“We are talking about the same Jeremy, aren’t we?” she says, doubting my evaluation of his skills.

“Big dick? Size of a baseball bat? Loves going downtown?” And completely inappropriate for me, which is perfect. I don’t need complications like love and relationships with needy men getting in the way of my upwardly mobile life. “The guy who borrowed my iPod.”