Sasha was told by her uncle Mike Martin that she was to unpack at once and re-establish herself in the Killiney house. Mike Martin himself was going abroad. Mr. Richardson would not be coming back, and the best move was to establish squatter's rights immediately.
Nuala rang Deirdre to say that two of Frank's brothers had been in Stephen's Green also, in case the laptop was being handed over. They had been phoned by Mike Martin as a last-ditch stand. They had been horrified by Don's behaviour, and said that Ella had hired an American lawyer to protect her interests.
Square kind of a fellow called King.
There were photographs in the morning's paper of Don Richardson in custody and some eye-witness accounts of the scene. But there was one picture of Ella captioned "woman being consoled at the scene". Only those who knew her recognised her. Neither the press nor the public made any connection with Love Nest Ella of many months back. Except Harriet, who had met Ella on the plane to New York. She might get a couple of hundred euros if she rang a newspaper and tipped them off. But still, Ella was a nice kid. She deserved a break.
And there were so many other ways of making money. The sharp-eared witnesses who were meant to have heard everything said that Don Richardson had called out over and over: "I did it all for you." This was hard to interpret.
Some of the feature writers said that he may have been calling out to his beloved wife who, it was understood, was still in Spain but expected imminently in Ireland. Some thought to stand at her husband's side. Others thought to answer charges.
Since the long-planned dinner in Quentins was postponed until everyone was calm enough to deal with things, everyone seemed to assume that Ella would go back to the hotel with Derry.
"I don't suppose there's a way you'd like to try the bed tonight?" he said.
"Jesus, no, Derry. I've been through enough today without considering that side of things," she said.
"I didn't mean in bed with me in it, I meant you have the bed with me on the sofa."
"Oh, I see," she said. "Sorry."
And for some reason they found this very funny, and laughed all through the ordering of smoked salmon and scrambled eggs.
They played a game of chess as they had often done. They talked not at all about Don Richardson, where he would be tonight and what would happen to him. They didn't talk about Quentins either. In fact, they hardly talked at all.
And by the time Ella lay down on the sofa, which she insisted felt like home to her now, her eyes looked less frightened and her voice sounded much less shaky.
"I don't want to delay you in Dublin, Derry. We really will get down to work tomorrow."
"I'm in no hurry to leave. There's a great deal to be done here," he said as he kissed her lightly on the forehead and spread a rug over her. But America?" she said drowsily.
"Will survive for a bit without me," Derry King said. What could have happened in that week that made everyone change their minds about the documentary? And where did it start first?
Possibly in the kitchen of Quentins.
Blouse Brennan was going through the boxes of fruit. Expertly he was dividing them into the areas where they would be needed: limes and lemons at the bar, fresh berries over at the pastry table so they could be dusted with icing sugar and added at the last moment to desserts.
"I bet you they'll film you doing that, Blouse. You look very graceful," Brenda said admiringly.
Blouse reddened. "They won't have me in their pictures," he said.
"Of course they will, Blouse, and out in the vegetable garden and with the hens, aren't you the most colourful part of it all?" Patrick reassured his brother.
But Blouse didn't respond to the flattery. "I didn't think it would be nice to be in it as, well, I don't want people looking at me."
"They'll be nice people, you know most of them, Nick and Sandy and Ella," Brenda pleaded.
"No, I don't mean them."
"Well, Mr. King was in here, and he was the nicest man you could ever meet."
"No, I mean real people, outside people looking at it. People like Horse and Shay back home. The Brothers who taught me, fellows who work on the allotments. I don't want them seeing me and knowing my business," Blouse said, flushed and upset.
They knew not to let him get more distressed.
"Well, there's no question of you being in it if you don't want to, Blouse," Patrick said.
It would be a great loss, but it's your choice, no question of that," Brenda agreed.
"Thanks, Brenda, Patrick ... I don't want to let you down or anything."
"No way, Blouse," Patrick said through gritted teeth. Or it could have been in Firefly Films. They got the offer they had
dreamed of from the day they started: to film one of Ireland's greatest rock bands all the way through from composing and rehearsing the songs up to a huge rock festival. They would be made if they could do it, but they would need to start almost immediately.
Nick was about to refuse. They were committed to Quentins.
Sandy said they should stall them for a week, a lot could happen in a few days and Derry King could easily change his mind.
Or it could have been Buzzo. He said he couldn't be seen in the film because nobody at school knew he worked here, and that his brothers would take any money off him if they knew he had it.
And Monica said that her husband, Clive, though the greatest darling who ever walked the earth, had been having second thoughts about their telling their love story. People were odd in the bank, no sense of humour. They might think less of Mr. Clive Harris if they knew he had read books covered in brown paper about how to be attractive to the opposite sex. Regretfully, they would have to pull their story out.
Someone had told Yan the Breton waiter that if this film was successful, it would be shown everywhere, even in his homeland. Then his father would hear him saying for all the world to hear that they had not got on well as father and son. It was a very enclosed community. In his part of Brittany, people didn't air their problems in public. A million pardons, but he wouldn't be able to contribute.
And then Patrick Brennan finally had his annual checkup. He did all the stress tests on the treadmill and the exercise bikes. Then he sat down, still sweating mildly, to talk to the counsellor as part of the checkup.
"It's a stressful job, running a restaurant, of course, but once we get this documentary out of the way, we should be fine. We"ve promised to take time off together, delegate more."
"When will that be?"
"Oh, a few weeks" time, I gather. It will be hell keeping the show on the road until then, but we have to do it."
"Why, exactly?" asked the counsellor. Brenda's friend Nora O'Donoghue was in the kitchen chopping vegetables. Brenda looked at her affectionately. She was such a handsome woman, with her piebald hair and her long, flowing clothes. She had no idea that she was striking and wonderful. Even there, as she washed the vegetables in a sink, laid them out on cloths to chop and dice, she looked like some happy goddess from a classical painting.
"I wish you'd stop that and come and talk to me, Nora."
"Listen, I'm doing three hours" work for your husband, if not for you. Come and talk to me here while I work."
Brenda pulled up a chair. "Do you mind them filming you doing this?" she asked.
"They wouldn't want me, for God's sake, a mad old woman."
"Oh, they would, Nora. You look lovely. I was just thinking it. Would you mind?"