That Gallagher Girl. Kate Thompson

a reflective moment, then refilled her coffee mug and clicked on the next email in her inbox. It was from her grandmother’s solicitor, to tell her that the keys to the cottage were ready to be picked up from his office, and reminding her that – as well as inheritance tax – she would now be eligible for the new tax on second homes. On the radio, some pundit was talking about property prices. ‘The reality is that prices have plummeted by fifty per cent in the Galway region. This includes holiday residences, which have been flying on to the market since the introduction of the tax on second homes . . .’ Keeley pressed the ‘off’ switch. She didn’t want to be reminded for the third time that morning about the new tax on second homes. The third email she clicked on was from her accountant, alerting her to the fact that she would now be eligible to pay . . .

      Click! The email went shooting off back into her mailbox.

      There would be more unpalatable stuff, she knew, waiting for her at her work address. She steeled herself before setting sail for mail2web. In [email protected] there was the usual assortment of mail to do with the previous Sunday’s interviewee. The subject had been an up-and-coming young model who also happened to be the daughter of a major theatrical agent, and among the acidic responses provoked were: ‘She only got where she is because of who she is.’ ‘My daughter could do a million times better! See attached pic.’ ‘Who did she blow to get her face on the cover?’ Delete, delete, delete. Keeley found the rancour of some of the email feedback she was subjected to truly dispiriting. Since she’d returned to Ireland from the States, she had come to realise that there might be some truth in the old adage about the Irish being a nation of begrudgers.

      Keeley Considine’s brief each week was to conduct an in-depth interview with an Irish celebrity-du-jour. So far, she’d included among her interviewees a singer/songwriter suffering from early onset Alzheimer’s; a fashion designer who had been abused as a child; an ex-priest who was now living as a woman; and a gay government minister who had walked out on her husband and children (she was now an ex-government minister). What connected all Keeley’s subjects was a moment of life-changing insight – an epiphany – which was why her Sunday column was called (ta-ra!) ‘Epiphanies’. Since being approached by the Insignia the previous year, she’d conducted fifty-one interviews. Fifty-one weeks as confidante to strangers, and forty-one weeks as mistress to the newspaper’s editor had left Keeley feeling burned out.

      She could, she thought ruefully, have been a candidate for one of her own interviews. Attractive Ex-pat Journalist (AEJ) returns to Ireland seeking employment after a decade in New York, during which period she’d served time on a major Sunday newspaper, both as rising star features writer, and as mistress to the editor. Until his wife found out. And whaddayouknow – within three months of arriving back on her home turf, AEJ makes the very same mistake. Except this time, AEJ was in grave danger of falling in love.

      Keeley’s epiphany had occurred when she got the news that her grandmother had left her a cottage in the village of Lissamore in the west of Ireland. Her initial reaction had been one of bemusement. What to do with the joint? Her grandmother had moved out years ago (Keeley had childhood memories of pootling around waterlogged beaches in the so-called summer months), and since then the cottage had languished as a holiday rental on the books of a letting agency called Coolnamara Hideaways. Keeley’s dad was always moaning about the fact that it cost more to maintain than it ever brought in, but he had never managed to persuade his mother to sell. She was, for some reason, adamant that the cottage should go to her only granddaughter on her death. And now Gran had died, and Keeley had come into her inheritance, and was liable for the property tax on second homes.

      Thanks, Gran, she had thought the day after the funeral, staring morosely at the images of her bequest on the Coolnamara Hideaways website. Curlew Cottage was all whitewashed charm outside, all bog-standard pine inside, and – altogether – most un-Keeley Considine. But then she had looked around at her Ikea-furnished apartment with its Bang & Olufsen HD TV and its Bose sound system and the Nespresso machine she rarely used because she usually bought her coffee from Starbucks, and she’d had the most surprisingly unoriginal thought she’d had in a very long time. She, Keeley Considine, with her BA in creative writing and her diploma in journalism and her award for excellence in celebrity profiles – had thought ‘A change is as good as a rest’. And then she had taken Curlew Cottage off Coolnamara Hideaways’ books and composed the email to Leo, telling him that she wanted a break.

      It would come as no surprise to him. Their relationship had taken a hiding since his wife had happened upon them having dinner à deux in the Trocadero. Keeley was convinced she’d been set up. The memory of that evening had the power to make her break into a cold sweat every time she thought about it . . .

      ‘What are you wearing under that plain – but clearly very chic – little black dress?’ Leo had asked conversationally, as he refilled her wineglass. ‘Anything interesting?’

      ‘Yes, actually,’ replied Keeley, taking a sip of wine. ‘I’m wearing that very pretty Stella McCartney bra and panties set you bought for me in Agent Provocateur.’

      ‘The black lace ones?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘Suspenders or hold-ups?’

      ‘Hold-ups.’

      ‘Lace topped?’

      ‘But of course.’

      Leo gave her a debonair smile. ‘I have another present for you, Ms Considine.’

      ‘How kind! It’s not even my birthday!’

      ‘It’s your un-birthday, as per Lewis Carroll’s neologism. Many happy returns.’

      Leaning down, Leo had produced a small giftwrapped box from his attaché case. Keeley recognised the wrapping paper immediately. The gift was from Coco de Mer in Covent Garden, the sexiest shop in the world.

      She looked down at it as he placed it on the table, then looked back at him and raised an eyebrow. ‘Dare I open it in a public place?’ she asked.

      ‘You may. The box is very discreet.’

      Unloosening the ribbon, Keeley peeled away the giftwrap and folded it carefully: Coco de Mer giftwrap was far too pretty to waste. Beneath was an elegant black box, that was – as Keeley saw when she raised the lid – lined with silk. Nestling in the silk were two perfectly smooth egg-shaped stones, one of jade, one of obsidian.

      ‘Love eggs?’ she said.

      ‘Well deduced. Concubines used them in ancient China.’

      ‘What a very, very thoughtful present,’ said Keeley, slanting Leo a smile. ‘My pelvic floor muscles could do with a thorough workout.’

      ‘Why not give them a go?’

      ‘Now?’

      ‘Yes. Isn’t it time you powdered your nose?’

      ‘You’re absolutely right. I’m all aglow.’

      Sending Leo another oblique smile, Keeley unfurled herself from the banquette and slid the box into her handbag.

      ‘One moment, sweetheart.’ The skin on her forearm where he touched her sang.

      ‘Yes?’

      His voice was so low, she had to stoop a little to hear him.

      ‘Leave your panties off.’

      ‘That goes without saying, chéri.’

      And Keeley turned and sashayed in the direction of the loo, knowing that Leo’s eyes were following her every step of the way. In the cubicle, she stripped off her panties, slipped them into her handbag, took the love eggs from their satin-lined box, and inserted them. One. Oh! Two. Oh! The jade and obsidian felt delicious, cool and smooth against her warm flesh, and Keeley felt anticipation surge through her when she thought of the treat in store for her later. And for Leo, too. She’d bought him a silver cock ring last time she was in London.

      In the boudoir of the ladies room, she