Second Chance at the Belfast Guesthouse. Anne Doughty

The bit she gets from Grandfather Barbour’s shares goes down all the time. It’s hardly more than pocket money. She had a job, didn’t she? Did it pay well?’

      ‘I really don’t know. But remember she was living with your aunt in Knightsbridge while she had her plastic surgery. You know what a splendid house that is and how much you had to raise for the Clinic. It must have looked as if there was a lot of money around.’

      ‘So, what happened?’

      ‘She found a letter from this American woman. She thinks he left it lying around deliberately. They had a terrible row. He was planning to fly out next week. Told her he wasn’t cut out for poverty. Sorry and all that. They’d had some good times. But it was over.’

      ‘God Almighty! Where is she now?’

      ‘Asleep on our bed under a couple of rugs. There isn’t a bed made up. Anyway, ours is the only room that gets any heat from below. That’s why you chose it. Remember?’

      Andrew leaned his arms on the table and dropped his head in his hands. For one moment, she thought he might be crying. He’d always been fond of Ginny. At one time, while she was in Paris, she’d thought there was something between them. Harry had said he’d seen them together quite often, but it turned out it was simply Andrew trying to get her back on her feet after Edward was killed.

      Ginny had been driving when they were hit by the speeding lorry and his death had left emotional scars as well as the obvious physical ones. She’d needed a psychiatrist as well as a plastic surgeon. Andrew had raised the money by mortgaging their family home at Caledon which he’d inherited, but that had left him in serious financial difficulties because he couldn’t pay the death duties owed by the estate.

      ‘So what do we do?’ he asked steadily, lifting his head, a hint of a smile on his face. ‘There’s two of us this time, isn’t there?’

      She nodded reassuringly, bent down and kissed his cold cheek and put her arm round his shoulders.

      ‘There might be some brandy left from that bottle Harry and Jessie gave you for your birthday,’ she said softly, ‘I seem to remember Ginny doesn’t like whiskey.’

      ‘I’ll go up and see,’ he said briskly, as he got to his feet and headed for the morning room, now their own small sitting-room.

      Clare took a deep breath and felt herself relax. She’d been dreading telling him what had happened because she was so anxious about how he would react. He was always so responsible. Far too responsible. For the moment she would keep to herself the fact that Ginny thought she might be pregnant.

      ‘So you’re quite sure, Ginny?

      ‘Yes,’ she replied, beaming, as she closed the door behind her and sat down by the sitting-room fire. ‘I feel awful and I’ve got through half that packet of Tampax you gave me yesterday, but I don’t feel sick any more. I think I was just sick with worry, Clare. What would I have done without you and Andrew?’

      ‘Unhelpful speculation,’ Clare replied easily, as she closed her account book, got up from her desk and came over to sit opposite her in front of the comforting blaze. ‘I can’t say I’m not relieved, though we’d have managed somehow.’

      ‘I feel I’ve been such a fool. I’ve made such a mess of things after all the hard work Andrew put in to help me,’ she began, throwing out her hands in a typical Ginny manner.

      Clare looked at her pale face and listened, comforted by the fact that she seemed so much herself again only a week after her flight from London. Exhausted she had been and still was, but the gestures, the eye movements, the toss of her head, all said this was the Ginny she had known since that wonderful summer she and Andrew had stayed with his cousins at The Lodge.

      Since she’d taken up decorating herself, Clare often found herself thinking of that happy summer when they’d all painted the big sitting-room at Caledon. Ginny’s mother had made sketches of all four of them and Edward designed extraordinary games of skill for them to play in their free time. She still found herself thinking of Teddy and the long conversations they had about Irish history, which was his great passion.

      He’d told her it was high time Ireland sorted out what actually happened from all the myths that had been invented. Whether you looked at 1690, or 1847, or 1916, there were facts to be had. What he wanted to do was put the record straight, one way or another, so that this group or that could not select their version of events and use them to justify the unjustifiable, nor to prop up corrupt or idle governments, North or South.

      ‘But I can’t impose on you and Andrew any longer, you’ve been more than kind. Besides, it’s not fair . . .’

      Clare had been listening, but only with part of her mind, knowing what Ginny was likely to say and having her answer ready.

      ‘Ginny dear, you’ve only been here a week and you’ve been helping with jobs every day. Now, come on,’ she continued. ‘You’ve not moaned, you’ve been good company. You just had a lot of sleep to catch up on.’

      Ginny smiled ruefully. ‘I haven’t even got the price of a packet of Tampax, never mind the bus fare to go and see Mother and Barney in Rostrevor.’

      ‘Well then, let me make you an offer,’ said Clare lightly. ‘Like Robert Lafarge, when he offered me my job, I will hope to make it irresistible. Part-time work for three months, starting tomorrow. Artistic director to the Managing Director of Drumsollen House Limited. Full board and lodging, one long weekend per month in Rostrevor, transport provided and five pounds per week. First month’s salary paid in advance so you can repay your friend who lent you the money for the train and boat. I’m the Managing Director and the artistic bit means you’ll have a lot of painting to do! How about it?’

      ‘Oh Clare, you can’t pay me as well as giving me full board and lodging. I should be paying you for that!’

      ‘Well, if it’ll make you feel any better, I hope to make a profit on the deal,’ Clare said, looking as sober as she could manage.

      ‘But how can you possibly manage that?’

      ‘Well, if you say “Yes” I’ll tell you.’

      ‘You’re not just being kind?’

      ‘No. Can’t afford to be,’ Clare responded honestly. ‘I’m supposed to be good with money and I can help you with yours, but I can’t start being kind enough to help you manage your money rather better if you haven’t got any money to manage in the first place, now, can I?’

      Ginny laughed and threw out her hands in a gesture of complete defeat. ‘All right. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Now tell me how you are going to make a profit on this outrageously generous offer.’

      ‘Well, I’ve managed to do some “sharp deals” as one of my American clients used to say, but buying sharp means a lot of research to find what we need at special prices. If I had someone here who could carry on with my painting efforts and keep an eye on workmen when we have them in, then I’d be free to hunt for all the stuff we need, like bed linen and towels, china, glass and so on. I’d like to check out these new Cash and Carry places for basics, but I can’t leave June on her own all the time, especially when there might be bookings coming in and we’ve still got to get the place up and running for April.’

      ‘Right. You’re on. If you can tackle something you’ve never done before, then why can’t I? Even if I have been an idiot, I can still do all sorts of useful things when I remember what they are,’ she added dryly.

      ‘That’s got that settled then.’

      Clare paused, suddenly uncertain that what she wanted to say next was quite the right thing.

      ‘What is it, Clare? I know that look of yours. You’re thinking.’

      ‘Yes, you’re right. I am, but about something quite different,’ she began slowly. ‘I keep looking at your face. You’re still very pale, but that’s what makes it so wonderful. Even when you are so pale and have