Free The Lost by Claire McGowan Page A

skill with hair, who had often sent Paula off to school with elaborate French dos that were the envy of her friends. God, it was too dressy for the Square Peg. Maybe boots would tone it down, and her ordinary wool coat. For a moment she considered taking it all off, going in jeans, but something stopped her. She wasn’t sure what. Her other clothes were so plain, and for some reason, she wanted to look nice.
    She clumped downstairs, self-conscious, and PJ was wobbling in from the kitchen on his crutches. He’d developed a way of holding a flask of tea under one arm.
    ‘I’d have made the tea, Daddy.’
    ‘I’m grand by myself.’ He looked up at her on the stairs. A silence. ‘Jesus. You’re the spit of her.’
    ‘Ah, no.’ Margaret Maguire had been – was ? – a smaller woman, slim, fragile-looking, whereas Paula had her father’s height and strength. There was nothing fragile about her – not to see, anyway. ‘I’m away now.’
    PJ looked at his daughter. ‘You be careful.’
    ‘I always am! Dad, I’ve been living in London.’
    ‘But you never know who’s about.’ The same warning he’d given her every day when she lived at home. Somehow it was comforting, like speaking a charm of protection.
    ‘I will. You rest yourself, Daddy.’
    Guy stood up when she walked in. He was watching her, but so were the dozen or so old men hiding in the recesses of the dark, sticky pub. It was raining again, and she flicked beads of it off her grey wool coat as she crossed the floor to him, horribly self-conscious.
    ‘Isthis OK?’ she started babbling. ‘I just thought, the others’ll have kids in them tonight, and you might have to bust some for being under-age, and that’d be a bit of a downer, and—’
    ‘No chance of being under-age here,’ he muttered, looking round at the clientele. ‘And I definitely heard someone say “Brits Out”.’
    ‘Ah, ignore them.’ She slid into the booth; he looked her over, slowly. She bit down the urge to start babbling again.
    ‘Horrible weather, isn’t it,’ he said. ‘So dark already.’
    ‘True, there’s a quare shrink in the nights.’ She caught his baffled look. ‘It just means “very”. Do the Irish expressions get to you?’
    ‘I’m still lost. My first month here, I couldn’t make out a word anyone was saying.’
    ‘You’ll be OK with me. Everyone says I’m as English as the Queen now.’
    He laughed, a deep, generous sound. ‘Sorry, but you really aren’t. You’re still Irish to me.’ Finally, he looked at her in the eyes. ‘You look very smart.’
    ‘Smart?’
    ‘Well, nice. I’m sorry, there are rules on paying compliments to staff.’ He hurried on. ‘Would you like a glass of wine or something?’
    ‘Here? God, no. It’ll be something the barman brewed up in his garden. I’ll have a Guinness.’
    He raised his eyebrows at that, but got up and went to get it. She watched his back as he waited at the bar. Then he was back with a pint. ‘He said would the lady like a glass not a pint. I said she wouldn’t.’
    ‘She would not indeed.’ She gulped the creamy foam. Guy was still watching her. ‘So, your daughter’s at a sleepover?’
    ‘Yes. I was worried about her at first, when we moved, but she seems to have made this group of friends. They stay at someone’s house every Friday.’
    ‘Yourstoo?’
    ‘Not yet. I think maybe she’s embarrassed – you know, just having me and not her mum.’
    Paula was thinking of the scene earlier in his office, and he must have been too, because he said, ‘I’m sorry about today. I shouldn’t have told you all that. It wasn’t professional.’
    It wasn’t professional to be out for a drink either, but she said, ‘It’s fine.’
    ‘I suppose I don’t have many people to talk to. Katie’s settled in better than I have.’
    ‘It’s Ballyterrin. Not so open to strangers.’
    ‘You still know many people?’
    She shook her head, thinking of Aidan. ‘Not really. Some