The Armada Legacy. Scott Mariani

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      ‘Rog—’ Sam caught herself, ‘ – Sir Roger won’t mind if I invite a guest. Get you out of London. It’s so grey and dismal there at the moment.’

      It had only been a minor slip, but Brooke had picked up on it and wondered whether Sam’s relationship with her boss might be a little closer than she liked to let on. Brooke kept her observation to herself, and said, ‘Get me out of London for what? So I can come and see the grey ocean instead?’

      ‘Hey, we’re talking about Donegal,’ Sam insisted. ‘Even the drizzle is beautiful. I should know, I’ve spent most of the last few months here. Besides, I told you, this is no ordinary party. First there’s going to be this brilliant media event at a very swish country club – you’ll be blown away – more than three hundred delegates – all arranged by yours truly.’

      ‘Naturally.’

      ‘Naturally. And then we’re all heading back to the house, where the fun starts for real. Sir Roger’s sparing no expense. You should see the manor house he’s rented – it’s like a chateau, and the party’s going to take over a whole wing. You’ve never seen so much champagne in your life, I kid you not.’

      ‘Remind me again what we’re celebrating?’

      ‘Does the “we” mean you’re coming?’

      ‘I didn’t say that.’

      ‘Well, it’s only the grand unveiling of one of the most important historic sunken treasure salvage operations of the last twenty years,’ Sam said, with only a trace of smugness. ‘The recovery of the sixteenth-century Spanish warship the Santa Teresa has been Neptune Marine Exploration’s biggest coup since Sir Roger founded the company.’

      Brooke smiled into the phone. ‘Now you sound like one of your own public relations blurbs. What’s the wreck of a Spanish warship doing off the Irish coast, anyway?’

      ‘Did I not tell you all about this when we were in Austria?’

      Sam and Brooke had spent a few days in Vienna before Christmas. Brooke had been too preoccupied by her troubles with Ben to enjoy the short break very much. ‘Maybe you did,’ Brooke said. ‘Refresh my memory.’

      ‘Come to Donegal and you’ll learn all about it.’

      ‘I have to tell you, Sam, mouldy old boats are not exactly the most fascinating thing in my life right now.’

      ‘Oh, come on.’ Sam paused, and Brooke could tell from the momentary silence that she was hatching some new plan. ‘Why don’t you bring a friend along?’ Sam went on slyly. ‘As in, a very special friend? You know who I mean. That’s if things are, you know, back on an even keel.’

      ‘Ben?’ Brooke hesitated, a little thrown by the suggestion. ‘That might not be such a great idea. Things are still a bit …’ Her words trailed off uncertainly.

      ‘I knew it. He’s treated you like shit, really. When was the last time you set eyes on him?’

      Brooke said nothing. She reached up to finger the slender gold chain she wore around her neck. Ben had bought it for her in Paris soon after they’d got together. She’d been wearing it nearly constantly ever since, although she sometimes wondered why she was so attached to it now that their relationship was meant to be finished.

      ‘I’ll tell you when it was,’ Sam went on. ‘It was when he came to pick up that horrid little mongrel he left you with. Am I right?’

      ‘Scruffy’s not horrid,’ Brooke protested lamely.

      ‘There you go again. Being nice. You’re too good for that guy. He’s using you, can’t you see it?’

      ‘Let’s not go there, all right? It’s complicated.’

      Sam was undeterred. ‘All right, so maybe it’s not a good idea. Then why don’t you invite that dishy upstairs neighbour of yours I met once? The novelist guy?’

      ‘You mean Amal?’

      ‘That’s the one. Between you and me, I don’t know how you can keep your hands off him.’

      ‘Oh, come on. We’re not all like you.’

      ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Sam said, in mock indignation.

      ‘Amal and I are just friends. And he’s a playwright, not a novelist.’

      ‘Hmm. You can’t stay single forever, darling, waiting for that Ben to make up his mind. You’ll end up a dried-out old spinster, like Miss Havisham.’

      ‘Watch it, I’m only thirty-six,’ Brooke protested. ‘And four months younger than you, I might add. Besides which, I don’t see you heading to the altar with anyone. Miss Havisham, indeed.’

      ‘Well, whatever. The point is, are you coming to Donegal or not? Won’t cost you a penny, you know. Neptune Marine will pick up the tab, first class all the way and back again.’

      ‘I’m thinking about it.’ Brooke wasn’t usually so quick to let herself get swept up in Sam’s enthusiastic schemes, but she was beginning to warm to it. ‘Maybe it’d be good for Amal. He’s had a bit of a letdown recently. A change of scenery might cheer him up.’

      ‘Then it’s settled,’ Sam said briskly. ‘Now, there’s a very nice guesthouse not far from the country club. Not the Ritz, as you’d imagine, but it’s cosy and comfortable. I’ll take care of everything. All you two have to do is turn up. I’ll text you the details.’

      ‘Hold on—’ Brooke began. But before she could say any more, Sam interrupted her. ‘Oh, listen, Sir Roger’s on the other line. I’d better take this. See you on Saturday, darling. Pronto.’

      Brooke sighed, holding a dead phone. Typical Sam. Once she got a notion into her head, there wasn’t a force on earth that could stop her.

      ‘I’ve never been to Ireland before,’ Amal mused over coffee later that evening when Brooke trotted upstairs to put the idea to him.

      He’d answered his door looking morose, unusually dishevelled and clutching a Jean-Paul Sartre novel guaranteed to cast a pall over the most optimistic soul – but brightened up visibly at the sight of her, and invited her eagerly inside. It never ceased to amaze Brooke how beautifully decorated the inside of his flat was. Not bad for a struggling playwright still not thirty, whose first play had just tanked spectacularly and drawn unanimously abysmal reviews from all the critics.

      ‘I thought it’d be nice for you to get away for a couple of days,’ she said. ‘I know you’ve been a bit down lately.’

      ‘It’s true,’ he sighed. ‘Though maybe I’ve taken it harder than I should have. I mean, it can’t have been the first utter disaster in the history of theatre, can it? And not everyone walked out. Did they?’ he added, hopefully.

      On the night, Brooke had counted twenty-six hardy survivors out of an initially well-packed house, but hadn’t had the heart to reveal it to him. ‘You make it sound a lot worse than it was,’ she said, smiling. ‘The play’s great. I just think its appeal is, you know, selective.’

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