BooksBarbecue
Back Again, Rachel
Chapters (98)
  1. Cover
  2. Dedication
  3. Epigraph
  4. 1
  5. 2
  6. 3
  7. 4
  8. 5
  9. 6
  10. 7
  11. 8
  12. 9
  13. 10
  14. 11
  15. 12
  16. 13
  17. 14
  18. 15
  19. 16
  20. 17
  21. 18
  22. 19
  23. 20
  24. 21
  25. 22
  26. 23
  27. 24
  28. 25
  29. 26
  30. 27
  31. 28
  32. 29
  33. 30
  34. 31
  35. 32
  36. 33
  37. 34
  38. 35
  39. 36
  40. 37
  41. 38
  42. 39
  43. 40
  44. 41
  45. 42
  46. 43
  47. 44
  48. 45
  49. 46
  50. 47
  51. 48
  52. 49
  53. 50
  54. 51
  55. 52
  56. 53
  57. 54
  58. 55
  59. 56
  60. 57
  61. 58
  62. 59
  63. 60
  64. 61
  65. 62
  66. 63
  67. 64
  68. 65
  69. 66
  70. 67
  71. 68
  72. 69
  73. 70
  74. 71
  75. 72
  76. 73
  77. 74
  78. 75
  79. 76
  80. 77
  81. 78
  82. 79
  83. 80
  84. 81
  85. 82
  86. 83
  87. 84
  88. 85
  89. 86
  90. 87
  91. 88
  92. 89
  93. 90
  94. 91
  95. 92
  96. 93
  97. 94
  98. Acknowledgements

He took a breath. ‘No, Rachel. I’m fine as I am. I like my life. I like my wife…’

31

Lying face down on my bed, I groaned with pleasure. ‘Who needs sex when Nick Quinlivan is massaging your sore calves.’

Behind me, Quin laughed. We’d been out in the hills, a twelve-K hike through streams and bracken, with ‘our hiking friends’ Taryn and Timothy.

Although at first glance you’d never have taken them for rugged outdoor types: Taryn, skinny, nerdy and frowny, looked as if a small child could snap her in two. Her partner Timothy, with his spectacles and pale, scholarly air, looked like an aristocratic boy from Victorian times who had a weak chest and was fated to die young.

The four of us had met two summers ago, during a weekend in Brigit’s. (They too ‘worked in IT’ with Brigit’s husband Colm.) When they heard that Quin and I were planning to climb Errisbeg the following day, they invited themselves along.

Privately, Quin was scandalized. ‘Who are these consumptive-looking randomers? No way will they keep up!’

But Brigit had a word with Quin: Taryn and Timothy were a lot fitter than they looked. And so it proved. Heading up the mountain, they had so much speed, stamina and enthusiasm that now and again Quin had to say, ‘Slow it down there, lads. Don’t forget about Rachel.’

They turned out to be delightful—they were open to life, to people, to experiences—and we had gelled in the loveliest way. ‘You think you’re too old to make new friends,’ Quin said subsequently. ‘Then you surprise yourself.’

Today had been fun. Now Quin and I were back at my house. ‘Do the thing with your thumbs,’ I begged. ‘Press them—oh God, yesss!’

‘You should have a bath,’ he said. ‘We should have a bath. Loosen up those muscles.’

‘Not enough time.’ We’d been invited to his parents for ‘supper’ at five o’clock. Quin didn’t care if we were late but I did. ‘Quick shower,’ I said. As his eyes lit up, I added, ‘Nothing else!’

*

Ma and Da Quinlivan lived in a big, solid 1950s build, surrounded by what an estate agent would call ‘a large, mature, south-facing’ garden. There were full-grown trees, handsome shrubs and flower beds bursting with vivid daffodils.

As a family, the Quinlivans fascinated me—so accomplished, so confident, so certain of their place in the world.

The front door was ajar. ‘Who goes there?’ a woman’s voice floated down the hall. Then, ‘Nicholas! Rachel! Welcome!’

Quin’s mum Genevieve—known as Vivi—breezed towards us, her Hermès scarf fluttering. Blonde, bony and capable, she’d been a high court judge until her retirement five years ago.

Kissing us briskly, she relieved us of our coats and directed us towards the kitchen for drinks. ‘Daddy’s down there, making some concoction.’