Quirke 06 - Holy Orders

rouge. She had prominent, bright eyes and a crooked little rosebud mouth. In her voluminous dress of shiny green silk, with her big bosom and short legs, she bore, Quirke thought, not for the first time, a strong resemblance to Queen Victoria in her late heyday.
    Phoebe moved forward quickly, as if her employer could be expected to charge and must be headed off. “This is my father,” she said.
    The woman reinstated her frown; she had heard of Quirke. He nodded, trying to appear pleasant and affable. “I was just saying,” he said, “that maybe I could take Phoebe to lunch.”
    Mrs. Cuffe-Wilkes sniffed. “Oh, yes?” Both Quirke and Phoebe could see her dithering. Quirke might be disreputable in certain ways, but he was a medical man, a consultant at that, and his well-cut suit was of Harris tweed and his shoes were handmade. She forced herself to smile again, managing at the same time to keep those tight little lips pursed. “I’m sure that will be all right.” She glanced at Phoebe. “It’s nearly lunchtime, after all.”
    * * *

    They went round the corner to the Hibernian. The restaurant was not busy and they were shown to a table under a potted plant at the big window that looked out on Dawson Street, where the lemon sunlight glared on the roofs of passing cars.
    “What’s the occasion for this unexpected treat?” Phoebe, smiling, asked.
    “I told you,” Quirke said, “I was passing by.”
    She put her head to one side and gave him an arch look. “Oh, Quirke,” she said, “you know you’re never just ‘passing by.’”
    He nodded towards the sunlit street. “It’s spring,” he said. “That’s worth celebrating, isn’t it?”
    She was still regarding him suspiciously, and he buried his face in the menu. She could never quite decide what to think about her father—what to feel about him, or for him, was beyond speculation—but today she could see that something was the matter. She knew well that assumed air of bonhomie, the forced and slightly queasy smile, the furtive eye and fidgeting hands. Maybe he had broken up with Isabel Galloway again and was trying to screw up sufficient courage to tell her. Phoebe and Isabel were friends, sort of, although in fact there had been a marked coolness between them ever since Isabel had taken up with Phoebe’s father. And then there had been Isabel’s suicide attempt after Quirke had left her the last time …
    Quirke was talking to the waiter now, consulting him about the Chablis. Phoebe studied him, trying to guess what it could be he had to tell her—there must be a reason for him to take her to the Hibernian at lunchtime on an ordinary weekday. It was not to do with Isabel, she decided; Quirke would not be so agitated over a woman.
    “I thought you weren’t going to drink during the day anymore,” she said when the waiter had left.
    He gave her his wide-eyed look. “I’m not drinking.”
    “ Y ou just ordered a bottle of wine.”
    “Yes, but white wine.”
    “Which has just as much alcohol as red.”
    He waved a hand dismissively. “No no no—that’s only what the producers put on the label to make you think you’re getting your money’s worth.”
    She laughed. “Quirke, you’re incorrigible.”
    “Eat your prawn cocktail,” he said. “Go on.”
    She cast a glance at his plate. He had pushed his own portion of prawns around in their pink sauce but as yet had not taken a bite of a single one. He must have a hangover, she decided; he never ate when he was hungover. She thought of delivering the standard lecture on his drinking, but what good would it do?
    “How’s that boyfriend of yours?” he asked.
    “David?”
    He gave her a wry look. “How many boyfriends have you got?”
    She had wanted to see if he would follow her in saying David’s name, but of course he would not. To Quirke, his assistant was always just Sinclair. “He’s very well,” she said. “Don’t you see him?”
    “Not in the way you do. He’s not my beau.”
    “My beau !” She gave a hoot of laughter. “I doubt he thinks of himself as anybody’s beau .”
    The waiter came with the wine and Quirke went through the ritual of sipping and tasting. It was pathetic, Phoebe thought, the way he tried to pretend he was not dying for a drink. Next their fish was brought, and Quirke tucked his napkin into his shirt collar and took up his knife and fork with a show of enthusiasm, but it was again obvious that he had no stomach for food.
    “Any sign