They whisper their happy “hellos” as the countdown for the end of the VT begins in the studio. Rosie checks herself on the studio monitor. Say what you like about her, she can hold her drink.
“Niall Clark reporting there,” says Kellie. “Quite the mystery at Dublin Airport.”
“And speaking of mystery,” says Ryan. “She’s sold over fifty million books—”
“Over sixty million,” says Rosie.
“Over sixty million books,” says Ryan. “Apologies. She’s got through five husbands—am I right there?”
“The third one wasn’t strictly legal,” says Rosie. “So four and a half. But still looking for more, Ryan.”
“And we always love having her on An Irish Breakfast. It’s Rosie D’Antonio. Welcome to Ireland, Rosie.”
“Thank you, Ryan,” says Rosie. “You smell amazing, by the way.”
Ryan gives a bashful gesture of dismissal.
“Now,” says Kellie, “how are you enjoying Ireland?”
“Well,” says Rosie. “I had twelve pints of Guinness yesterday.”
“A woman after our own hearts,” says Ryan. “And have you murder on your mind while you’re here?”
“Honestly, yes, I do,” says Rosie.
“But you have an announcement to make, I think?” says Kellie. “You’re looking for some help?”
“I am,” says Rosie. “And thank you for letting me use your viewers—”
“What, both of them?” says Ryan, with the laugh of a man who knows he has Ireland’s biggest breakfast show. Rosie laughs too, because he really is very handsome.
“I was recently swimming on a lake in South Carolina, you see,” starts Rosie, always at ease with stories. “A lovely warm day, I was wearing virtually nothing, can you imagine, Ryan?”
Ryan pretends to fan himself.
“And I got into trouble,” says Rosie.
Kellie leans forward in concern. Ryan nods, sternly, in concern.
“There was a strong current,” says Rosie. “And I’m not as young as I once was.”
According to Wikipedia, she is actually five years younger than she was seven years ago. Rosie likes to think of herself as “age-fluid.”
“Now, I’ve killed a lot of people over the years,” says Rosie. “In my books. But I began to think, ‘This is it for me.’ You know?”
“How terrifying,” says Kellie.
“But, then, as I started to go under, I felt two strong arms pull me up.”
“Oh, it’s like something from a book,” says Kellie. “Like something you’d read.”
“A man swam me to shallower waters,” says Rosie, “and I thanked him for saving my life, and he just said, ‘No problem, no problem.’ I asked him what I could do for him—could I reward him? Did he live nearby, could I send him something?”
“I mean, you’ve sold over sixty million books,” says Ryan.
“But he asked for nothing,” says Rosie. “He just said, ‘I’m here as a tourist.’ He got out of the lake, took a round of applause, and disappeared.”
“A hero,” says Kellie. “An absolute hero. God bless his soul.”
“I see,” says Ryan. “Now where do we come in?”
“Well,” says Rosie. “I told you he said, ‘No problem, no problem.’ But what I didn’t tell you was that he said it in an Irish accent.”
Kellie gasps. She is a great audience.
“I’d say specifically a Cork accent,” says Rosie. “And so I’m here to find him, and to thank him for saving my life.”
“Wonderful,” says Ryan. “Can you describe him?”
“I can do better than that,” says Rosie. “One of the onlookers took his photo, and I have it.”
Kellie is being told something in her ear. “I think we can see it now.”
On the screens in the studio, and on the screens of a million breakfasting Irish folk, appears the face of Eddie Flood. Steve had found it on a Facebook group for fans of Lambrettas.
“If you recognize him,” says Rosie, “if you see him anywhere, particularly if you’re in Cork, somewhere round there, there’s an email address where you can contact my people. If you can tell me exactly where he is, there’s a reward of twenty thousand euros.”
“Twenty thousand euros if our viewers can spot him?”
