Hal put his phone face down on the breakfast table in Belfast on Thursday morning, and I’d read the screen before it landed, because it was lit and I read everything: six missed calls, one name.
“She rang four times last night and twice this morning,” he said. “I answered the sixth, because a man has to eat.”
We’d come into Belfast at three on Wednesday morning, eight and a driver, and Fitz had walked us through a lobby with the lights half off and up to the sixth floor, which had a sign in the lift that called it the quiet floor. No hen parties, no stag parties, no room service after eleven, for guests who need to sleep. Fitz had booked the whole band onto it, which tells you what Fitz thinks of Lenny, and Lenny had read the sign twice and said, “That’s a bit much,” to…
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