by Eoghan Egan
‘Then why am I still single, huh? I never want to go through Christmas bashes on my own again.’ Ciara poured boiling water over the coffee. ‘I’ll have a partner by the end of summer; a keeper this time. But Jesus, the search to find someone decent around here has turned into a bloodsport; anything half respectable is taken, and what’s on offer I don’t want. No more hookups. Tinder swipes are over. New year. New me. New life.’
‘What happened,’ Eilish wiggled her fingers, ‘to the last guy?’
‘See? You can’t even remember his name. Nothing happened.’
‘Except?’
‘Except nothing. Monotonous monochrome.’
Eilish sat on a stool, crossed her legs and picked a snag on her jacket. ‘Blink your eyelashes and they’ll fall in line. Oh, you won’t believe—’
‘Yeah, right. They call me Sinbad at work: Single Income. No Boyfriend. Absolutely Desperate.’
‘And over thirty,’ Eilish added.
‘Ouch. Not quite. I’m twenty-nine for … eleven days. I’ll either freeze my eggs or put them all into one basket.’ Ciara stirred in milk and handed the mug to Eilish. ‘Any gossip?’
‘Not much.’ She rummaged through her bag for her phone. ‘You won’t believe—’
‘Biscuit?’ Ciara lifted the lid off a tin.
‘No, thanks.’
‘Ah, go on.’ Ciara pushed the treats across the counter. ‘I can’t start a health regime while these are here. You’re doing me a favour.’
‘Ta.’ Eilish nibbled a marshmallow.
‘What were you saying a second ago?’ Ciara asked.
Eilish back-combed her hair. ‘Jesus, I don’t remember.’
‘Twice you said, “you won’t believe …” What won’t I believe?’
‘Did I? God, my brain, hmph? It’s gone.’
Ciara sipped her coffee and studied her friend. ‘Fair enough.’
Eilish wrapped both hands around her coffee mug. ‘So, what restaurant did you book?’
‘Gambadini’s.’
‘Nice.’
‘And then before we go clubbing, I want to check out the new bar on Kelly’s Corner. The Chicken Coop.’
Eilish wrinkled her nose. ‘That side of Ganestown has become a wilderness of grime and graffiti. I’m overdressed for—’
‘It’s got brill reviews. Oh, I’ve invited Jill along too.’ Ciara pushed an opal ring onto her middle finger.
‘Jill?’
‘It’ll be fun. Girls united in gossip. She’s looking forward to a chat. Said she hasn’t seen you in ages.’
‘I’d hoped we’d have a chance to—’
Ciara’s mobile, lying on a windowsill, rang. She picked it up, looked at the screen. ‘There she is now. Jill? What? Slow down. What? You’re … No way. Aww, crap.’ Ciara held the phone to her side and whispered, ‘Richard’s gone.’
‘Gone where?’
‘Left. For good.’
The mug slipped from Eilish’s hand, and the liquid formed a lake on the worktop. She grabbed a kitchen towel roll, tore off a wad and mopped up the spill.
Ciara pressed a button and put the phone on the counter. ‘Jill? Eilish is here. I’ve put you on speaker.’
‘It’s possible you’re mistaken, Jill,’ Eilish said. ‘Richard’s—’
‘No mistake.’ Jill’s tinny voice shook with sobs. ‘He met some trollop. Wants a divorce. He said … he said I’d be well taken care of. Bastard.’
‘Did you have suspicions?’ Ciara asked. ‘Who’s the other woman?’
‘Didn’t ask. Don’t want to … God, life was fine ’til this bombshell hit me—’
‘When did—?’
‘An hour ago.’
Ciara’s landline shrilled from the hallway.
‘… Jesus, I know I’ve gained weight since Christmas,’ Jill said, ‘but come on, we don’t cheat ’cos of their beer bellies. Three kilos is a we-should-join-a-gym talk. It doesn’t give him free rein to slip his dick into some hussy’s hole.’
Eilish flinched.
‘I’ve given him the best years of my life. Then he throws me in the rubbish bin. When I think of the years … nine years, he’s manipulated me into believing his wants were our wants.’ Jill broke down again.
The landline stopped ringing.
‘Come over,’ Ciara said. ‘David’s on a sleepover tonight. We’ll stay in and talk this through over a bottle of wine.’
Eilish coughed. ‘I ought to get—’
The landline chirruped again. ‘Christ,’ Ciara said. ‘Jill, my other phone’s ringing. It might be David. Talk to Eilish for a minute.’ She disappeared into the hall.
Eilish spoke into the mobile. ‘Jill? Ciara’s right. You’ll feel better after—’
Jill’s convulsive sobs reduced to hiccups. ‘Should’ve seen this coming after the way he treated his ex-wives. They don’t fuckin’ change, you know.’
When Jill interviewed for a secretarial role with local haulage company, Western International, she’d caught owner Richard West’s eye. Twenty years her senior and already on wife number two, Richard decided he wanted a younger model. He divorced again, and Jill Kavanagh became Jill Kavanagh-West.
The silence lengthened.
Eilish racked her brain for a thoughtful remark. Something sensitive. ‘What’ll you do?’ She cringed as the words tumbled out. ‘I mean, how’ll you cope?’
This brought another onslaught of heart-wrenched sobs, forcing Jill to contemplate her disintegrated life. She relaunched her story, and Eilish supplied a stream of generic platitudes, with frequent glances at the hallway. What the hell was Ciara at? Clips of her friends’ conversation trailed into the kitchen. Ciara’s voice reached a higher pitch. ‘NO, Malcolm. I won’t fund your … It’ll ruin … Don’t put yourself through … after the effort you’ve made? What? I don’t care—’ Her tone became more placating. ‘For me. Do it for … Please, Mal? Promise? Right. Call me tomorrow. Don’t break your word.’
Ciara dashed back to the kitchen and picked up the mobile. ‘Jill? Drop everything and come over now, okay? Okay. See you in twenty minutes.’ She ended the call, leaned against the countertop and twisted the opal ring round her finger. ‘Jesus.’
‘Yeah.’ Eilish saw Ciara’s flushed face. ‘What?’
‘Two break-ups in one night. Malcolm and Sharona split up too. He’s in another shit mess. That brother of mine. God. Bloody family.’
‘Oh. Does your dad know?’ Eilish stood and smoothed her dress.
‘Not yet. I told Malcolm to phone. It’ll—’
‘Well, I’ll head off.’
‘Wait. What? Jill’ll be here in … She needs support.’
‘Hugh texted me. He’s lost the house key.’ Eilish grabbed her jacket and bag. ‘I’ll let myself out.’
‘What about Jill?’
Eilish drained her coffee, grimaced and swallowed the gritty dregs. ‘I’ll try to make it back later. If not, we’ll chat tomorrow.’
‘Shit, shit, shit.’
Eilish parked in a lay-by, chewed her lower lip, fingers knotted on the steering wheel, her breath a grey mist in the frosty air. She delved into her clutch bag, found the phone, swiped the screen and pressed a number. When a voice answered, she said: ‘In case you’re interested, Jill’s at Ciara McGuire’s house tonight. Why did you—?’
She listened for a moment. ‘Richard. I don’t understand why you decided it was a good idea to—’
She waited a beat. ‘Stop, Richard. Whatever we had, it’s finished. I can’t continue this. Make amends with Jill and get on with your life.’ Eilish disconnected and powered off the mobile.
At home, she sat on the stairs, clasped both hands around her head and rocked back and forth. Agitated, she pulled herself upright. A shoe heel caught and ripped the dress hem. She went upstairs, flung herself on the bed, and curled into a ball as spasms of guilt gnawed her gut. For the first time in years, she prayed: ‘Please, God, let it be okay. Please let it be okay.’
&nbs
p; Chapter 3
Wednesday, 9 January
Morning
Jana Trofimiack
The Belfast office manager’s name in the contact line caused the art dealer’s good humour to evaporate. He tightened his grip on the computer mouse and skimmed the email. Following the art inventory, a McKelvey oil painting had disappeared from Dorothy Ridgeway’s home. She’d made a formal complaint. Jana added a footnote: the canvas hadn’t surfaced during their visit.
Surfaced?
His left eye twitched.
Stupid whores. Both of them.
His mood deteriorated further when Ambrose Hattinger appeared in the doorway. His brother-in-law had the bulging eyes of a person easily provoked, and the florid colour of someone with an excessive alcohol habit.
‘Dorothy Ridgeway called me,’ Ambrose said, his nose held at half-mast. ‘A McKelvey’s missing. We’re blamed.’
The art dealer skimmed Jana’s email again. ‘Why? It’s obvious she’s mislaid it. With the amount of chattels that woman accumulates, I’m surprised she even remembers what’s hoarded.’
Ambrose hitched up his trousers, leaned back and scratched a shoulder-blade on the door frame. ‘Dorothy planned to ask the PSNI to investigate—’
‘When was this arranged?’ The art dealer hated when Ambrose supplied information he was unaware of. He detested this self-absorbed, insufferable man, with his air of superiority and a tendency to ignore anybody he regarded as inferior.
‘She phoned me yesterday.’
‘Dorothy Ridgeway rang you with an exclusive on her obtaining the full resources of the PSNI to investigate a misplaced canvas? Or to persuade you to take responsibility for her memory glitch?’
‘No. Yes.’
‘Well, which is it?’ The art dealer power-gazed Ambrose.
‘Dorothy rang me vis-à-vis the annual ball. It’s—’
‘And you conveyed we’re not honouring her with our presence this year, didn’t you?’
‘I appreciate that was our intention.’ Ambrose’s voice whined. Under the art dealer’s scrutiny, his pompous manner reverted to the nervousness of a junior executive.
‘Was?’
‘The main thing is, I persuaded Dorothy to change her mind about the PSNI. She’s opted for an outside consultant instead. That’s a better alternative for—’
‘I’m certain the PSNI don’t have the resources to investigate Mrs Ridgeway’s little—’
‘Dorothy carries clout.’
‘Only with weaklings she can intimidate. Police have greater concerns than tracking misplaced paintings. Why should we care what … Incidentally, how did you make Mrs Ridgeway reconsider the PSNI involvement?’
‘We’ve taken our usual tables for the ball. Saturday. Herbert Park Hotel.’ Ambrose looked away from the art dealer’s icy glare.
‘I see. And consultancy expenses? Who pays them?’
‘We do.’
‘Let’s recap.’ The art dealer leaned his elbows on the desk, fingers steepled in front of his nose. ‘Mrs Ridgeway threatens to phone the PSNI and ask them to please come and locate my lost canvas. In your haste to … to pander to that woman, you agreed to attend and donate another fortune to her fundraiser? Plus pay consultancy fees?’
‘Dorothy’s a friend as well—’
‘We’re not responsible for either her memory loss or the misplacement of a—’
‘She’s distressed.’
‘You fell for it.’
Ambrose picked a speck of lint from a sleeve. ‘I’d no choice.’
‘Remind me again where we are in regard to scaling back overheads?’
‘Dorothy’s a special case, and—’
‘You massage Dorothy Ridgeway’s ego any way you want. Keep her out of my sight.’
‘You should attend Saturday night’s ball,’ Ambrose said. ‘Would look good if—’
‘Anything else?’
Ambrose used the door frame as a back scratcher again. ‘I, ah, I’ve written an article for February’s Country Life and Garden magazine.’
‘About what?’
‘The company. When we started. Where we are now. Visions for the future, etcetera.’ Ambrose waved an arm. ‘They wanted to profile me. Don’t worry, I’ve included you and the contributions you’ve made—’
‘And you wrote it?’
‘I met one of their staff. Over lunch. Attractive girl. I gave her the general blah, blah, blah. She’ll add in the bells and whistles.’
‘Name?’
‘Amanda Curran.’
‘It’ll be a hatchet job. She’s aiming for career promotion.’
‘It’s not like that. I—’
The art dealer turned his attention to the laptop. ‘I’ll consider allowing publication. Or not. When I read it.’
Ambrose slunk out.
The art dealer kneaded his head, satisfied he’d restored the balance of power. Visions of the future, he thought. Ambrose can’t see past the next glass of brandy, but his name attracts clients, and that thin coat of university educated gilt, distracts them from his weak character. Saturday is the last time we’re supporting Ridgeway’s fundraising campaign, so for once, he’s right. I’ll attend. He debated whether to include Madeline and decided she’d be useful. It would remind people what a generous sponsor and considerate husband he was.
He punched an internal number and barked at the secretary: ‘Get me on a flight to Belfast tomorrow evening and arrange client appointments for Friday. I’ll be at Dorothy Ridgeway’s fundraiser in the Herbert Park, Saturday night. Book two extra rooms in my name. Text Madeline and tell her be there. Contact that Country Life magazine and have them mail me the Hattinger editorial. And get the Trofimiack woman on the line.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Whether she’s right or wrong, Jana’s made her last gaffe, the art dealer thought. She’s no longer essential. I’ll force the illiterate bitch back to whatever unpronounceable Polish town she came from.
The landline rang. ‘Jana? Thank you for informing me of Mrs Ridgeway’s concern.’
‘I never saw the painting—’
‘I’m sure you didn’t. It’s nothing to do with us.’ The art dealer picked up a tennis ball and squeezed, imagining his hands around Jana Trofimiack’s neck, thumbs digging into her hyoid bone, choking … ‘Nevertheless, Mrs Ridgeway has arranged a consultant to investigate. It may be wise to make yourself available. This person will want to meet with you.’
‘I’ve nothing to add—’
‘I understand. Keep yourself on standby, Jana. Just in case.’
The art dealer cut the call. The ice-pick was chipping at the base of his skull again. He’d collect his car, buy a pair of wellingtons, and visit the farm for an hour. Help to de-clutter his mind before he began the new search.
-----
Jana Trofimiack’s heart palpitated.
‘Jezus! How did the old kurwa find out so soon?’ She took a deep breath and dialled a London number. ‘Cześć.’
‘Cześć. Co słychać?’
‘Tomasz, I must return the McKelvey.’
‘It’s sold. I—’
‘It can’t be. The deal’s off.’ Jana’s stomach roiled. ‘Get the painting back. TERAZ!’
‘Can’t talk now. Later.’
‘I—’ A ‘disconnected’ signal bleeped, and Jana was left grasping a dead phone.
Mid-Morning
The air, crisp as celery, hurt Hugh’s head.
A steady throb beat a drum solo behind his eyes. He’d ordered breakfast to soak up last night’s alcohol, but seeing Ferdia tuck into a full Irish made his stomach rebel.
Ferdia twisted into the passenger seat, belched and rubbed his chest. ‘I’m gettin’ fierce feckin’ heartburns. I swear, they cut like a welding torch. Might hafta pay doc a visit.’ His voice sounded raspy as sandpaper on rusty metal.
‘You drank too much red wine,’ Hugh said. ‘Should’ve asked that German medical rep you disappeared with last night to ch
eck you out. What was her name?’
Ferdia scratched his head. ‘All I remember is the amount of feckin’ rings she wore. Moral of the story: No jewellery. ’Twas like raw meat on a cheese grater. Life lesson learned.’
‘Christ, Ferdia.’
‘Anyhow, I’m grand, thanks for asking. Plus, I picked up a few new German words. Might come in handy if Angela Merkel ever takes charge of this country.’ Ferdia buckled up. ‘Thought you were getting rid of this auld banger.’
‘Twelve years isn’t old for a Lexus. I said it needs a new starter—’
‘New engine, more like.’
‘Engine’s fine. I’d booked it in for a full service, but I cancelled it yesterday.’
‘Should’ve changed it last year when I told you. Someday, when you need it most, it’ll … What’s that orange light?’
‘No idea.’
‘Feck sake, man.’ Ferdia searched for the car seat adjuster. ‘Does this not go back any further?’ He ratcheted the seat to the end of its runners. ‘I’m as cramped as Houdini in a glass case.’
‘Don’t break the—’
‘Too late.’ Ferdia tossed the broken lever onto Hugh’s lap. ‘Willya drive on before this pile falls apart. Charlie’s waiting for us.’
-----
Charlie McGuire crossed the office floor to greet Sharona Waters. ‘You shouldn’t have come over in this weather.’
‘Passing through on my way to Dublin.’ Sharona, dressed in double denim, pushed back her dark curly hair. ‘Sorry I missed your call last night.’
Charlie led her to a chair, then sat behind his desk. ‘I found out after the call that it’s over between you and Malcolm.’
‘Malcolm’s a great guy. Makes lots of effort—’
‘His mother, God rest her, would be glad—’
‘—and then spoils it all by sneaking away to a bookie’s office when we’re out together. Not good for my ego, knowing he’d prefer gambling to—’
‘That’s finished. He’s learned an expensive lesson.’
‘I’m twenty-three, Charlie. Life’s too short.’
Charlie toyed with a letter opener. ‘Did you loan him money?’
‘I don’t have money to give. I know he’s borrowed from other people, though.’
