by Eoghan Egan
Back in the ballroom, a magician amused guests in the interval between dinner and dessert. On stage, an Elvis impersonator wriggled through ‘All Shook Up’. Milo mooched towards McGuire’s table. Sharona saw him coming, got up and stood beside Hugh. Milo veered away.
‘Why doesn’t he want to talk to me?’ Hugh asked Sharona.
‘Because he’s a dickhead.’
‘And a drunk asshole. Tell me if he pisses you off.’
‘He was an asshole long before he got drunk.’
‘Why did you say earlier he was a creep?’
‘Milo—’
Dorothy appeared on stage, and fiddled with the mic. Audio feedback screeched. ‘Is this on, Ewan? I can’t … testing, testing. That’s better. Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. A warm welcome on this cold night to our annual fundraiser. My co-founder, Charlie McGuire, can’t be with us, but we wish him a speedy recovery. It’s ten years since he and I set up this cross-community, cross-border trust that identifies talented young people, and supports them during their university years. More than ever, the continued development and education of our youth is critical …’
‘What were you asking me?’ Sharona asked Hugh.
‘Why you said Milo’s a creep?’
‘Milo’s got no personality,’ Sharona swirled her wine, ‘and zero people management skills. Treats everyone like dirt. When Malcolm and I started going out, Milo pushed into our group. I made an effort; he’s Malcolm’s cousin, after all. I friended him on Facebook, and he must’ve taken that as a thumbs-up, ’cos he asked me out, knowing that we were together? Weird, jealous little man. In Milo’s world, everything’s hilarious when it happens to somebody else.’ Sharona sipped her drink.
Dorothy wound up her speech: ‘… your investment in them will ensure strong, sustained economic growth. Please be as generous as you can. Thank you.’
An emcee announced that a jazz band would commence in ten minutes, and the auction for ‘exceptional items’ would begin at midnight. He urged patrons to dig deep and bid.
Hugh said, ‘Malcolm told me he’s letting Milo go.’
‘Believe it when you see it.’
The ballroom filled up again.
‘Has Malcolm spoken to you since …?’ Hugh asked.
‘I met him this morning when we went to visit Charlie,’ Sharona said. ‘Couldn’t wait to get away. Must’ve seen my name on the list tonight and vanished.’
‘He’s at the bar. Nice guy,’ Hugh said.
‘He is. Though he has issues.’
‘Has? Or had?’
‘Has. Current.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yeah. Charlie’s convinced it’s ended, but any addiction’s a serious problem.’
‘Huh.’
‘Impossible to stop without professional help. And when you’ve got pond life like Dessie Dolan on hand—’
‘Who’s Dessie Dolan?’
‘Friend of Malcolm’s. I was with Malcolm a couple of times, well, I observed from the wings when they met. Dolan’s a merciless vulture who preys on the weak and vulnerable. God, him and his ilk should be—’
Across the room, Ferdia called Sharona’s name, waved to get her attention. ‘You too, Hugh,’ he shouted.
Hugh hesitated, then trailed Sharona.
Ferdia swayed. His companion, another middle-aged, fleshy, dark-haired man, gripping a whiskey tumbler, rocked backwards on shiny black shoes. Sweat shone on the man’s face, his nose ruddy with burst capillaries. A bespoke suit couldn’t hide a protruding belly, and he sported the self-satisfied smirk of a person with a winning lottery ticket. Glasses hung from a lanyard, and he’d skipped the traditional tux, opting instead for a red silk tie, knotted in a flawless double Windsor. Four fat cigar tips jutted like missile warheads from a breast pocket.
‘Ambrose, meet Hugh Fallon and Sharona …’ Ferdia hiccupped. ‘Waters.’
Ambrose Hattinger’s eyes drilled through Sharona’s clothes, and he sucked in his belly. ‘So you’re the art consultant. Hell-lo. I’m Ambrose Hattinger. Chairman of Hattinger Furniture, Fine Art, Antiques and Auction Houses.’
‘Did I pass my physical?’ Sharona’s smile did nothing to reduce the sting.
Ambrose leered. ‘I’d have been happy to work around this …’ he flipped a dismissive hand wave ‘… little matter with yourself. Glad it’s resolved. Dorothy’s a dear, dear friend. It so happens we’re in the process of procuring another company; we’re at the due diligence stage, that sort of thing.’ Ambrose’s bombastic baritone, spoken with the assurance of a man accustomed to respect, his swelled chest portraying an air of intellectual arrogance. ‘No venture, no gain, eh? It’ll be in the public arena in due course. Could be consultancy work for an attractive young girlie after the …’ hand wave again ‘… technicalities get finalised. Men’s work.’ Ambrose gestured to a cluster of tables. ‘That’s Adam’s end of the business. He’s here someplace. Adam? Adam?’
A tall, lean, broad-shouldered man stood, straightened and fastened the bottom button on a tailored charcoal-coloured dress suit jacket. He had a high forehead, piercing Dresden-blue eyes and blond hair slicked into a businessman’s cut.
‘Ferdia Hardiman, Hugh Fallon and Serena—’
‘Sharona. Sharona Waters.’
‘Adam, this is the delightful young lady who helped Dorothy sort out the, eh … matter.’
‘Good evening. I’m Adam Styne. I understand you solved the mystery. Much ado about nought. So easy to misplace items.’
‘Do you find that happens often?’ Hugh asked.
Styne stared. ‘Every other week. Collectors forget they’ve locked pieces away for protection, and the initial reaction is: “stolen.” In reality, that’s rare. Nowadays, even ordinary houses have too much security for criminals.’
‘Unless it’s an inside job,’ Sharona said. ‘No quantity of high-tech security can hold out against that.’
‘Indeed.’
‘Your surname,’ Hugh broke the silence. ‘Is that the German spelling S-T-E-I—?’
‘No. S-T-Y-N-E.’
‘What county does it originate—?’
‘I have neither the time nor inclination to spend climbing up branches of my extended family tree.’
‘Oh.’ Hugh tried again. ‘Hattinger’s are a well-established company.’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you involved in the business long?’
‘Sixteen years.’
‘Any advice for a novice?’ Ferdia reeled forward, slapped Adam’s shoulder, then grasped his arm and shook hands with his wrought-iron grip.
Hugh watched Adam wipe his palm on a trouser leg. ‘It depends,’ Adam said, ‘If you’re in the market to buy, and you find a piece that fills a void in your life, grab it. Drop in to one of our galleries and talk to a consultant.’
‘Argh, to you, it’s another day, another Dali,’ Ferdia staggered back a step. ‘Me? I’m not great around the whole arty lark.’
‘Our consultants will be happy to guide you.’
‘A fool and his Monet, eh? Still, might take you up on that offer. Chances are I’ll need a birthday present sooner or later. But none of this modern shi … stuff, though. It’s gotta be … recognisable. Can I tell you a secret?’ Ferdia leaned closer and belched. ‘The few galleries I’ve been in, half the time I don’t know what the feck I’m lookin’ at.’
‘I see. Well, galleries aren’t for everyone. As I said, our consultants—’
‘Gotta business card handy?’
Adam paused. ‘Of course.’ He drew out an engraved Burberry leather card holder and handed Ferdia a gold-embossed card.
Ferdia searched pockets, hadn’t one of his own to exchange, but found a dog-eared envelope and he tore off a piece. ‘Anyone got a pen?’ He asked Hugh to write the mobile number.
‘You live in Dublin?’ Adam asked Sharona.
‘No. Ganestown.’
‘Ahh.’ Styne frowned. ‘Ganestown. In the news regarding the disappearance
of …’ he snapped his fingers.
Sharona nodded. ‘Roberta Lord. Yes.’
‘Hmm. Stressful on her family. I hope she’s found safe and well. Where did you study art?’
‘Trinity.’
Adam smiled. ‘My alma mater. Do you collect as well as consult?’
‘Strict amateur.’
Hugh handed across Ferdia’s number. Adam doubled the square of paper and folded it again. ‘Nice to meet you.’ His smile was as brief as the nod. He moved away and Hugh watched him flick the wadded-up phone number into a corner.
‘Seems a decent skin,’ Ferdia nudged Ambrose. ‘Don’t remember him on the golf course. When the weather improves, I’ll take him for a game. We’ll hack our way through eighteen holes.’
‘He isn’t a member. No interest in golf.’ Ambrose pointed the whiskey glass at Adam’s departing shoulders. ‘Total focus on business. Knows what he wants and goes after it. He’s—’
‘For the company or for himself?’ Sharona asked.
‘—a stupendous ambassador for the company. Rock-solid. He hitched up with my sister, Madeline. More Hattinger than ourselves. They’ve got a decent enough spread on the Kinnitty road, outside Kilcormac.’
‘Madeline Hattinger?’ Ferdia said. ‘Haven’t seen hide nor hair of her in years.’
‘She’s supposed to be here tonight. Flying in from Paris. Depends on the weather. I’m sure we’ll meet again, Serena.’
‘Sharona.’
‘The night’s young.’ Ambrose winked. ‘I’ll get in touch vis-à-vis that consultancy work when we get to the nice fluffy bits.’ His eyes raked her body once more and brushed past.
Ferdia gazed after him. ‘Madeline Hattinger. Now, there’s a waddle down memory lane. Top-notch woman. Best of the feckin’ bunch, she was. Often wondered what became of her. Now, what time is it? Let me guess. Time to make a fool of myself. C’mon, if you aren’t pissed by midnight, you’re not making an effort.’
‘Relax, Ferdia,’ Hugh said.
‘I’m grand. Is this a wake or a party?’
‘Sometimes in Ireland, you can’t tell the difference.’
Ferdia grinned. ‘When was the last time we got fluthered together? I’ve feckin’ spilt more tonight than you’ve drunk.’
‘You don’t need more—’
‘Why? Who’ll stop me?’ Ferdia lurched against Hugh. ‘A bird never flew on one wing. Feck the Croke Park agreement; we’ll drink the country outta recession. It’s our duty. Look, see that?’
‘What?’
Ferdia dug an elbow into Hugh’s side, ‘Those two women. We’ll get their blood pumping with the Siege of Ennis. Show these young fellas how to do it.’ He pointed a thumb at the dance area. ‘You’d swear they were shadowboxing.’ He swung back to the seating area. ‘C’mon, follow my lead.’ He propelled Hugh towards with a drunk’s determination.
‘Give over, Ferdia.’
‘Hang on a second willya. Stand still.’ Ferdia, now a belligerent colossus, grabbed Hugh’s bow tie and pulled it askew.
‘What the hell—?’
‘It’s for your own good, lad. Any woman who fancies you will want to straighten your dicky bow. I’m giving you an edge. You can thank me later.’
‘I don’t want—’
‘Narrow the feckin’ focus, Hughie. It’s the only way to increase the chance of success.’
‘Will. You. Gimme a break?’ Hugh dug in his heels and straightened the bow. ‘You’ll get a heart attack.’
‘Heart’s grand.’ Ferdia said. ‘It’s got broken, battered, bruised, stabbed an’ cheated on, but it works. Howaya ladies. We’re here, so we’ve already granted your first wish. Now, what were the other two?’
‘Hi, Ferdia.’ The women moved apart, and Ferdia sprawled between them. ‘Did I ever tell you the one about …?’
Hugh stepped aside and bumped into Dorothy. ‘Mrs Ridgeway? Hugh Fallon. Didn’t have a chance to introduce myself at the table. I’m a friend of Sharona—’
‘Oh, yes. She told me about you.’ They shook hands. ‘You’re best friends with her brother.’
‘That’s right.’
‘You’re not in the art business?’
‘No. I’ve worked with Ferdia for a few years, and before—’
‘That Ferdia! I told him to keep away. He can’t resist poking the fire … My God, there she is. Madeline?’ Dorothy enveloped a tall, thin woman in an embrace. ‘My goodness, Madeline Hattinger. You look… It’s been what? Three, four years? I was so delighted you rang. Can’t wait to catch up.’
Madeline’s genuine smile didn’t shift the worried frown between her eyebrows. ‘Six years, Dorothy. I can’t believe it. And you haven’t changed.’ Her voice was soft, controlled, dark hair braided and tied in a simple up-do bun. Diamond earrings complimented a floor-length, black tulle, short-sleeved, high-neck ball gown.
‘Let’s find a quiet spot to chat.’ Dorothy grasped Madeline’s hand. ‘Out here. Oh, I want you to meet Sharona …’
The three-piece jazz band struck up a toe-tapping eight-bar boogie riff.
Ferdia led one of the women around the dance floor. For a big, inebriated man, he was agile on foot.
Too hoarse to talk, and the crowd too sloshed to listen, Hugh headed for the lifts. In the foyer, he spotted Sharona, Dorothy and Madeline search for a quiet space. Malcolm was at the bar, still fanning a fistful of fifties at the barman. A wristwatch flashed. Milo plucked notes from Malcolm’s hand and drifted away, his head bobbed out of sync with the drumbeat. Hugh angled towards him. He’d cut him off and ask if he’d a problem being in the same room as him. Then he stopped. Why bother, he thought. I don’t care either way. From the corner of his eye, he spied Eilish. She was moving towards the residents’ lounge. Hugh ran after her, kept her long red hair in sight as she weaved through the crush. ‘Eilish?’
The woman turned. ‘Yes?’
‘Um, sorry. I thought you were my Eilish. Sorry.’
Hugh turned away, crossed the lobby and forgot Milo Brady.
‘Madeline ran her own art gallery before turning her hand to painting,’ Dorothy told Sharona. The women had found a half-hidden nook for their chat.
Sharona smiled and shook Madeline’s hand. Dorothy has told me lots about you, Mrs Styne.’
‘Hattinger. I kept my maiden name. But please, call me Madeline.’
‘This is the person who’ll run Hattinger’s someday,’ Dorothy said.
‘Oh, I don’t—’
‘You’re more than capable, dear. You two need to talk.’ Dorothy turned to Madeline. ‘Sharona is opening her own gallery in Ganestown, once she’s secured a lease. You could advise her.’
‘Be delighted to.’
‘Where was your gallery?’ Sharona asked Madeline.
‘Tullamore. I loved the business, but it’s rare for an artist to make a good dealer. To be honest, I was happy when it folded into the parent company. Still, it was a learning curve. I was lucky to encounter great people along the way. Dorothy, for instance.’
‘I saw one of your paintings in Dorothy’s house,’ Sharona said. ‘Your Trinity College courtyard takes pride of place in her hallway.’
‘Oh, that one was part of my first exhibition. You were so kind, Dorothy. I’ll never forget your generosity and thoughtful words.’
‘Ach, nonsense, dear. You’ve a great talent. Why haven’t I noticed your work in Hattinger’s galleries? Hmm? Excuse me? Excuse me?’ Dorothy waved an arm. ‘Can we get drinks here?’
A passing waitress altered course and took their order.
‘No. No, you haven’t.’ Madeline shifted in her seat. ‘Whatever I produce, I sell abroad. I’ve a studio in Paris. That’s my happy place.’
‘Why France?’ Dorothy asked, ‘and the house you’ve got outside Tullamore.’ She caught Sharona’s arm. ‘You should see the fabulous mansion and gardens—’
‘Fabulous mansion does not make a fabulous … Anyway, I need to challenge myself more …’ Madeline
glanced at the ballroom entrance, ‘… and push my work into new territories, but at present, I’m content. I love Paris. It’s awash with inspiration. A few galleries represent me, and I host one-woman art shows at their facilities. Forces me to complete a number of canvases regularly.’
‘What galleries?’ Dorothy coughed and blew her nose.
‘Fondation Cartier pour l’Art Contemporain on Boulevard Raspail, and Galerie Xippas—’
‘I dropped in on Xippas a few months ago. That’s on Vieille Temple?’
‘Yes. I—’
‘Madeline! I’ve searched for you everywhere.’ Adam Styne caught his wife’s arm, jerked her upright. ‘Mrs Ridgeway. How nice to see you again.’ Adam released Madeline’s arm and shook hands with Dorothy. Madeline’s flesh turned blotchy, where her husband’s fingers had squeezed.
‘Hello, Adam.’
‘Sorry, Adam.’ Madeline rubbed her arm. ‘I was—’
Adam smiled at Sharona. ‘We meet again, Miss Waters.’
‘Hi.’
Styne homed in on Dorothy. ‘I’ve meant to visit. We both have. Isn’t that right, Madeline? I told Ambrose to keep in touch with you. Must be difficult since Blake—’
‘It’s an ordeal—’
‘It is. It is. If there’s anything we can do, please don’t hesitate. However, with your drive and commitment, there’s no doubt Blake’s legacy will continue to live on in the excellent work you do. We’re delighted to support.’ Adam’s eyes flashed to Madeline. ‘Aren’t we? Madeline and I had this conversation recently. At the end of the day, our youth are the entrepreneurs and business leaders of tomorrow. Hmm?’
‘That’s the point I was—’
‘I hate to break up your … trialogue, but I need Madeline for a moment.’ Adam’s fingers circled Madeline’s upper arm again and pulled her to him, controlling rather than connecting. ‘We’ll continue this chat later. And your dress, Dorothy. Not just elegant, it’s … recherché. Isn’t it Madeline?’
The waitress returned with their drinks order.
