Family Affairs

by Pamela G Hobbs

  “Involved in what?” Dev’s sleepy voice sounded behind her.

  Frankie spun round guiltily, the papers falling in a mess at her feet.

  “I’ll call you back,” she muttered into the phone and hung up on Flynn’s curse.

  Devlin was kneeling on the ground sorting through the various editions and laying them in a line on the floor in front of him. The photos were mostly of Frankie, posing and pouting for all the world like she was courting the press. She looked stunning in every one. Dev’s eyes met hers from his crouched position, anger flaring as he slowly raised himself and held the papers out towards her.

  “Explain.” The word was short and abrupt. Frankie was in no doubt as to his frame of mind, if the look in his eyes hadn’t been obvious enough.

  “Now, Dev,” she began and he almost exploded.

  “Do not. Now. Dev. Me.” He moved forwards, forcing her to step backwards. “Why the fuck are you plastered all over the newspapers this morning when I’d distinctly discussed with the press to leave you out of any and all coverage? Explain that to me. And while you’re at it,” he paced forwards some more and leaned into her, the intensity of his eyes making her nervous, “tell me what the fuck my big brother has to do with this. I said no to this.” He threw aside the papers and gripped her by the shoulders. “Jones, what the hell is going on?”

  She ducked away from him, her thoughts scrambling. She’d hoped to explain everything to him calmly this morning over coffee while, she admitted to herself, he was still wrapped in all the feelings of post-coital bliss.

  Oh well. That plan had gone to hell in a handbasket.

  “I know you spoke to the press. But Flynn and I had an idea to, I don’t know, draw the stalker out, maybe. To end this.” She paused and looked at him, anxious that he’d understand her ploy.

  “The operative words there are ‘I don’t know’.” He turned and began gathering up the papers as Frankie nipped in behind the counter and started the pot of coffee – badly needed at this point. She winced as she heard him swear fluently – he must be reading the headlines: Star Shows Up at Art Opening. And: Jones On Show. And: Photo Op For Photo Star. But the worst was the one of herself and Dev together, and thank goodness only one: Not Brotherly Love on Show at Show.

  “Damn it! What were you thinking?” he snarled as he stacked the papers on the counter. “And what the fuck was Flynn thinking?”

  She handed him a mug of steaming coffee and eyed his clenched fists as he slowly relaxed them. Finally noticing that he was walking around in his boxers, she dashed into the bedroom grabbed his T-shirt from the heap on the floor and handed it to him silently. Taking a long drink from her own coffee she placed the mug down on the counter and took a deep breath.

  “What we were thinking was that this was the perfect opportunity to make the stalker know exactly where I am at the same time as kinda giving him the finger a bit.” She watched for his reaction to her explanation. He was giving nothing away, just presenting a continuous scowl in her direction. So she pushed on.

  “If he comes out now, Flynn and his cohorts will be ready – I’m not stupid and neither is your brother.” She paused to gauge his reaction. Noting another scowl, she forced herself to continue. “He has protection organised from later today, as that gives me a bit of time to plan, but I made a statement last night to the press.”

  Dev’s head whipped up from his mug at that.

  “And I told them I was heading to New York in a day or two. Kinda leaving a trail but controlling it at the same time.” She leaned over and absently rubbed her hand up and down his arm. “Please, Dev, let me do this my way. I understand you want to protect me and your family, but this has to be my decision. Seriously.”

  Dev slammed his hand down on the counter and squared his shoulders. “Fine,” he grunted. “Fine, but let’s get you back to Dalkey first. I have to go to the studio and meet my agent for a few hours, but then we are sorting this out. I’ll phone Flynn and he can meet us at the house later.”

  Realising it was all he could do for now, Dev reached out and hauled her into his arms. He rested his chin on her head as she snuggled into his embrace.

  “We have to talk about all this. About us, I mean,” he said, “but I get that it has to wait.” He pulled back a bit, keeping his arms about her but looking her directly in the eyes. “You and me, Jones, this is something I won’t put on the back burner any longer. We’ve gone beyond pretending there’s nothing solid happening and I want us to make plans. Together.”

  Frankie could feel her heart bumping steadily against her ribcage. They were going to make plans, he said. Together. The warm glow inside simply eased its way up her body till her chest felt like it could burst.

  “Yes, Devlin Fitzgerald, we’ll make together-plans.”

  She stretched up to kiss him lightly on the mouth, but lightly wasn’t what happened. One touch of her lips on his had Dev growling deep in his throat. He dealt with it in Dev fashion – he devoured her mouth and when that wasn’t enough, he gathered her up in his arms, strode into his bedroom and slammed the door behind them.

  Frankie and Dev left the apartment together, she to take a DART to Dalkey, he to cross town to his agent’s office. She wore the black dress from the previous night, but it was respectably covered with a long beige linen jacket of Dev’s, and she looked as normal as any other Dubliner wandering the city streets mid-morning in late summer.

  Dev reached for her hand and in the brief moments where she struggled to decide if she should let him, she realised she’d made a momentous decision. They were a couple now. A public couple. That may not seem a lot to your everyday “average Joe”, but to her, following the media mess after Stephen’s death, it was a massive step forwards. Anyone could photograph them, snap them on their phones, upload to social networking sites, and within seconds, literally, the headline from this morning’s paper would be verified. It wasn’t brotherly love any more. Not even close. She took his hand.

  “Are you sure?” she asked, stroking his thumb with hers. “There’ll be no going back and I know you don’t really get this yet, but your life will never be the same from this moment.”

  “Never been surer,” he smiled and, oh, God, she believed him.

  The DART journey was slower than normal, some minor delay on the line, so Frankie checked her messages and emails while sitting in the carriage. Jason had sent an urgent email asking her to get her butt westwards pronto as she appeared to have forgotten that she was due to appear at the Clifden film festival this evening. Shit and damn. Had she forgotten? She didn’t even remember agreeing to it, but on the strength of Jason’s email she supposed she must have.

  Unlikely though it was that she’d have forgotten her own calendar events, she ran through some possibilities in her head of how she could swing it. She glanced at her watch and figured she could be on the road within two hours. The drive could take three and a half, depending on traffic. She could overnight in the Abbeyglen, where the festival was kicking off, and wouldn’t have to worry about opening the lodge again. Then she could be back here by lunchtime tomorrow.

  Surely Dev couldn’t worry about that.

  And she’d let the press know she was heading to New York, so no reason for any wayward stalker even to consider she might turn up in Clifden again. There seemed to be no publicity about her being at the festival there, so that wouldn’t be an issue. Hmm. Much to do.

  The train arrived at Dalkey station and Frankie enjoyed the brisk walk down towards Colimore. Her headspace was occupied with details and she phoned the car rental company while on the go to keep it for just a few more days. She was actually intending to go to New York but merely as a tidy-up operation, for now. Her next writing assignment was a continuation of her West of Ireland one – a piece on the entire Wild Atlantic Way, which she was more than happy to undertake. She’d re-rent a car, probably an SUV of some sort, to enjoy while she drove the several hundred miles of the newest tourist attraction.


  She knew she could base herself in Dalkey while not actually working, but now that things with Dev were changing, who knew where she might be laying her head? She smiled as she turned into the gravel drive of the Fitzgeralds and heaved a sigh as she saw the front door was open – she’d walked off yesterday without her key.

  Jo was putting down the phone in the hall and squeaked as Frankie walked in.

  “Oh, dear God! You gave me such a fright! I wasn’t expecting you – I thought you might be Flynn – but sure, I didn’t hear a car. Silly me.” She seemed flustered and upset.

  “Jo, are you okay?” Frankie asked.

  “Well, the fingerprint people are gone and I was just talking to—”

  “Whoa! Hold on a minute – fingerprint people? What the hell happened?” Frankie glanced about her as she automatically put her arm around Jo.

  Patrick came through the hall and smiled wearily at Frankie. He gave her a brief hug and then he, too, draped his arm over Jo’s shoulders.

  “We’ve had a spot of bother here last night – someone tried to break in, we think, so we’ve had the police and dust boys over. We’re just waiting for Flynn to arrive to see if he has any updates.” He sounded as tired as he looked and suddenly, worryingly, so much older.

  “Oh my God! that’s terrible – are you all okay? Was anyone hurt? Was anything taken?”

  Flynn hadn’t said anything earlier but, truthfully, she hadn’t given him a second – and then she remembered all the other missed calls she’d ignored while daydreaming on the DART journey. Frankie walked with them down to the kitchen, instinctively putting on the kettle, setting out cups as she listened to Jo and Patrick share the story of their night’s misadventure.

  Arriving home from the opening, admittedly late as they’d gone for a bite to eat to celebrate with some friends, they’d waved off the taxi. Patrick was just opening the front door, when Jo noticed that the window boxes on the ground floor windows seemed disturbed, some plants now lying on the gravel. She’d cursed the neighbour’s dog but thought no more of it.

  Upstairs, they’d both noticed several things appeared out of place: the towels in the bathroom were on the floor instead of the rack and dressing gowns laid on the bed instead of hanging on hooks. Piles of books that were normally stacked next to Patrick’s bedside table had been moved and lay piled on the floor at the end of the bed. The toothpaste was finally located in the shower cubicle and there was powder sprinkled in the washbasin.

  None of these oddities were discussed between them as they each thought the other must have done them unintentionally, or that they themselves hadn’t remembered doing it, or that perhaps Molly had moved things. And so they’d just settled into sleep, when there was a series of phone calls – to the landline, to each of their mobiles and the landline again. All hang-ups, all within fifteen minutes of each other, ensuring they were just settling before being woken again.

  Frankie sipped her tea, murmuring her concern and irritation at whoever would be so petty-minded to be that mean. By about 3 a.m. they phoned Flynn, who immediately got the local chaps out to pay a visit and have a look around. It was then, under questioning, that they both told of the misplaced things and Jo remembered the spoilt window box. But worse was to follow.

  They walked the Gardaí through the house and upon opening Patrick’s study door, realised that it had been ransacked. No wonder he looked so worn out, Frankie thought as she listened to the rest of the story. Their morning had been taken up with statements and dusting for prints, and photographing the disarray. Yet here they were, toughing it out. Together.

  Frankie told them she was due to head off to Clifden within the hour for the festival but would happily cancel it. Neither Patrick nor Jo would hear of it – in fact, they were delighted, because if the police saw Frankie here and others got wind of it, things could become a media circus. In fact, they said, she’d be doing them a favour by disappearing. And they promised to have Molly and Alice stay tonight, and maybe even Dev.

  Damn! That reminded her. She excused herself and went to her room to phone Dev to explain about Clifden. No answer, so she left a brief message for him to phone his parents and then to phone her. She didn’t want him exploding on the phone, hothead that he was, over either situation, so opted for the vague. Cowardly? Maybe, but much more efficient, she told herself.

  She packed a small bag and headed down to wait for Flynn’s arrival before leaving. While he chatted with his parents, she grabbed her laptop and bag and stored them in the car. Flynn realised she was going and, detaching himself from his parents, he spoke briefly to Frankie.

  “I actually agree with Dad and Mum – you’re better off out of this mess. And I’m glad they haven’t even had time to look at the papers or they’d be worried about you, too. I gather our famous photographer is none too pleased with our play?”

  “Oh! you gather correctly, my friend. He was mighty pissed and I expect you’re going to get an earful.” She smiled at him ruefully. “I can take care of myself.”

  He hugged her goodbye. “You make sure you take care of yourself and we’ll expect you back tomorrow about noon, where we can have a proper chat with Dev about it all. Who knows, with my people watching the airport, they may already have a suspect?”

  “Are you sure your parents are going to be okay? Maybe I should stay,” Frankie asked, hesitating.

  “They’re fine – it’s probably just some random ex-student of Dad’s who didn’t get the mark he wanted on a test. But I promise, I’m not taking it that lightly and I’ll be following all leads. Now go.” He kissed her cheek and opened her car door for her. “Get out of here. Text when you arrive.”

  Dev was debating whether to go back to his apartment to get some lenses he’d left behind or just head to his parents, when he noticed he had a couple of missed calls – one from Flynn and one from Frankie. He ignored Flynn’s, figuring he’d either get a bollocking from him or end up giving one. Either way, he was in no hurry to ruin his mood. His sales from last night’s show were beyond what he’d hoped, and he and his agent had spent a couple of hours going over strategies on how to capitalise on the exposure.

  Pun intended.

  He grinned as he tapped in Frankie’s number. God, what a woman.And his, his, his. Why had the gods finally smiled on him so much now? She was everything to him. Always had been, but now – now that he’d tasted the forbidden fruit, so to speak – there was no going back. There could never be anyone else. She felt like his other half, like the fit of an Aran jumper on a cold winter’s day kind of way. Jesus! he was getting poetic and that just wouldn’t do. He frowned, listening to her voice message. Damn.

  He quickly phoned his mum and the decision was made. He turned abruptly from the direction of his apartment and hailed a taxi – public transport would take too long and he needed to get home.

  Frankie passed through Galway in a blur. She was so relieved not to be stuck in traffic that she was almost on the N59 before she realised. Where had the journey gone? Spent musing over recent events, is where.

  She sighed happily.

  Alone time in a car isn’t to be sneezed at, she decided. Look at all the complications in her life she’d now fixed! And all because her phone and earpiece were in her bag out of reach, and because she’d turned to an “all music” station on the radio so as not to be interrupted by news and traffic reports – what was the point? She was going where she was going regardless of what decisions were made in politics today or what the roads were like.

  Hey, this felt good.

  She’d spent the first hour or so musing over her relationship with Patrick and Jo and how she was incredibly lucky to have them in her life. They truly were the parents she never had. That didn’t mean she sometimes didn’t wish her own mother had been different – more hands-on and more “there”, but as she got older Frankie realised she’d inherited some wonderful gifts from her mother. Things she hadn’t recognised as valuable or important when she’d been little or eve
n as a teenager.

  Things like bravery and determination.

  Like generosity and talent.

  Frankie knew she’d inherited these qualities, and she appreciated them more and more as she got older. It’s not easy to take on new roles and try new things, to take a different path and leap without a net – and isn’t that what Frankie had been doing all her adult life? That’s what being an actor was – being brave and determined in the face of all obstacles, all the rejections, all the competition, to keep pushing through and never give up.

  She didn’t feel like she’d given up now; though it had felt like that straight after Stephen’s death. Now, she felt brave again, going down a new road with her writing, setting off on a new course. She was a damn good actress and had the statues to prove it. Already, her written words were being received well – she’d refine this new craft and see where it took her.

  She’d thought long and hard about her birth father again. Seeing Patrick so troubled today had touched her deeply and, even more, seeing how he and Jo had turned to each other, to help each other, made her ponder again what it would have been like to have a dad in her early life. Would he and her mom have fought each other? Would they have bickered like normal couples, or would her mother, being Carolina Jones, have turned every day into a drama, to be played out for an audience of one?

  Would her father have balanced that intensity and matured Carolina, instead of feeding her ego like most of her lovers had? Frankie figured her father must have been relatively rational, as she, herself, didn’t suffer overly from being a drama queen. Sure, the Fitzgeralds had teased her as a teenager for making a drama out of everything, but that had simply been her way of asking for attention – and what teen doesn’t need attention?