by Maggie Finn
Danny nodded to Thomas, the hotel’s concierge, a white-haired Kerryman who was partial to single malt, certainly when it came to information and favors.
‘Is Mr. Drake in?’ asked Danny, approaching Thomas’s desk after first checking the lobby was clear.
‘He is that, Dan,’ said Thomas. ‘The Wicklow suite, third floor. You may also be interested that a Mr. Petrov checked in this afternoon.’
‘Maxim Petrov?’
Thomas nodded, smiling. ‘The very same. His entourage have taken the whole of the fourth floor.’
Maxim Petrov was a Russian oil and gas magnate, famous for having outbid the Louvre for Monet’s largest privately-owned waterlily painting when it had come up for auction a few years previously. ‘It will look good in my study,’ he had said, which, given the canvas was over ten meters long, suggested something about the dimensions of Petrov’s home.
The arrival of such a big player also said something about Simon Drake’s pulling power. His paintings wouldn’t cost a fraction of the Monet, but it was their rarity – and Drake’s reputation as a recluse – that made them a must-have for the art set. Danny thanked Thomas and crossed to the lift, his excitement rising. This was bigger than he had anticipated. Maxim Petrov and a half a dozen other millionaire art players were about to be duped in one of the biggest art scandals of the century.
Well… possibly. Danny was no art expert, but he knew there was a precedent for this sort of thing, with artists using assistants to finish their works, often on an industrial scale, most recently in the creations of Damien Hirst. His spin prints were literally made by a machine, his dots created on a conveyor belt. And he hadn’t personally sawn that shark in half. For Hirst, that was part of the point. Deceit, sleight of hand and above all, money was at the heart of the modern art. But Hirst had never made a secret of his methods and the art buyers knew the basis on which they bought his work. This was different – wasn’t it? Danny wasn’t sure. But he knew he needed to speak to Simon Drake. A painting glimpsed through a window wasn’t enough. He needed to hear it from the horse’s mouth, a confession that he intended to deceive the public. But first he had to find the man. The lift doors pinged open and Danny stepped out.
‘Oof!’
He walked straight into Tessa.
‘Watch out…’ she grunted, then: ‘Oh it’s you.’
They stood there looking at each other, two cats with their backs arched.
‘Look, Tessa,’ Danny began. ‘The other night…’
‘What do you want, Danny?’
That stopped him in his tracks. For a moment, he had forgotten all about Simon Drake, forgotten about his story. In that moment, all he had wanted was to tell Tessa how he felt. But here he was, with Tessa Drake glaring at him, hostile. Angry.
‘What do I want?’ he repeated.
‘Well I don’t imagine you came here to see me, did you?’
She looked back down the corridor: the door to the Wicklow suite.
‘Hoping for an exclusive, were you?’ she said. ‘Well my Dad’s not receiving visitors today or any other day. And you wouldn’t be top of my list.’
Danny bristled.
‘Come on Tessa, this is my job. You may not like it…’
‘You got that right.’
‘…but I just want to get the story, Tessa. That’s all.’
She snorted.
‘Like you wanted to get the story on Bishop Ray you mean? Peeking through windows, stealing evidence. All very noble.’
Danny could barely believe it. Where was the sweet girl he had shared a picnic with?
‘What’s eating you?’ he asked.
‘Eating me? I just don’t happen to like the way you go about “your job.”’
Danny’s anger began to rise. Who was Tessa Drake to take the moral high ground when she had been lying to people for who knew how long?
‘My job is to reveal the truth,’ he said pointedly. ‘I give people the facts. They can make up their own mind about what it means.’
‘Oh yes, sure, and your Ross Oil coverage was a masterclass in just reporting the facts.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Come on Danny, ‘Yank Oil Giant To Destroy Beauty Spot’ or whatever it was? Not exactly balanced, was it? It was one huge spin job pushing your anti-oil agenda. You expect me to believe anything else you do is going to be any different?’
‘This is different.’
‘Oh I agree. The aim of the Ross Oil story was to stop a billion-dollar business getting its own way. The aim of this story is to destroy an old man’s life.’
He looked at her.
‘Are we talking about Bishop Ray or Simon Drake here?’
Her eyes flashed with anger, then fear. Danny felt his heart jump. That one look told him everything.
‘What has the Bishop got to do with my father?’ asked Tessa.
‘You tell me.’
He could see her mind working. Would she lie, deflect or – Danny hoped – tell him the truth, throw herself on his mercy. Which, he knew in his heart of hearts, he was more than ready to give.
‘I don’t have anything to tell you, Danny.’
‘Are you sure? Nothing about your dad?’
She looked at him.
‘I’d rather talk about your mum.’
That stopped him in his tracks.
‘My Ma? What about her?’
‘She loves the Bishop. How’s she going to feel when you drag him over the coals?’
Deflection, then – Danny supposed it was better than an out-and-out lie.
‘Are you saying I should spike the story for her?’
‘Why not?’
‘Because it’s my job, Tessa! It’s what I do!’
‘You do know how many crimes that particular excuse has been used to justify down the years?’ Tessa said. ‘And anyway, I thought you wanted to be a writer. Aren’t you just finding excuses?’
‘Maybe.’
It was just possible Tessa had a point; no, it was true. In his heart of hearts, in the dream version of himself, Danny wasn’t a journalist, not even the super-charged Manhattan-based Pulitzer-winner of his fantasies. Tessa was right: he did want to be a writer, a proper one. Danny loved books more than anything: the feel of them, the smell of them and above all, the power they had to transport you anywhere: palaces, slums or the backs of dragons. But he wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction of knowing one of her jabs had hit home. So Danny swung a haymaker of his own.
‘Okay, if you don’t want me to write my story on Bishop Ray,’ he said. ‘Then I need another story to give to my editor.’
Tessa nodded back towards the lift.
‘Then you’d better go and find one, hadn’t you?’
Danny looked at her.
‘That’s what I’m here for.’
‘Painter has exhibition? That’s your big scoop?’
‘No, Tessa,’ he said. ‘You know why I’m here.’
She stuck her chin out defiantly.
‘Do I?’
If he wasn’t so annoyed with her, he knew he’d find that admirable. Adorable, in fact. A little girl standing in a hotel corridor, putting herself between her father and the bad man come to harm him. It was heroic. Or would be, if that were all there were to the story.
‘All I want to do is talk to your father,’ he said, but Tessa snorted.
‘I’m sure you know Simon Drake hasn’t given an interview in thirty years.’
Of course he knew that. And up until today, Danny had assumed, like the rest of the world, that Simon Drake had withdrawn from public life after his wife Stella had walked out. Heartbroken and wounded, that was the story. But now he was sure there was much more to that story.
‘So why? Why won’t Simon speak to the press?’
Tessa made a vague gesture.
‘Because his work speaks for itself. He doesn’t want his interpretations to interfere with the ideas other people have of his images.’
>
‘Well I think the public would like to hear from him, especially after all this time.’
She folded her arms.
‘Well it’s not going to happen.’
There she went again, doing her best to protect her family. Did that make Tessa Drake better than him? She would do anything to help her father, while Danny would happily write a story that would cut his mother to the bone.
‘Tessa, come on,’ said Danny, his voice softening. ‘Can’t we start again, like we did that first day in the studio? Put all of this to one side? None of this really matters and I think both know that what we had up there on the hill…’
‘You are not speaking to my father!’ snapped Tessa.
‘Okay, fine,’ said Danny, wounded. He’d tried to reach out to her, tried to tell her how he felt, but she’d slapped his hand away.
‘You do know I can still write the story without either of you.’
‘What story? There is no story.’
Their eyes met and he saw Tessa flinch. If Danny’s theory was right, then Tessa would be hyper-alert, paranoid, constantly expecting the axe to fall. In which case, why did she agree to go on a date with a journalist? And then it hit him like a punch to the stomach.
Oh no, he thought, his eyes wide. Oh no. Was that why Tessa Drake had gone out with him? Was it a strategic move to ‘keep your friends close and your enemies closer?’
‘Why did you go out with me?’ he said, his voice rough.
Tessa frowned, confused.
‘What do you mean?’
Danny felt sick. He’d been played, manipulated. It explained why a gorgeous woman like Tessa Drake had dated a small-town hack like him. She hadn’t liked him, she’d just wanted to manage the Drake brand’s PR.
‘Danny, what do you mean?’ asked Tessa again. ‘I went out with you because I wanted to. Because I liked you, because I still do.’
‘Sure,’ he said. ‘Sure.’
Suddenly furious at her – and at himself for falling for it – Danny backed towards the lift.
‘What’s going on, Danny?’ asked Tessa, for the first time actually looking concerned. Danny glared at her.
‘It’s Ray or it’s you,’ he said, arms spread wide. ‘One or the other, I have to file a story. Think about it: who do you care about the most?’
Tessa looked at him with anger and pity.
‘You really are a journalist, aren’t you?’
Danny stabbed the button for the lobby.
‘You better believe it.’
Chapter Nineteen
Tessa stood on the harbor wall, her toes right on the edge. One slip, one step forward and – splash – no more problems. But that would be petulant and, considering the circumstances, shameful. Some people were so in pain they couldn’t see any other way out, but Tessa was simply in a mess of her own making, terrified her secrets would be exposed. Plus Tessa was an excellent swimmer and given the bustling nature of Port Quinn, she imagined some yachtie would yank her out with a big hook.
Anyway, her over-riding emotion wasn’t despair, but anger. No, it was fury. Fury at Danny for threatening her, asking her to sacrifice her father, to choose between him and Bishop Ray. How could he? And then there was Fury at herself for having got herself into this mess in the first place. Most of all though, her fury was directed at those Greek Gods of love who found it all so amusing to tempt you in, then snatched away what you wanted most at the last moment.
And that was the worst of it. It wasn’t until Danny turned away from her in that hotel corridor that Tessa has realized what she was losing. She hadn’t known Danny Brennan that long, but what he was trying to say up there was true: they’d had a connection. He had been funny and honest and brave and… then it had all fallen away, like ashes. And she had done it herself: burnt it all to the ground.
‘You alright there miss?’
She turned, her heart leaping as she saw a tall man in a dark blue uniform. A policeman.
‘Don’t mean to pry,’ he said gently, ‘But I was wondering if you needed any help?
‘I… I’m fine,’ said Tessa, her voice wavering. He didn’t look convinced. Tessa wasn’t sure she was convinced herself. The policeman took a step toward her, hands spread as if he was approaching a skittish pony.
‘Is there anything I can help you with?’
Tessa stepped to the side, ashamed and embarrassed.
‘Really, officer…’
‘It’s Guard actually,’ he smiled. ‘Guard Noah, that’s what everyone calls me.’
Tessa nodded dumbly. She had seen the man around, but had never spoken to him; why would she? Tessa had never had any dealings with the police, had never even double-parked. But now she looked, his face was kindly and he had an air of competence, as if he’d seen most things in his time. Tessa suddenly had the crazy notion of telling Noah her whole story and asking his advice. Instead she gave a nervous laugh.
‘Don’t worry Guard, I’m fine. Just had an argument with my…’ She had been about to say ‘boyfriend’, but that wasn’t true, was it? ‘… with my Dad,’ she concluded. ‘Just wanted to get away.’
‘Ah,’ nodded Noah. ‘Well I can sympathize with you there, Miss…?’
‘Tessa. Tessa Drake.’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘The artist, am I right?’
She gave a weak smile.
‘I suppose.’ At least he hadn’t said ‘Simon Drake’s daughter.’
‘No suppose about it, Miss Drake,’ said the policeman. ‘I’m quite a fan.’
‘You… you are?’
‘Oh yes, I’ve often peered in the window of your studio. I can see a lot of Turner in your paintings. And what’s the fella’s name? From the St. Ives school? Lanyon, Peter Lanyon.’
Tessa laughed.
‘Well I have to say I’m impressed, Guard Noah. Are you an art lover?’
‘After a fashion. More of a music lover, actually.’
‘Well often the two are linked. I do like to listen to Tchaikovsky when I’m working.’
‘The symphonies? Number 5 is my favorite.’
Tessa smiled.
‘Piano concertos, mostly. I like how you can hear the expression.’
As they had been talking, Tessa realized Noah had casually edged to her right, putting himself between her and the water, guiding her back towards the road. Clever.
‘I wasn’t going to jump in, you know.’
‘I know that, Miss. He flashed a smile. ‘And I also know about families. Mine’s driven me to the edge more than once.’
‘Really? You?’
‘Oh yes. My Da. He’s… well, we don’t really talk any more, sorry as I am to say.’
Tessa raised her eyebrows. The Irish Guards weren’t much like their English counterparts, that was for sure.
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ she said. ‘I suppose I should be glad that my dad and I have a relationship. It’s just…’
Noah nodded, as if she needn’t say more – he understood.
‘You want my advice?’
‘I do, actually.’
‘Let it lie, at least until the heat’s gone out of it. Then you can look at it like a painting, tilt your head, take your time deciding how you really feel about it.’
‘That’s very wise.’
Noah shrugged. ‘I’m not so sure about that; but I can say that in my job, I wouldn’t have a quarter of the problems to deal with if people could just take a deep breath before doing things.’
Tessa thanked him and walked along the appropriately named ‘Fish Quay’, which led out towards the water. Port Quinn was surrounded by steep cliffs just like Clover Cove, but the bay here was wider and deeper with virtually no beach even at low tide; perfect for a port, of course, but not as pretty as her home. Nevertheless, she wanted to walk up to the top and look down onto the ocean. The sea here was the same sea, more or less. Her sea. The one she saw from her studio. The one you painted in all those Simon Drake paintings, sneered a voice in her head.
Tessa walked up a little footpath, tall wildflowers growing either side, insects zigging and zagging here and there. At the top where it opened out to the view, Tessa sat down on a weathered bench, looking out onto the water, deep and cobalt blue. To her left, she saw the woman coming down from the cliffs, a long basket over her arm full of yellow and white flowers. Tessa’s heart immediately sank. Were those Greek Gods intent on torturing her today?
‘Hello, Mrs. Brennan,’ she said.
The older woman stopped next to Tessa’s bench. She was wearing a black dress as always, but today she had wound her grey hair up in a forest green scarf. It suited her, but Tessa didn’t think she’d appreciate the observation.
‘How are you, Miss Drake?’ asked Ma Brennan. ‘I believe your father’s having an exhibition tonight?’
‘That’s right.’
‘I like his paintings,’ she said.
‘Gosh, I wasn’t aware everyone in the Cove even knew he lived here.’
‘Out at Trew Point? Ach, there’s always been someone odd living up there. Before him it was a theatrical fella, put on plays in the West End and Broadway.’
‘Really? I didn’t know.’
The woman paused, looking at Tessa critically.
‘And now my Danny’s sweet on you,’ she said.
