Vivienne looked coldly at her sibling’s only child.
‘Lose the attitude, cupcake,’ she said. ‘As it happens I had a publishing meeting in Sydney and finished my business commitments early so thought I’d jump the Tasman and witness the holy matrimony of my only niece.’
She was about to go on to say that she would now have to organise alternative entertainment for Saturday afternoon when a fresh supply of tears spilled out of Molly’s eyes and softened her hardened heart.
‘Look, I know you’re having a shit day, Molly, but at least you haven’t been arrested for causing a public nuisance. Now I suggest we blow this popsicle stand and go see your mom. I can only imagine how she’s taking the news.’
‘Me too,’ said Molly with a sudden shudder of horror, unable to meet her aunt’s gaze. ‘Imagine it, I mean.’
Viv looked at the beautiful tear-streaked face of her broken-hearted niece and fought an urge to reach out and give it a good slap.
‘You mean you haven’t told her,’ she said.
‘Oh, Aunt Vivienne, perhaps it’s a good thing you’re here,’ Molly said before dissolving into sobs again.
Nothing like a warm welcome, Vivienne thought, reaching for her drink and draining every last drop.
Chapter 6
1969
Patricia O’Meara dropped her washing basket with a thud.
‘You’re messing with me!’ she accused her neighbour, Betsy Ginty, who was at this moment leaning over the back-yard fence, her cheeks positively rosy with a glow for which only fresh gossip and the seaside air could be responsible.
‘On my mother’s grave, God rest her soul,’ gabbled Betsy. ‘Seamus Mahoney’s Daniel was over at the O’Reillys’ delivering the eggs when the poor girl came rushing in, told the lot of them what had happened and fainted dead away. He saw the whole thing with his own eyes, Patricia.’
‘Daniel?’ said Patricia, moving over to the fence herself. ‘Is he the one with the milk-bottle spectacles, now, Betsy?’
‘All the better for seeing the little angel collapse to the floor and there’s nothing wrong with his ears, before you ask. Look, you’ve a pair of bloomers caught up in your shoe, Patricia. It’s back in the tub with those.’
Patricia scooped up the offending undergarment and stuffed it into the front pocket of her pinny, leaving the ratty crotch hanging out.
‘So what did she say, Betsy? What did she see?’
Betsy leaned closer to her neighbour’s ear.
‘Well, the girl’s a paragon of virtue is the thing, otherwise you’d suspect a pint of porter might be at the bottom of the whole business,’ she said. ‘Margaret Mary O’Reilly has always been special, I’ve always said that.’
‘You told me last week she had ideas above her station and needed taking down a peg or two,’ Patricia reminded her neighbour.
‘Ah, sure and I was only fearing for the girl that being so special would get the better of her,’ said Betsy. ‘Which only proves my point — now, do you want to know what the blessed creature saw or not?’
‘You know I do. What was it?’
‘Only the Virgin Mary herself, Patricia O’Meara. Shimmering like the holy vision she was across the back of Hungry Hill. Right here in Ballymahoe. Holy Mary, Mother of God, Patricia.’
They crossed themselves and stood in silence, each mulling over the wondrousness of it all.
‘Was she on her own, now Betsy? Young Margaret Mary?’
Betsy Ginty’s eyes hardened as she hitched at one of her stockings. ‘Now, why would you go and ask a thing like that?’
‘Well, was she or wasn’t she?’ persisted Patricia, who, it had to be said, was raging at not being first with such a top-shelf piece of gossip. Why did Betsy always get there first? The two women were best friends but deadly rivals when it came to juicy titbits such as this one.
If it weren’t for Betsy’s womb being shrivelled, Patricia would probably have hated the silly woman, but here were she and Mickey with five beautiful daughters when after all those years of trying, all Betsy and Eamon could come up with was the wretched Thomas Aquinas, as thick as a plank and plain as a glass of water.
‘As it happens,’ said Betsy, ‘there was another witness to the holy vision, Patricia. That’s right.’
‘And would that other holy witness be Colm Fogarty, Betsy? You know, the little bollocks that was caught nicking gin from Brendan’s bar?’
Betsy turned her back and started unpegging her clean washing from the clothesline.
‘And what if it was, Patricia? I suppose you’re going to tell me that just because Colm Fogarty happened to be in the vicinity the vision of Our Lady was not a miracle?’
Patricia turned and picked up her discarded washing.
‘No, Betsy, I’m going to tell you there’ll be another miracle in nine months’ time.’ She turned to go inside. ‘Only they’ll be calling that one an immaculate conception.’
Chapter 7
Wednesday, 17 February 1999
Sitting in the back of the corporate cab with Molly on their way into the city to tell Bobs the bad news, Vivienne felt a cloak of doom drape over her. As she watched the patchy Auckland neighbourhoods whoosh by she wondered, as she did every time she visited this end of the world, where all the people were.
She yearned for the round-the-clock rush-hour and honking cacophony of Manhattan. She wanted to feel swept up and carried away by her surroundings, not stuck out like a sore thumb in the middle of them.
Reasons to visit the Antipodes had become few and far between over the past years and much as she felt a duty to her niece — okay, and her son-of-a-bitch sister — the annual visits had become bi-annual and then tri-annual.
It wasn’t much of a family but it was the only family she had. And although her sister irritated her beyond belief and her niece was far too much in the same vein, she kept in touch with phone calls and emails, even if the former often ended with a hang-up and the latter were only two lines long.
But she had to admit that news of Molly’s engagement to an advertising whizz-kid had shot the girl up in her estimation. Maybe someone in their pathetic little family was getting a break, she had thought. Maybe they weren’t the Bermuda Triangle of relationships, after all.
She looked over at her niece huddled against the opposite door on the other side of the cab and tried to stop herself feeling Molly’s own heartbreak. She had spent years stopping herself from feeling that sort of pain. She was good at it now, too.
She’d met husband number one at Bon Appetit, the first magazine she’d worked on in New York. She’d been a 20-year-old editorial assistant fresh out of college; he’d been a struggling freelance photographer with flashing black eyes and a beautiful body.
Vivienne had worked her butt off to get him on the full-time staff of the magazine group and they were married soon after. Two years later Marco was flying around the world taking photos for Vogue and Marie Claire and performing sexual athletics on a model called Tatiana in Paris.
Husband number two was an attorney in the firm that represented Flair, the fashion magazine of which Vivienne was by then assistant editor.
Howard was the opposite of Marco in every respect. He was conservative, corporate, quiet and didn’t have a creative bone in his body. Vivienne truly believed he had been sent to her by God to heal her broken heart.
But whereas her first husband had been brimming over with passion, her second was devoid of it. For her, anyway. After three years of a marriage that seemed perfect from the outside, Howard came out of the closet.
He still had the good grace, though, to introduce Vivienne to her third husband, a British novelist called Tim Winterbourne, with whom she had the best two years of her life until in a drunken state of openness and honesty he confessed that he didn’t love her. Never had.
At that stage Vivienne had weighed up her options. It was hard enough to get one husband in New York, let alone an embarrassment of them. Tim was very fond of her and
they were socially very compatible. They lived in an upper-westside apartment and moved in all the right media and literary circles. They liked the same things. They never fought. They occasionally made love.
Vivienne knew that she could have a good life with Tim but she wanted a wonderful life. She wanted to be worshipped and she didn’t think that was too much to ask so she gave Tim his marching orders and started looking for husband number four.
She’d given up that losing battle about a decade ago.
In the meantime, Howard had introduced her to a wealthy publisher with whom she had conceived the idea of Match!, a New York magazine aimed at turning singles into doubles.
The magazine had been fantastically successful — beyond her wildest dreams. If there was one city in the world where women needed help finding men it was New York City and she had tapped into the desperation of the single set at just the right time.
She had brought together so many lonely people and made them happy — that was enough for her. She didn’t need any happiness for herself.
‘God, Vivienne. Is that Chanel? You flew here in Chanel?’ Molly’s voice shattered her aunt’s gloomy reverie.
‘Can I just point out that I am riding in a taxi with someone wearing a wedding dress?’ Viv countered. ‘I only came from Sydney, remember. First class.’
She looked at her niece and tried to smile but failed. God, why did this girl annoy her so much?
‘Oh, Vivienne, I am sorry,’ Molly caught the look. ‘You’re here and it’s a disaster and Jack White — I just want to strangle him. And then maybe stab him a bit. And kick him.’
‘Molly,’ her aunt interrupted Molly’s gruesome fantasy, ‘you’re just going to have to get over this little hiccup and get on with things, the way millions of other people before you have. You’re better off knowing now what a piece of shit that two-timing jackass is than finding out two years down the track. Trust me. Left here, driver, and it’s the third driveway.’
They stopped outside Bobs’ house.
‘Let’s get this bit over and done with, shall we? Your mother is going to go crazy and we both know she doesn’t need any help in that department.’
Molly closed her eyes and wished she were dead. When she opened them she was sadly still alive but at least her aunt had paid the taxi fare.
She slowly got out and looked up at her Mother’s Parnell townhouse. Every fibre of her being was telling her to turn around and run very fast in the opposite direction. That marrying a two-timing jackass would be nothing compared to breaking her mother’s heart with what was about to unfold at 24b St Stephens Avenue.
But when Vivienne picked up her LV luggage and started towards the front door, Molly found herself following.
‘Vivienne! I don’t believe it. Is it really you? You look gorgeous. Oh, come here, you fabulous creation. How about a hug!’ Bobs spared no syllable when she opened the door and saw her older sister standing there.
Throwing her arms around Vivienne she kissed her cheek and pretended not to notice that the perfectly coiffured woman was ramrod stiff in embarrassment at the display of affection.
Only then did she notice her bedraggled daughter standing behind her aunt in what looked like her wedding dress.
‘Molly, darling. What’s happening?’
With a look of panic she pushed past Vivienne and took her daughter by the shoulder.
‘Don’t you dare tell me you got married today and didn’t tell me. Moo-moo? Your aunt was at the wedding but not your own mother? Did she tell you to elope? I don’t understand, Molly. What’s going on? Come inside.’
Bobs managed a quick scope around the street to make sure none of the neighbours could see and ushered her daughter into the house.
‘You could try letting the poor girl get a word in, Bobs,’ Vivienne said, depositing her luggage in the hallway. ‘Shall we go in the front room? I’d kill for a coffee.’
Bobs ignored her sister and led Molly into the front room where she sat her down.
‘If there’s bad news, Vivienne, I want to hear it now — the refreshments can wait. What is it, Moll?’
Molly tried to open her mouth to speak but nothing came out.
‘Jack shat on her,’ Vivienne offered.
‘Darling, he shat on you?’ Bobs was horrified. ‘That’s disgusting. I thought only movie stars did that!’
‘No, Mum. He didn’t shit on me literally,’ said Molly and started to unfold the events of the day.
Bobs stood up and paced in front of the fireplace, fiddling with her rings and nibbling at her lips as the sorry tale of her straying son-in-law-to-be spilled out.
‘How could he?’ she said of Jack.
‘You poor darling!’ as Molly described Tiffini.
‘Little Jessie!’ of Jess’ betrayal.
‘Moo-moo — was that a good idea?’ as Molly sheepishly described her plans to douse Tiffini with egg water.
But when Molly got to the part where Vivienne appeared and stopped her from making even more of a scene, the trio fell quiet.
Bobs’ brain was doing overtime. Nothing like this had ever happened before. She had no idea what to do.
‘Darling,’ she started in a sickly sweet fashion, ‘everything is organised. There are 270 tiny little fowl just waiting to be roasted, 810 tiny little potatoes wanting to go with them. The wine is here, the flowers are almost picked. I have my outfit. Is there any way this wedding could go ahead?’
‘Yes, Bobs, there is. Tiffini could marry that cheating piece of shit instead and we could all be bridesmaids!’
Bobs narrowed her eyes as she looked her sister up and down.
‘Well, you’re the one with all the experience on the failed marriage front, Vivienne,’ she said sweetly. ‘I suppose we should follow your lead on this one.’
‘So, how is Pete, then, Bobs? Still bonking his way through the 19-year-olds of the South Island ski-fields? What is it — 20 years now? He must nearly be ready to come home.’
The catfight was brought to an early halt by Molly, who suddenly threw her head back on the sofa and howled with grief.
The duelling sisters were at once on either side of her, comforting her, Bobs by hugging her heartbroken daughter to her chest, Vivienne by attempting what she thought would be a supportive pat on the back.
‘Mum, I’m screwed, can’t you see that?’ wailed Molly. ‘I thought I was going to marry Jack and have babies and live happily ever after and now I don’t know what’s going to happen and all you two can do is yell at each other. Couldn’t this just be about me? For once? Just about me?’
Bobs and Viv looked at each other across her head and a silent truce passed between them.
‘Of course, my darling,’ whispered Bobs.
It was true, she thought with shame. It never really was about Molly. When the seven-year-old’s father had decamped, Bobs had fallen to pieces and Molly had held her together. Putting aside her own hurt and abandonment, the little girl had seen that her mother needed help and attention and given it to her.
As well as having the heartbreak of her husband doing a runner, she’d had to cope with the fact that the Parnell pub the couple had been running together was in dire straits.
Bobs had inherited the Dubliner from her father, who had opened it when he first brought her to New Zealand. It provided him with enough of a living to bring up his daughter, and enough whiskey to drink himself to death when Bobs was 21.
Within six months of his death she was married to Peter Brown, the devastatingly handsome barman; within another six months Molly was born.
When Peter took off all Bobs had was a broken-down old building and a ton of debt. At first she took to her bed with the gin bottle but the sight of her daughter, already old beyond her years, trying to find ‘beer’ in the phone book so she could order some for the Dubliner propelled her up and out and had done ever since.
It turned out Bobs was made of sterner stuff than she thought and with the help of a sympathetic ban
k manager she turned the pub into a restaurant, Browns’, which had thrived ever since the doors first opened.
Looking at the shaking shoulders of her darling daughter, Bobs’ heart bled for her. ‘What do you want to do, darling?’ she asked gently. ‘Whatever you want me to do, I’ll do it.’
‘I want to die,’ answered Molly. ‘Just die.’
The doorbell pierced the sniffling and shushing, giving them all a fright.
‘I’ll get it,’ said Viv, feeling the old familiar unease at the bond between mother and daughter.
She opened the door to find Jack White standing there.
‘Well, look what the sewer threw up,’ she said. ‘I don’t even have to guess who you are.’
‘Is Molly here?’ Jack ignored her scorn. ‘Can I talk to her?’
At the distant sound of his voice Bobs took to her feet and swept through the room like a tornado. Viv stood aside as her fuming sister charged past and whacked Jack White on the side of his face with a closed fist.
His hand flew up in horror to protect himself from further blows as Bobs kicked him in the shin and was about to beat him further about the head when Viv grabbed her from behind by the elbows and said to Jack, ‘She’s in the front room.’
Holding the struggling Bobs, who was gasping with rage, Vivienne turned her and propelled her towards the stairs, saying to Jack, ‘If I hear a squeak of trouble I’m releasing this straight away. Until then we’ll be upstairs.’
To her sister she whispered, ‘They need this talk, Bobs. It has to happen. Give them a break.’
When Jack walked into the front room and saw his Molly, his beautiful Molly, weeping into her hands on the sofa in her wedding dress, the full enormity of what he had done hit him.
‘I’ve fucked up,’ he moaned from the doorway. ‘Molly, I’ve really fucked up.’
Molly’s head snapped up and she looked at him, her eyes filled with tears. He looked just like the Jack she had loved with all her heart only hours ago; big and blond and as though he’d just stepped out of a Virginia Slims ad in the back pages of American Vogue. His face was tanned and handsomely weather-beaten from weekends spent sailing on the Auckland harbour and his eyes were a blue so dazzling that just one look at them usually left her speechless with desire. Now, though, all she could feel was this big soupy blackness that was filling her whole body.
Finding Tom Connor Page 4
