“So you weren’t really creative, after all, then? Was it just a phase, do you think?”
Eva had forgotten Mrs. Lainey could also be so tactless. “Well, no, not just a phase. I really do like to paint. And sing, actually. I’m just not doing it for a living at the moment.”
“Oh dear, don’t take offense,” Mrs. Lainey said quickly.
“There’s nothing wrong with working in a shop. What would we do without you shop assistants?” She’d changed the subject then. “You know, Lainey is practically running that event management company she works for. She’s just great. She’s worked her way right up to the top, so she has.”
“She’s great,” Eva had agreed. But the comparison had been obvious. Lainey had gone from success to success in Australia, while Eva still worked in a shop. Lainey was successful, Eva wasn’t.
As Lainey came out onto the balcony now with their drinks, Eva turned to her and blurted out what was on her mind. “Did you always think I was fooling myself about my painting and my singing, Lainey?”
“What?”
“Your ma said perhaps I’d just been going through a phase. When I went to art school. That I wasn’t really creative. Dermot said the same thing to me, actually, the night we broke up.”
Lainey flinched at her mother’s words. Her mother could be terrible sometimes, speaking without thinking. “I always loved your paintings. But how long is it since you’ve done any?”
“A while.” Four years exactly, she thought. Since the day she left art school.
“Why is that, do you think?”
Eva paused. She knew exactly why. “Oh, I don’t know really,” she lied. “A million reasons. I mean, writers have writer’s block—”
“Butchers have butcher’s blocks.”
Eva’s hackles went up. “Are you taking this conversation seriously?”
“I’m sorry. You have artist’s block, is that what you mean?”
“Yes, I think that’s it.” That would do fine, she thought.
“Well, what about your singing, then? You’ve still got a great voice, haven’t you? What happened with that band you used to sing with?”
“I had to give it up when I went full-time at the shop. And it wasn’t really a proper band. We just sang everybody else’s songs.”
Eva had once sent Lainey a video of the band performing. She had been very impressed. “So? A cover band’s still a band. And I thought you were really good, much as it kills me to say it. I still sound like a howling dog when I sing.”
“You do not.”
“I do. Anyway, you’re happy in the shop, aren’t you? Or would you like to do something else?”
Eva took a breath. This was the moment to tell her about Ambrose’s offer. She told her everything.
Lainey was delighted. “Evie, that’s fantastic. Absolutely brilliant. What a compliment.” Then she noticed her friend’s expression. “Aren’t you excited about it? Why do you look like he’s handed you a dead fish on a plate?”
Eva laughed at that. “I know Ambrose’s offer is fantastic, Lainey, of course I do. But what if I make a mess of it? What if it doesn’t work out?”
“Well, you get tried under section two of the Failure to Run a Shop Act and sent to prison, of course. Evie, would you listen to yourself? Of course you can do it. Have some faith, will you?”
That was easy for her to say, Eva thought. The woman who’d never had a moment’s self-doubt in her life. “It’s not as simple as that.” She stopped there, wishing she could explain why she hadn’t immediately accepted Ambrose’s offer. Why it had been going around and around in her head for days. She tried to put some of her thoughts into words. “It’s not just a matter of whether I think I can do it or not. I suppose it’s realizing that if I do accept it, then I’ve decided finally, once and for all, that I never will be a success as an artist or a singer. After all those years of thinking that was exactly what I wanted to do, what I wanted to be.” She laughed briefly. “Someone should invent a machine to show you what your life would have been like if you’d taken a different path, don’t you think?”
Lainey smiled. “Like those machines some hairdressing salons have, do you mean? Where you give them your photograph and they show you what you’d look like with all different sorts of hairstyles?”
“Exactly. But it would have to be a video, wouldn’t it? A one-hour special of edited highlights of your alternative life. Showing the house you’d have lived in, the people you’d have met, the sort of work you would have done.”
“So what would your alternative life have been?” Lainey asked, leaning back in her chair. “The struggling artist living in the garret, traipsing from gallery to gallery? Or the husky-voiced singer dragging herself from low-paid gig to low-paid gig, bottle of scotch in one hand, cigarette in the other?”
“Oh, neither. I’d have been hugely successful, of course. Gone straight to the top. There’d be no point splashing about in the shallows. Anyway, haven’t you always thought I’d make a wonderful famous person? I’d be so kind to my fans. So generous with my wealth. Friend and confidante to the great and the good, sought after by all the TV chat shows…”
Lainey grinned in recognition. They’d played this game a lot when they were children. Pretended to be famous pop stars or actresses for days on end, swanning about in makeup and fancy dress, talking in fake accents, driving their parents mad. “Oh, absolutely. And I can just see your paintings—”
“No, no, no, Lainey, not paintings. I’d have moved on to sculpting, I think. With my singing as a sideline.”
“Of course. And your name? Would you still be called Eva Kennedy?”
“Oh, no,” Eva said emphatically, “that’s much, much too ordinary. I’d trade on my very fashionable Celtic roots of course. Use an Irish name. An ancient name, dripping in historic significance.” She thought for a moment, before turning to Lainey. “I’d call myself Niamh. Niamh Kennedy.” She pronounced the Irish name slowly and dramatically—Nee-av.
Lainey sat up straight and started speaking with a very refined English accent into a pretend microphone. “Welcome back to Gushing Interviews with Famous People. We’re delighted to have the especially famous and international award-winning Irish sculptor and singer in the studio with us tonight. A big hand please for Miss Niamh Kennedy.”
Eva inclined her head at the imaginary applause.
“So tell me, Niamh, where are you living these days?” Lainey held out the pretend microphone in Eva’s direction.
Eva gave a gracious smile. “Well, I do of course spend part of the year in my castle in Spain. I find the air and the light there agrees with my artistic temperament. But in fact most recently I have been exploring my Celtic heart and soul and I’m currently living and working in a small caravan in the west of Ireland. I find the rugged coastline, the crashing of the seas and the almost tangible mystery in the air,”—her voice was now a breathy whisper—“inspire me so much my sculptures nearly sculpt themselves.”
“Oh, how marvelous for you. And you’ve had a number of very successful exhibitions recently, I believe?”
“Oh, yes,” Eva said huskily. “My retrospective, entitled ‘The Sea: Oh How Dark and Mysterious,’ has just closed at the Guggenheim in New York and I believe the Tate in London achieved record attendances with my new collection called ‘Away, Clouds, Oh Airy Beings of Mystery, and Leave My Soul in Peace.’”
Lainey nodded solemnly. “Isn’t that splendid. And your music career, Niamh, have you put that on hold?”
“Oh no, not at all. How could I when I have the world’s great lining up outside the door of the caravan? It would be almost criminal to turn them down, surely? It’s been a busy year for me indeed. In fact, I’ve only just finished the backing vocals for Enya’s new album.”
“Really? Good Lord. I thought Enya did them all herself.”
Eva gave a merry laugh. “That’s what everyone thinks. God help her, the poor woman does about four hundred layers per song, she
hasn’t the time to do them all herself. No, I slipped into her studio just last month and did a few dozen of them myself.”
“That really doesn’t surprise me at all. Niamh Kennedy, you are a living saint and a national living treasure.”
Once again Eva inclined her head to the rapturous applause. Then she turned back to Lainey and laughed out loud. “Thank you,” she said.
Later, they stood side by side in the bathroom, taking off their makeup. Rex had wandered in after them. He was now in the bathtub, licking up a puddle of water near the plughole. Eva tried not to react. She had been getting used to him, slowly. She now agreed with Lainey that yes, he did look sweet when he was curled up in a ball on the couch, fast asleep. And he did indeed look funny when he chased his own tail, and when he scampered up and down the curtains. But she still couldn’t pick him up. She hadn’t patted him, either. And she definitely drew the line at sharing a bath with him and his fur. She’d stick to the shower from now on.
She took her hair out of the plait and shook her head. Her black hair fell in a long and silky swathe down her back.
“Wow,” Lainey said, in the middle of putting toothpaste on her toothbrush.
“Wow what?”
“Wow, your hair. That’s the first time I’ve seen it out since you got here. You’ve always got it in that plait. You look completely different with it down like that. It looks amazing. Why don’t you wear it out all the time? Or tomorrow night at the dinner party at least?”
“No, I don’t think so.” She’d got into the habit of tying it back. Especially at work, serving food as she did.
“Anyway, the mad gypsy look’s too wild for a boring old shop assistant, don’t you think?”
Lainey rolled her eyes, unable to speak with the toothbrush in her mouth. Still brushing, she waved when moments later Eva yawned, said good night and went into her bedroom. But as Lainey finished in the bathroom and walked through the apartment turning off the lights, there was a thoughtful look on her face.
Followed just minutes later by a mischievous smile.
CHAPTER 11
In Sydney, Joseph was walking up the last fifty or so steps to Dave’s impressive Bondi Beach apartment, feeling a slight ache at the back of his legs. It was hardly surprising, really. This was the first time in ages that anything but his vocal chords had been getting any exercise.
He stopped for a moment, leaning out of the wide window in the stairwell that overlooked the beach itself. The air was filled with tangy spice scents from the restaurants down below, mixed with the salt air. He could hear conversations and bursts of laughter from the diners.
He’d caught a taxi to Bondi direct from the conference’s final-night dinner. It had been a big success, the organizer had told him eagerly as she’d said good-bye. She’d had plenty of feedback from all the delegates, who’d found his keynote address and workshops inspiring and informative. Joseph had been pleased to hear it. But after the three days of speaking and demonstrating ergonomic design he’d felt like nothing but a fraud. That he was there under false pretenses. Because he wasn’t a designer any more, he realized. He was just a businessman now, conducting meetings, dealing with suppliers, signing deals…
He turned away from the view, climbed the final steps to the front door and knocked several times. The door was flung open by Dave himself. He grabbed Joseph’s hand in a firm, vigorous handshake, then slapped him on the shoulder for good measure. “Joseph Wheeler! Come in, come in, my old mate. Great suit, by the way. Paul Smith, is it? Very hip. And that shirt? Linen, is it? Come in. What’ll you have to drink?”
Trying to make conversation over the loud music blaring from the stereo speakers, Joseph followed Dave through the stylish living room and out onto the long, wide balcony. Lights were strung in the trees all around. And the smell—it was intoxicating, a mixture of sea and salt from the beach and some sort of tropical flowers. Was it jasmine? Joseph wondered. It was so breathtaking it was almost too much.
The women at the party were just as gorgeous. Groomed and tanned, wearing slinky dresses, lots of jewelry and even more attitude. And they were all so skinny, he noticed. How did all their internal organs fit into such small bodies? He soon felt like a magnet attracting iron filings, as one after another of the beautiful glossy creatures glided over toward him. Dave had obviously filled all his friends in on Joseph’s life story.
“Dave tells us you’ve got your own design business.”
“Dave tells us you’re very, very successful.”
“Dave tells us there are companies lining up to buy your designs.”
One of the bolder ones cut to the chase. “Dave tells us you’re single and straight.”
An hour later, Joseph decided he’d had enough. He was keeping up, managing to trade some banter, even flirt a little with one or two of the women, but his heart just wasn’t in it. The conversation hadn’t extended much beyond property prices, share markets and business deals. He needed some fresh air.
Then he remembered he was already in the fresh air, on the balcony. What he needed was some not-fresh air. He excused himself from the trio of glamorous string-beans around him and went inside to get a glass of water.
The kitchen wasn’t empty. A red-haired man was washing a big collection of glasses, whipping through them with great efficiency.
“Could I just get a glass of water?” Joseph asked.
“Water? I’d say you’re the first person to drink water in this flat for a long time.” The man gestured to the bar in the corner. “Champagne, vodka, gin, ten brands of beer…But you want water. I’ve heard it all now.”
Joseph had spotted his accent. “You’re from London too? What part?”
“South London, me. Just here on a holiday, backpacking around, picking up work here and there. No real hardship, this, is it? Turn up at a ritzy place like this, wash a few dozen glasses, drink as many dregs as you can,” the grin again, “then back to the hostel with a pocketful of cash, ready to head off traveling again.”
Joseph leaned against the kitchen bench, very interested. “So where have you been in Australia so far?”
“Everywhere. The north, the west, the south, the east. This is my fifth trip to Oz. And you?”
“First time. I’m thinking of moving on from Sydney myself in the next few days. Got any tips on where to go next?”
The man stopped washing glasses for a moment while he thought about it. “It depends what you’re after. Broome is incredible, all red sand and blue sky and sea. Or there’s Byron Bay, hippies and rainforests on tap. Are you heading in any particular direction?”
“To South Australia.”
“In that case, make sure you go via Melbourne. Definitely. It’s a great city. A brilliant city.” He lowered his voice. “I wouldn’t want anybody here in Sydney to hear me say this, for fear of execution, but I think Melbourne’s better than Sydney. Streets ahead of it. Sydney’s all flash and glamour, like the beautiful younger sister. She catches your attention first and you’re beguiled, seduced in a moment. But then your attention slowly starts to wane and suddenly you notice Melbourne. The quieter, more demure sister, on the surface. Until you discover that still waters run deep and Melbourne’s the one you really fall in love with.”
The man laughed at the expression on Joseph’s face. “And you thought I was just a thick dishwasher, didn’t you? I used to be an English lecturer. Straight out of school, into teacher training, then schools, colleges. Twenty years of my life—routine, pressures. Then I had a heart scare three years ago, a month after I turned forty. Slow down, the doctor said. Change what you can. So I took him literally. I changed everything.”
“Everything?”
“I resigned. I sold my house. I work in the local pub now, save like mad and take six months off every couple of years and come here and travel around. I stay in hostels, wear whatever I want, go wherever I want, do whatever I want, and it’s the most relaxing thing in the world. If I wanted to go to parties like this I’d
stay in London. It’s much better in here.” He gestured around the kitchen. “Peaceful. The only problem is I get terribly rough hands.” He held them up and laughed. “A small price to pay.”
“And you enjoy yourself?”
“Sure do. It’s good fun. Really good fun. Pressures, deadlines, who needs them?”
Dave poked his head in then. “Joseph, there you are. Leave the hired help alone and come back out here. A gang of us are talking about going up to Queensland in the next few days, spur-of-the-moment thing. Fancy coming along?”
Joseph made a snap decision. “No, thanks anyway, Dave. I’m going to head for Melbourne.”
The hired help smiled into the sinkful of glasses.
CHAPTER 12
In Melbourne the following evening, Lainey looked up from her refrigerator and groaned. “Oh, damn it, I forgot to get champagne for tonight.”
Eva glanced over from the dining area where she had just finished laying out the place settings. “Do you want me to drive down to the off-license and get some? You’ve still got the food to finish, haven’t you?”
Lainey was at the kitchen bench, which was covered in bowls of cut-up vegetables and delicious-smelling sauces. She was making an Asian-style banquet for them all. “They’re called bottle shops here, remember, not off-licenses,” she said automatically. “Would you mind, Eva? Are you sure you’re okay with the trams?”
“Just give them right of way at all times, is that the general rule?”
Lainey nodded and tossed her the car keys. “That’d be brilliant, thanks a million. Can you get half a dozen bottles?”
“Half a dozen?”
“Well, you know the saying. You can never be too thin, too rich or have too much champagne in your fridge.”
By the time Eva had got lost, then found the bottle shop, found a parking place, then chosen six bottles from the many varieties of Australian champagne, nearly an hour had passed. Back at the flat she struggled up the final set of stairs carrying the box of bottles in both arms. The front door flew open. She nearly jumped out of her skin to find Lainey standing right there.
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