In Trabawn she had called him a little boy, taunting him when he kissed her behind the rocks, and he had turned to Lorraine with her day-dreamy innocent eyes that only ever saw what she wanted to see. Two years later, when he came to London, he held a bottle of sangria in one hand and a tacky toy donkey tucked under his arm.
“I’m not sure whether he’s Plato or Aristotle.” He presented the donkey to Virginia and bowed, sweeping an outrageously large sombrero from his head.
“Let me guess.” She laughed and invited him into the flat she shared with Razor. “You’ve been to Iceland on your holidays?”
He smiled his lazy, sexy smile and stepped inside. His holiday in Spain was a respite before he started working for the summer in London. She cooked pasta and they drank the sangria which he poured into their mouths through a long thin nozzle and then, when they drank their fill, he licked the fruity taste from her lips. When Razor, on an overnight gig with his band, returned the following day, the bed was neatly made, fresh sheets in place. How torn she had been, how excited. Wings on her feet as she ran between the two of them. Razor, engrossed in his band, recording his divisive songs, never suspected. He did not register the laden silences or notice the sideways glances.
Adrian left at the end of the summer, returning home to complete his studies. He was back again the following year. Lorraine arrived shortly afterwards, shaking her mermaid hair, more attractive than Virginia remembered, and she had watched Adrian come adrift, swing between the two of them, but, always, returning to her. Jake had been conceived, she suspected, on a sultry night when reason, like their clothes, was flung aside. In a game of strip poker Virginia held a full deck. She had slipped from Razor’s bed and quietly entered the living room where she found Adrian in the dark, sleepless, ready for her. She had plundered desire that night, thrown caution to the wind as she stormed high on the passion of two men, and, afterwards – how was she to know which one had fathered her child?
While Razor toured with his band and Lorraine wilted, lovesick and confused, she ignored the reality of her pregnancy and discussed a different future with Adrian. They would move to California. His enthusiasm was contagious: open-topped jeeps and rollers, people dancing bare-foot on the beach, breath-taking sunsets, falling asleep to the sounds of the ocean. She wanted the fleet-footed happiness he could give her, or so she believed until she returned to her flat and collapsed to her knees, suddenly overcome with an incredible feeling of loss. This creature – not yet life and conceived in a maelstrom of lust, without thought or consideration – was assuming an identity that could no longer be denied. And there she was, her head against the bath, a towel clutched in her hands, when Lorraine discovered her.
Razor held her gently when he heard, no longer her rough, tough punk but a young man in love, awed by the realisation that he was to become a father. As soon as she made her decision to stay with him she knew it was the right one. Shortly afterwards, Adrian moved to California.
“How would you react if this was your child?” she asked, before he left.
“I’d stay with you, of course,” he replied. “We’d work something out together.”
“A termination?” she said.
His eyes glazed over at her direct question. “It would have to be a consideration. But only if it was what you wanted. Why are you putting me through this? It’s not my child, not my decision to make.”
Lightness and air against solid rock. She had made the right choice. No time for regrets. Life was too full, too swift, to waste time wondering.
But that afternoon on the South Wall the past leapt upon her unawares and Adrian, as if tuned to her thoughts, turned her towards him, and she knew from the sultry touch of his hands that he too was remembering. Without speaking, they moved out of sight behind the walls of a shed. They kissed, an ardent furtive embrace, and emerged again, shaken by the realisation that a summer madness was still upon them.
Emily’s kite was lowered. Reluctantly, the falcon dipped, swooped once more, as if defying the pull of the string, and then settled with a last desperate flutter at their feet. Lorraine walked towards them. Did her step falter for an instant, her smile become more fixed? Virginia braced herself, steadied her nerve. She knew how to carry a secret. Sonya and her red high heels.
A small terrier dashed forward and tore at the kite. Emily sobbed as Ralph wrestled the kite from the dog. Adrian and Lorraine took her hands and swung her forwards and backwards, a well-practised manoeuvre, effortless, and Emily’s tears turned to laughter. Lorraine’s voice floated back, floated lightly past Virginia, who paused and stared towards the sea, aware there was a choice that could still be made. When she walked from the pier that afternoon, she had severed a lifetime of friendship. She exchanged it for the coded world of lovers, where innocuous words spoken in company had the power to transfix them with desire and the foreplay of yearning glances in crowded places was an unspoken language only they could interpret. Six months later she had persuaded Ralph to move to Ireland. The future had been ordained.
* * *
In the Blue Oyster restaurant, Bill Sheraton was waiting when she arrived. She ordered salmon and crab terrine with a dill mayonnaise. Easy to digest, no bones or flaky pieces that might drop inelegantly from her fork and stain her silk blouse. The businessman, having no such worries, wrapped a linen napkin around his neck and tucked into a steaming plate of Moules Marinière. It was their final meeting before the Sheraton Worldwide Travel fund-raising ball and memorabilia auction. The response to tickets had been excellent. Celebrities had offered personal possessions for the auction and a film made by an ex-patient of the Patterson Rehabilitation Centre would be premiered on the night. Virginia had already viewed the film with some distaste but – as the proceeds of the auction were going to the centre – her voice betrayed no such emotion when she discussed it with the businessman.
She politely waved aside the dessert menu and ordered an espresso.
“Same for me.” Bill nodded brusquely at the waiter. “Make it strong enough to kick-start the afternoon.” After a quick glance at his watch he turned his attention back to her. “You mentioned there was another matter you wished to discuss with me.”
“It’s a business proposition concerning Adrian’s company.”
“Ah yes. Strong–Blaide. But not any more, eh?”
“No indeed.” Virginia offered him a rueful smile. “It’s been a difficult time for all of us.”
Understatement was an art she had polished to perfection in the early years of her career. Adrian’s accountant had warned that closure was inevitable unless a sizable investment was made. She fell silent until the waiter served their coffee then leaned towards the businessman. “But life moves on, Bill. Adrian is restructuring his company and –”
“And you think I’d be interested in putting a rescue package together?” His non-committal tone interrupted her prepared speech, increased her nervousness. She smiled brightly, the espresso cup poised precisely in her hand. He was difficult to fathom, abrasive and rude when publicity was not to his satisfaction, and also capable of bringing business meetings to an abrupt conclusion when the point was not reached in the first few minutes.
“It would certainly not be a rescue package.” She spoke more quickly than she intended and forced herself to slow down. “You’ve always been able to recognise a good investment. Adrian has some very exciting ideas in the pipeline. I was hoping you’d meet him, hear what he has to offer.”
His questions came in rapid succession, stimulating and challenging her. She was always at her best when it came to selling ideas, influencing decisions, bringing like-minded people together, and Bill Sheraton, like Adrian, had a creative vision. There was no reason why the dynamic partnership created by Strong–Blaide could not continue in a different form. The two Cs, Ralph used to call it – creative genius and commercial sense. Ralph, the dynamic force, had provided the perfect balance for Adrian’s ideas but with his departure a number of important accoun
ts had been lost. Adrian had tried without success to interest two potential investors in his new agency but both men changed their minds at the last minute. Their excuses did not fool Virginia. She was certain Ralph was in the background, pulling strings, a subtle whispering campaign. His reputation as a ruthless competitor was well established.
Bill Sheraton was interested. Virginia could see it in his narrowed gaze and the almost imperceptible nod he gave when she outlined the reasons why his investment would reap a worthwhile return. He finished his coffee and signalled for the bill, slapping her hand aside when she insisted on paying. Outside the Blue Oyster, he hailed a taxi to bring her back to Blaide House.
“Initially, Adrian will have to convince my financial controller that this proposition is worth discussing,” he repeated, before she stepped into the taxi. “You’ve made your pitch. The rest is up to him. I’ll get my secretary to ring him and make an appointment. You needn’t worry, Virginia. I won’t keep him on tenterhooks.”
A message from Adrian awaited her when she returned to the office. He was engaged for the afternoon with a client and would meet her back in the apartment. At seven o’clock she finally switched off her computer. Except for herself and Brenda, the woman who cleaned the offices and whose vacuum cleaner droned faintly in the distance, the building was empty. She hesitated on her way to the exit, suddenly oppressed by the silence. Strong–Blaide Advertising had been such a vital part of Blaide House, loud with young voices, the ring of mobile phones, the clatter of computers, laughter. Its premises would soon be taken over by a finance company and Adrian had moved to smaller offices on the first floor. At least the attic was up and running again. Spiral Staircase had been a brainwave and Mara Robertson, the owner of the gallery, was confident of its success. The transformation was startling yet each time Virginia entered the gallery she found it impossible not to think of Lorraine in her paint-stained shirts and trousers, welcoming her into her cluttered space, making coffee, lounging against the wall, the two of them relaxing down for a few minutes in a busy day. Mara used lilies to decorate the gallery, arranging them in glass vases, yet their scent had not succeeded in banishing the smell of paint, a cloying odour that drifted light as mist and clung stubbornly to Virginia’s skin.
The door to Ralph’s office was open. Brenda dusted it every evening, even though it was vacant since he moved to London. Hesitating for only an instant, Virginia pushed the door further ajar and entered. His desk was clear, not even a pen or piece of paper to mar its surface, her photograph gone from its customary position. The drawers were also emptied, the flamboyant paintings removed from the walls. She sat into his chair and spun around, spinning faster and faster until it seemed as if she was physically breaking through his invisible presence, banishing a spectre that somehow, somewhere, still hovered in the air.
Josephine had rung shortly after Ralph’s departure. “I thought you’d like to know that your unfortunate husband called to see me last night. He wept like a baby in my arms. As ye sow so shall ye weep.” She sounded like an orator at a graveside.
The sheer audacity of this lie had enraged Virginia. To think of Ralph shedding tears, much less weeping in her mother’s arms, would be amusing at any other time. But Virginia was not in a mood to be amused. She had walked from her marriage with a swollen cheek and the marks of her husband’s hand on her skin. Before striking her, she had sensed the blow, watched it forming in the bleakness of his eyes, as if he was already separating himself from what he was about to do.
“Go on,” she had taunted him, her head humming from the force of his hand. “Why don’t you do it properly? You’re strong, you can take me on. It’s what you’ve always wanted to do.”
“It’s what you want me to do.” When he stepped back she saw his pitiless determination. “I’ve no intention of making you feel better about yourself.”
“You never owned me, Ralph. No matter how hard you tried, I was always my own person.”
He jerked his palms before her but did not attempt to touch her again. “Then go, Virginia. Whatever prison you occupied with me never had a lock.”
Her cheek was beginning to throb. The pain gave her the courage to walk from her house. The garden enfolded her, the heavy-headed pampas grass waving farewell as she drove down the driveway. Automatic gates slid open then closed slowly behind her.
Adrian had moved to a hotel and was waiting for her. A city centre hotel, frequented by those they knew, but she walked boldly through the foyer. No more lies. Lorraine had raged down the phone, her voice hoarse from weeping, unrecognisable, ranting about her exhibition and some unthinking gesture on Virginia’s part that had confirmed her suspicions. Unable any longer to continue speaking, she had slammed down the receiver.
“Who were you talking to?” Ralph asked.
Virginia had turned to face him, the receiver fused to her hand. One by one she unclenched her fingers. Disbelief gave way to a slow dawning, her body already shivering in the aftermath of lost affection.
She closed the door of the office her husband had occupied and left the building. Outside Blaide House she hailed a taxi. The driver, an elderly man who looked like a retired civil servant, switched on Lyric FM. Perfect. La Bohème. She closed her eyes, relaxed. The journey was short and the taxi driver soon drew up outside the apartment in Clontarf. On the grassy promenade across the road a team of young boys were in training. The staccato commands of their soccer coach carried towards her. She entered the elevator which, as usual, was empty. How could such a large community remain invisible to each other, she wondered, as it glided upwards to the fourth floor. She never met anyone entering or leaving the red-brick blocks. Yet the small balconies surrounding her held tables and sun chairs, potted plants and, occasionally, a bicycle jammed against the railings. And beyond the walls of each apartment there were other trapped sounds, other struggles for supremacy, love, peace of mind, domination.
Adrian was slouched on a low armchair, his legs stretched before him. His relaxed posture was in marked contrast to the terse expression on his face as he spoke into the phone. Emily-talk-time. She knew the signs. This ritual had been going on since his daughter moved to Trabawn. She tousled his hair as she walked past. He raised his head but continued speaking, his voice low, persuasive. She heard him laugh at some remark made by Emily, his laughter too hearty, as if his daughter needed reassuring that she was the comedienne of the year. In the beginning, Emily had been intent on slicing her father’s heart into thin withered pieces but there were signs that she was at last coming around to accepting his situation. He had driven to Galway so they could celebrate her birthday together. Neutral territory, he explained when Virginia protested at being left out of the loop.
“Just give her time and then we can organise weekends here with us. She needs gentle handling until the dust settles.”
The dust always settled. It had nowhere else to go.
She placed her briefcase beside the work station, folded the newspaper he had scattered over the coffee table, added fresh water to a bunch of orchids. They had opened fully, their delicate, speckled petals reminding her of exotic butterflies in flight. A quick shower banished tiredness. She wrapped her hair in a towel and returned to the living-room, where Adrian was standing by the window, looking down on the football team.
“Where were you all afternoon?” she asked. “I tried to contact you on your mobile but it was switched off.”
“I had a meeting with Brian Ormond. By the time it ended it was too late to return to the office.”
“No problems, I hope?”
He leaned back against the wall and drew her into his arms. “Why should there be a problem?”
“Absolutely no reason. Just that he and Ralph used to be thick as thieves.”
“Ralph’s in London. He’s happy now that the house is sold and he’s pocketed his million. I was showing Ormond some ideas for the new campaign. It was a useful meeting.” When the towel fell from her shoulders he fluffed her hair a
nd called her his sexy punk.
She smiled, slapped his hand away. “Behave yourself. I’ve something important to discuss with you.”
“Can we do it in a horizontal position?” He waltzed her around the room, then veered towards the bedroom, singing, “I’m in the mood for love,” as they collapsed onto the bed.
She stifled her impatience, allowed him to kiss her twice before she told him about her meeting with Bill Sheraton. His arms stiffened, his playfulness instantly disappearing. He rolled over, pushed himself upright, a frown gathering between his eyebrows. “Why didn’t you tell me you were meeting him?”
“It was a toe-in-the-water exercise. What was the sense in getting your hopes up? He might have said no at the outset and then you’d have had to deal with another disappointment.”
“I understand what you’re saying but meeting Bill Sheraton behind my back is way out of line. Ralph may have allowed you to interfere in the running of the company but that’s not how I operate.”
“For goodness sake, stop looking so offended.” The enthusiasm drained from her voice. “I wasn’t trying to interfere. If Ralph is trying to make things difficult, and those two investors had dust on their heels, Bill Sheraton won’t be influenced by anything other than his own judgment. What does it matter who makes the contact as long as you’re successful? His accountant is going to ring you next week. Check up on Siamese cats. She breeds them.”
“You’re quite a mover, Virginia.” His eyes narrowed, studying her, then he smiled again, his mood lifting. “A real shaker and a mover. Dry your hair. We have to celebrate.” He reached towards the bedside phone. “I’ll book a table at Pascal’s.”
Their favourite French restaurant was within walking distance of the apartment. A violinist circled the tables and stopped to serenade them. Not so long ago they would have banished him with a cold warning look but Adrian smiled and slipped a twenty euro note into the musician’s pocket. After their meal was over, they strolled along the esplanade, holding hands, enjoying the cool night air. No shadows walked in their footsteps. They made love when they returned to the apartment, not assuaging love, not seeking oblivion, but freely, as was now their right. It had been an enjoyable night. Throughout their meal they had avoided talking about business, Emily, Lorraine, Ralph – and not once had they mentioned the boy.
Fragile Lies Page 17
