Marianne gestured dismissively at the wine waiter. Her voice had an assertive ring when she demanded a jug of still mineral water with ice and slices of lime. She bestowed a contemptuous glare on those around her who were drugging legally and merrily on alcohol and explained to the table at large that she and Lorcan were on an addictive-substance recovery programme.
“Marianne, really. This is not the time or the place –” Andrea coughed warningly into a table napkin and left the perfect imprint of her shocked lips on white linen.
“This is a fund-raiser for the Patterson Centre.” Marianne was prettily defiant. “We have to talk about these issues.”
“Of course, dear. But is it necessary to do so tonight?”
“Why not?” Lorcan placed his arm protectively around his companion. “Marianne made the film we’re going to watch. I helped with the editing. I’m not ashamed to admit I’m in recovery.”
The barrister gazed slyly at Virginia’s cleavage and declared that addiction had many forms. He was occasionally tempted to steal items from Brown Thomas. In particular he enjoyed staking out the ladies’ shoe department. Not that he would ever attempt to steal anything, he hastened to assure her. Being a pillar of the legal establishment had its obligations. It was just an urge. Like the desire of a recovered alcoholic to lean his elbow on a bar – or a reformed smoker to breathe in the carcinogenic fumes of other people’s cigarettes. He glared peevishly at Bill Sheraton who unabashedly lit up his black cigarillos between each course.
At the end of the meal a large screen was lowered from the ceiling and the film began. Virginia had little interest in witnessing the daily routine of recovering junkies whose earnest revelations about life on the mean streets set her teeth on edge. Polite applause greeted the end of the film then increased to a crescendo when Sulki Puss, the drag queen who was conducting the charity auction, appeared.
Over six feet tall, Sulki Puss had become an overnight celebrity since the start of his late night game show on television. He cut a dramatic figure as he strode on stage in a red lamé dress, his height increased by an exotic turban in the same material. His dress was slit from ankle to hip and he was balanced gracefully on red stilettos, his muscular legs sleek under fishnet tights. Sonya and her red high heels. Virginia forced herself to concentrate on the auction but Sonya continued flickering like the faded rewind of an old long-forgotten film.
Sulki Puss was in full swing … titty-titty bang-bang … going, going, gone … he brought the hammer down on a black lace bustier donated by a famous cabaret singer.
“Jesus, I’d put myself on hard labour for those spikes.” The barrister, enraptured by the drag queen’s stilettos, chortled into his brandy. His wife cast a blistering glance in his direction before turning her attention back to Adrian.
“Why don’t you check them out in Brown Thomas?” Virginia smiled serenely and wondered how soon she could politely slip away or, preferably, curl into a quiet corner and sleep.
“As always, Virginia, a splendid occasion.” Finally, the night drew to a conclusion. Bill Sheraton was mildly intoxicated and jolly with it. He clasped her hand, glanced across the table where Adrian and the financial controller were still deep in conversation. “You can relax. Jennifer has assured me he’s a worthwhile investment.”
Energy surged through Virginia. “Wonderful. I promise you won’t regret your decision.”
“Don’t worry, Virginia.” His eyes glinted a warning. “I make sure I never regret my decisions.”
Andrea brushed her cheek in farewell. “Marianne was most indiscreet tonight. I’m sure you won’t mention –” She settled a steely glance on her son and his elfin companion who were talking animatedly to the director of the Patterson Centre.
“Of course not.” Virginia rushed to reassure her.
“Sometimes I wonder … it’s not easy being a mother.” She pursed her thin mouth, which was beginning to develop deep-set commas on either side. “You’re lucky, Virginia. No worries on that score.”
No worries indeed. If Jake had lived he would be a few years older than Lorcan, handsome, charming, witty, polished. His hair had been black, like her own. She had never seen the colour of his eyes. It was so long ago, compartmentalised, placed tenderly out of sight.
As Josephine was fond of saying, “Into every life a little pain must fall.”
Virginia closed her eyes on a velvet night. Velvet was how she classified events that flowed through her hands without a hitch. Tonight had been exhausting but worth the effort. Adrian was jubilant when he returned to the apartment and carried her into the bedroom. Her body still felt delightfully invaded and Adrian, always the first to drift away, uttered a languorous moan, as if his body was still infused with their pleasure.
Time to count sheep. There was something peaceful about their plump white bodies jumping over endless hurdles. She began to float with them, rising and falling, rising and falling. Wolves and red high heels. Her body jerked awake. Already the dream was fragmenting, leaving just a fleeting impression of Sonya in her red shoes and prowling wolves. Virginia did not believe in the significance of dreams. Life was complex enough without it being dominated by Jungian theories and in-depth analysis of the id. Unlike Lorraine, she had no intention of daubing her surreal fantasies across a canvas for all the world to view and dreams, when they did invade her sleeping hours, did so discreetly and had the good sense to be gone by morning, leaving nothing, not even a shadow of the unconscious to weight her down. She awoke refreshed, ready to take on the demands of a new day – or so she had believed until … well … she sighed and attempted to banish the vision of Sonya in her red high heels and laddered tights mincing across the floor of her little house in Blandsford Crescent. The image reminded her of one of Lorraine’s painting – which was enough to banish any lingering hope of sleep.
Painting Dreams should have been another velvet night. Virginia had worked tirelessly to make the opening of Lorraine’s exhibition a success. As always, her finger was steady on the promotional pulse of the evening – but the exhibition made her uneasy. There was a wildness in Lorraine’s paintings, an unfettered imagination utterly at war with the portraits upon which she had built her reputation.
Adrian had moved purposefully through the crush and stood beside Virginia, his words muffled, inaudible. She smiled across the gallery at a photographer from the Evening Herald and noted with pleasure an art critic from The Irish Times, another from the Dublin Echo. Standing slightly apart from the main gathering, Lorraine and the crew from Artistically Speaking were engaged in the interview.
“Have you seen it?” Adrian repeated, insisting on Virginia’s attention when she had so much to oversee.
She whispered, “We’ll talk later,” and waved to Bill and Andrea Sheraton, who had just arrived.
But he persisted, holding her arm until she stood still and allowed his words to blow warningly against her cheek. “He was mentioned again in the papers this morning.” His voice shook suddenly. “His photograph was on the front page. Eighteen years of age. He’s on a life-support machine, a vegetable from the sound of it.”
She whispered that he must be calm. She touched his hand, forced him to listen. No one knew. No one would ever know. She reassured him, strengthened him, told him there was nothing to fear but fear itself and resisted the longing to smooth the worried expression from his face.
Lorraine had turned from the camera, her eyes moving slowly, deliberately over them and in that instant, as Adrian moved away, Virginia felt on her skin the quivering pressure of velvet being gently stroked in the wrong direction.
Thirty-one
Lorraine arranged a still-life of fruit and wine in the centre of the circle.
“Study the basic shape of each object before you attempt to draw anything,” she advised. “Always take time to observe. It’s only when you have a clear vision of what’s before you that you can interpret it in your own individual style.” Lorraine had forgotten how much she used to enj
oy teaching and the people who turned up each Thursday evening settled easily around her. After each class they adjourned to O’Callaghan’s for a drink, crowding together into an alcove that jokingly became known as The Artist’s Colony. She was carried along on their laughter, their good-natured banter. A car pool had been organised with Noeleen and Sophie, the three of them taking turns to drive each other to the school on alternate weeks. The needs of the group were diverse. Sophie wanted to paint the Sudanese landscape she had left behind, Angie from O’Callaghan’s restaurant was interested in fantasy illustrations and Lorraine noted with amusement that the vivid hallucinatory images produced by Máirtín Mullarkey definitely belonged to his Mad Dog phase. Noeleen wrestled gamely with her portrait of Frank and worried about the proportions of his nose.
Energy radiated from the group. Their rapt expressions and concentrated silence suddenly reminded her of Michael Carmody. She had heard nothing from him since his abrupt departure. His discovery of her self-portraits had obviously scared him off. Noeleen waited until the class dispersed in the direction of O’Callaghan’s before producing the portrait of her husband.
“His bloody honker is driving me to drink.” She pointed to a rock-like structure that threatened to dominate her painting. Lorraine diplomatically pointed out that Frank’s nose was one of his most noble features and made suggestions as to how it could be modified by cheating slightly on the brow, cheeks and upper lip. With a few deft rubs and strokes she demonstrated what she meant. Noeleen agreed it made all the difference and they joined the group in O’Callaghan’s. An hour later, with Lorraine at the wheel, they left for home.
Sophie’s house was the first stop. Lorraine had only driven a short distance from the O’Dohertys’ farm when the dashboard blacked out, the headlights failing in the same instant. The sudden enveloping darkness terrified her. As Lorraine braked to a standstill she was unsure if she had swerved too close to the middle or the side of the road. Noeleen was also subdued as she peered through the windscreen.
“The speed some people drive around here they’ll be into the back of us in no time at all. Have you got a torch? I can stand behind the car and shine it as a warning.”
Lorraine removed a torch from the glove compartment and they stepped outside. By the torch beam Noeleen checked her mobile phone and tapped a number. “I’ll give Fred a ring. He might still be in the garage.”
Fred Byrne had closed his garage for the night but he promised to be with them as soon as possible. Ten minutes later he arrived in his jeep.
“If it’s the electrics it’ll take time to sort out,” he said. “The best thing to do is leave it with me. I’ll tow you back to the garage then drop you home.”
The journey back to the village was short and passed without incident.
“I’m sorry to cause so much trouble,” Lorraine said when Fred braked outside her house.
“Not a bit of trouble in the world. You should get that bumper fixed while you’re about it.” Once again Michael Carmody placed himself smoothly in the centre of her thoughts. “I’ve been meaning to do so. It’s so slight I keep forgetting.”
Fred nodded. “Still and all, it takes from the appearance, not to mention the value. Ring me tomorrow afternoon and I’ll let you know how I’m getting on.”
The repairs took longer than anticipated. Two days later Noeleen drove her to the garage.
“Tricky thing, the electrics.” Fred tapped the dashboard, which was, he assured Lorraine, now in perfect working order. “Whoever did the last repairs made a right botch of the job. I’m surprised you haven’t had problems before now.”
“But this is the first time I’ve had the car repaired,” Lorraine protested. “Apart from a knock on the bumper, it’s never had a scratch.”
“Maybe the previous owner didn’t mention it.” Fred rubbed a chamois over the wing mirror. “The bonnet took a right dent and the stereo was ripped out at some stage. That’s what damaged the electrics.”
“But this is a one-owner car. It was new when I bought it.”
He seemed about to argue further then changed his mind. “Far be it from me to contradict a lady such as yourself. If you’d like to settle the bill we’ll agree to disagree.”
His friendliness had been replaced by a brusque, business-like manner. When she wrote a cheque and handed him a bottle of whiskey as a thank-you gesture for rescuing her, he remained aloof.
“He’s got the hump,” said Noeleen when Lorraine left the office. “Around here you don’t contradict Fred.”
“Even when he’s wrong?”
“Well, that’s the thing,” said Noeleen quietly. “He never is.”
Thirty-two
Brahms Ward , 7 p.m.
They’ve removed the screens from around your bed. Out of danger at last. We can breathe freely again. Did I tell you Meg is home? Your golden girl, back safe and sound from the Big Apple with a wardrobe of new hats and a weight gain of a stone which she finds most annoying. It suits her. I told her she looks wonderful. She said I was fourteen years too late relaying this information. She’ll be in to see you tomorrow. Don’t be frightened if she cries. You look a little different from the last time she saw you. So do we all, for that matter.
Now that you’re stronger, I’m going back there. Over the mountains down by the sea. Unfinished business. My mind buckles when I imagine her driving away. The image doesn’t fit. Every time I spoke your name, I watched her face, waited for that flicker of recognition, fear, evasion. All I saw was interest and a desire to know more about you.
The anger is gone, Killian. I gave it up in exchange for your life and now I’m adrift, unable to cling to anything. Shady always struck a hard bargain. I remember so little about her. Faint echoes of her voice, her tears, her perfume, a crumpled piece of tissue. I can’t even recall her loss. Just my overpowering love which she was never able to return. Perhaps that’s why I demanded so much from you and realised, too late, that love only has substance when it’s freely given.
She paints in a stable, Killian. Donkeys used to live there. Philosophical donkeys. Her house is ramshackle, tins of paint and planks of wood, slates crunching underfoot. She still has much to unpack and there are too many empty wine bottles for a woman who spends her time alone.
I pried, Killian. I wanted to see what lay beneath her professional smile and I found it in her drawings. Her sadness leapt from the pages. She was embarrassed to see herself so exposed before a stranger. Jean rang and told me you were slipping away. There was no time for confrontation. I left her standing in the rain.
* * *
Raining pouring … old man snoring … raining on the pier … cold … hide … run… rain … pouring …
Thirty-three
The silence in Virginia’s office on a Sunday afternoon was a relief from the usual clamour of phones and endless interruptions. With Adrian in Galway for the weekend, she had decided to spend the time catching up on a backlog of work. At noon she broke for coffee, sliced a fresh Danish she had purchased on the way into the office and ate it slowly, standing by the window. A young girl with black hair ran between cars. The same flyaway hair as Emily Strong and the same belief that fate, like traffic, should give way to her impetuous demands. As always, she was calling the shots.
No matter how much Virginia tried to deny it, the green-eyed monster was rearing its hooves whenever Adrian mentioned his daughter’s name – and mention it he did at every opportunity. Emily had taken up horse riding. Emily had an African Irish boyfriend. Emily needed coaxing, gentle handling, understanding. Emily had given birth to a calf, for Christ’s sake! He had laughed long and loudly when that particular text arrived.
Since they moved into the apartment, Emily had called only once, arriving one evening unannounced and accompanied by friends – two teenage trolls who were obviously delighted to be in the centre of a family drama. Virginia had offered to send out for pizzas or Chinese takeaways. The trolls declined her invitation. They intended eating in
Thunder Road Café and made pizzas sound as appetising as the left-over contents of a dog’s feeding bowl. Emily, in the meantime, had observed the table set with candles and wineglasses, a dressed rocket salad and lamb brochettes. A look came over her face. Disgust, resentment, anger, shock – Virginia was unsure what emotion she could ascribe to the stare Emily fixed upon her father. Obviously, the intimacy of a table set for two infuriated her – but what did she think Adrian had been surviving on since she and her mother had moved to Trabawn? Heartache and repentance only? Since then all visits took place in Adrian’s father’s house or in McDonald’s on Grafton Street. He had phoned earlier to say he would be home around six in the evening.
Virginia returned to her computer and clicked into a press release written by Joanna, a key member of her staff. Dross. No impact. She had trained her staff in the language of communication and this inane missive was the result. Tomorrow morning, she would deal with Joanna, call her into the office for a broadside. Shape up or ship out. Tap, tap, tap. Her fingers flew across the keyboard. She read the new press release and frowned, returned it to its original dross. She switched off her computer, left her office and walked along College Green. An artist hunkered on the pavement, spraying paint on glass. With his mask and spray gun he reminded her of a nuclear survivor. The fumes dried in her throat. For an instant she was unable to swallow or catch her breath. She allowed her throat muscles to relax and continued on towards Grafton Street. As she entered Brown Thomas, she wondered if she would meet the barrister with the shoe fetish but the shoe department remained resolutely feminine.
Two hours later she emerged with her purchases and continued along the street, passing guitarists and traveller children playing mouth organs. A depressed-looking poet tried without success to sell her a paper-thin volume of his poems. As she cut through Johnson’s Court on her way to the Powerscourt Townhouse Centre, she stopped to admire the jewellery in Appleby’s windows. A Romanian man selling the Big Issue held the magazine towards her. Unable to ignore his heart-wrenching smile, she bought the magazine, determined to shove it into the next litter bin she saw. She looked beyond him to where the lane bent like an elbow and saw her husband striding towards her.
Fragile Lies Page 19
