‘Cheers.’
Lorcan grins. ‘Beer is my only remaining vice. How about you?’
‘Alcohol generally, I’d say, though beer and wine more than anything else.’
‘Grand.’ Lorcan reaches for a third bottle, for Art. ‘No other vices?’
I shrug. ‘Nah, I’m very boring.’
Lorcan looks up. ‘I don’t believe that for a moment.’ He pauses. ‘So how are you, really?’
‘Today wasn’t great, I guess.’ I hesitate, not sure what or how much to say. ‘I guess I’m a bit tired from the party, and Morgan, as you know, can be full-on, but we saw Kyle and Vicky earlier which was nice. There’s just something . . . something on my mind . . .’ I tail off.
Lorcan raises his eyes. ‘Sounds complicated.’
‘It is.’ I look away.
‘So,’ Lorcan lowers his voice. ‘Is the thing on your mind something you don’t want Art to know about?’
I stare at him, my heart thudding.
How does he know I’m keeping secrets from Art?
I open my mouth to ask him what he means, but just at that moment Art walks back in the room.
CHAPTER EIGHT
I look away, embarrassed that Lorcan has seen through me.
‘We bought far too much food.’ Art’s hands are clamped around a large tray laden with cartons of curry. He clearly hasn’t heard what Lorcan just said, but one look at my face will give me away.
‘I’ll get the plates.’ My voice is too high. I scurry off to the kitchen, feeling unsettled. Lorcan can’t possibly know that I’m obsessing over what Lucy O’Donnell told me. He’s just fishing.
I reach into the cupboard and pull out three plates.
‘Hey, you all right?’ It’s him. His fingers rest on my arm for a moment. ‘Thought you might like a hand.’
‘Thanks.’ I give him the plates, then walk over to the cutlery drawer.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you.’
‘You didn’t.’ I open the drawer and grab a handful of spoons and forks.
‘I was only asking because I know how hard it is keeping a secret,’ Lorcan says in a low voice. ‘You don’t have to tell me anything, I’m just saying I get it.’
‘Right, thanks.’ I tuck a roll of kitchen towel under my arm and head back to the living room. Lorcan follows.
We sit and chat over the food. I don’t eat much. I still feel too troubled. It’s not just Lorcan’s intuition, I realize. It’s my own inaction. The weekend is almost over, it’s been almost a week since I saw Lucy O’Donnell and I’ve done nothing except rifle through Art’s bank statements, fail to track down Dr Rodriguez and worry a lot.
The worst thing is that I don’t know what else to do, just that I have to do something.
‘You okay, Gen?’ Art asks. ‘’Cause normally you’re a pig for the chana masala.’ He’s trying to sound light-hearted but there’s a harsh edge to his voice. I get the sense he’s still uncomfortable in Lorcan’s presence, just like he was at the party.
‘I’m fine.’ I dig my spoon into the dish of chickpeas and haul out a second helping. I force myself to eat another mouthful.
Lorcan starts reminiscing about the trip he and Art made to America in their early twenties, a Greyhound bus tour of the East Coast, punctuated by a short stay at Morgan’s holiday home in Martha’s Vineyard.
‘Was Morgan there?’ I ask, trying to remember what Art has told me about the trip.
‘She was,’ Art said. ‘I’d only met her that once before, but we’d kept in touch, as you know. And when she knew I was coming on holiday to the States she offered us use of the house.’ As he speaks, he looks down at the table. I’m sure he’s remembering how, unlike Morgan, their father had rejected him.
I catch Lorcan’s eye. He senses my concern and gives me a swift nod. ‘We had a laugh all right, didn’t we, man?’ He punches Art’s arm playfully.
But Art seems lost in thought. ‘We didn’t expect Morgan to be there, but you know Morgan – even then she was jet-setting about, working for her . . . our dad. She was at some conference in New York and flew down for a couple of days.’
‘It was good of her to put us up, considering the state we were in.’ Lorcan turns to me, chuckling. ‘We were off our tits most of the time we were there.’
Art nods. He looks uncharacteristically awkward.
‘D’you remember that weird guy we met in that bar near Morgan’s house?’ Lorcan asks. ‘The one who sold us that E mixed with acid?’
I stare at Art. In all the time I’ve known him, he’s never taken so much as a single puff on a spliff. He’d mentioned vaguely being a little bit more experimental with drugs when he was younger, but I’d kind of assumed he’d meant trying out cannabis, not getting high on class As.
‘Sort of.’ Art’s avoiding my gaze.
Lorcan shakes his head, his whole face expressing manic delight. ‘That was crazy.’ He turns to me. ‘We were so out of it we built an entire imaginary wall in the middle of this fancy bar.’
Art nods again, but says nothing. Lorcan chuckles. ‘You were yelling instructions at me like a sergeant major: “Set that brick straight, you fucker”; “Spread that cement smooth, you piece of shit”. I had no idea what I was doing.’
‘It was a long time ago,’ Art says. He still hasn’t looked at me.
‘Then your sister turned up and tried to get us out of the bar and you swore at her.’ Lorcan turns to me. ‘I’ve never seen anyone look so angry. There were death rays coming out of her eyes, man.’
I suddenly remember what Lorcan said about Morgan not liking him. Well, that makes more sense now. I grin to myself, imagining Morgan’s fury when faced with a brother she hardly knew, under the influence of hardcore substances, and a big, swearing Irishman in a smart East Coast bar.
‘D’you still do that stuff?’ I ask.
Lorcan shakes his head. ‘No . . . well, maybe the occasional toke on a joint, but nothing major. Not for years. What about you, Art?’
‘No.’ Art rubs his temple.
Lorcan grins. ‘Fair play. You’re a wise man.’
I get up to fetch more beers. Art’s bent over his plate, shovelling in a mouthful of curry, but Lorcan watches me as I walk to the door. I turn and meet his gaze – it’s full of curiosity and . . . and recognition. I know you.
I’m transfixed. Then Lorcan looks away and I hurry into the kitchen. Hands suddenly trembling, I take three more beers from the fridge. As I come back into the living room, Lorcan is laughing. He glances up at me, just for a split second, without meeting my eyes properly. Then he turns back to Art, all cheery and chatty again.
I sit with them for a few more minutes. I didn’t imagine that look of Lorcan’s. It was the kind of look you only get from someone who’s interested in you. Properly interested. My hands are still shaking. I sit on them and try to calm myself. Jesus, Gen, get a grip. It was only a bloody glance. It didn’t mean anything. It’s just been a long time since someone looked at me like that.
Lorcan’s talking about his acting job – a long-running TV drama set in Cork. The show is broadcast exclusively in Ireland, so I don’t know anything about it. Neither does Art, though he claims to have caught Lorcan in a few episodes on various business visits to Dublin.
Lorcan is charmingly self-deprecating about both the show and his own role in it. ‘I play this troubled ex-rock star who’s been in and out of rehab since series one,’ he explains. ‘The lead is my son and I pop up every now and then to offer him advice based on my years of therapy . . .’
‘So you’re there to provide the show with a bit of psychoanalytical depth?’ I say.
‘Yeah, except when I fall off the wagon when I’m there to provide a drunken man getting into a fist-fight.’
I laugh. ‘So d’you like the part?’
‘It pays the bills.’ Lorcan shrugs. ‘It’s not exactly what I imagined I’d be doing when I gave up everything to go to drama school. Still, mos
t actors don’t even manage to make a living from acting so I shouldn’t moan.’
Art snorts. He seems more relaxed now that Lorcan – rather than their shared past – is the subject of the conversation. ‘You’re lucky to be working at all, you ginger bastard.’
Lorcan tips his head back and laughs. I’m transfixed again by the way his smile fills his whole face.
‘He’s not ginger,’ I protest. ‘It’s auburn. Chestnut.’
‘Well, whatever you call it, Art’s right. My hair made a difference when I was younger,’ Lorcan says.
‘No way.’ I take a swig of my beer.
‘No?’ Lorcan eyes me. ‘How many leading men with red hair can you name?’
I nod, taking his point. ‘Not many,’ I say. ‘Ginger. The last taboo.’
‘Oh, yeah,’ Lorcan says. ‘Way bigger than incest . . .’
‘Or paedophiles,’ I add.
We both laugh. I glance at Art. He’s smiling but the smile seems a little forced again.
‘So when’s your next job?’ I ask Lorcan.
‘I don’t have to be back in Cork till June. I’m hoping something will come up here; I’ve got a meeting in a couple of days, actually.’
‘You don’t fancy another stint at Loxley Benson, then?’
Shit. I wish the words back as soon as I’ve said them.
Art glowers, while Lorcan utters a sardonic ‘not really.’
I look out of the window. The thin layer of white has vanished from the roof of the house opposite.
‘Maybe it won’t snow tomorrow, after all,’ I say, then flush at how obvious I sound, trying to change the subject by talking about the weather.
‘What?’ Art sounds rankled.
‘She’s embarrassed at her inner Englishness,’ Lorcan says with an easy chuckle.
I get up without looking at him. ‘I’m going to bed,’ I say. ‘Nice to see you again, Lorcan.’
He holds his hand up in a wave.
Art yawns. ‘’Night, Gen. I won’t be long.’
A shiver snakes down my spine as I walk away. Why do I find Lorcan so unsettling? I can’t believe I was on the verge of confiding in him at the party. I climb the stairs, still feeling uneasy. Then I reach the bedroom and remember Dr Rodriguez’s business card tucked under the mattress and all my focus turns to one thing: how on earth am I going to track him down?
Monday morning brings with it no sign of the threatened snow. In fact it’s a beautiful day, cold but clear and brilliantly sunny. I call Fair Angel again. I can’t think what else to do. Dr Rodriguez isn’t registered on any medical directory I can find, nor is his name on the electoral roll. At least the office manager is in today. I start by saying that I’d like to make an appointment with the doctor but she cuts in impatiently with the news that Dr Rodriguez left the hospital several years ago. And ‘no’, she has ‘no idea where he works now’.
‘What about where he lives?’
‘I’m afraid I can’t give out personal information,’ she says.
There’s no point in pushing her, I can hear it in her voice.
The whole thing is still on my mind when the doorbell rings a couple of hours later. It’s Lorcan on the sun-drenched step outside.
‘Hi.’ A dark red curl falls over one eye. He brushes it back off his face.
‘Hi.’ I step away, conscious that my breath must smell garlicky from the leftover curry I just had for lunch.
‘Hi.’ Lorcan pauses. ‘Look, I’m sorry to just turn up like this, but I’ve only got Art’s mobile number and . . .’ He stops and I know, without any doubt, he’d been going to say that he hadn’t wanted to speak to Art.
I back away into the hall, now horribly aware that I’m wearing sweatpants and that the line of my knickers is probably showing.
‘I left that lethal Swiss Army knife here.’ Lorcan strides ahead of me, towards the living room. ‘I wouldn’t be bothered but Cal gave it to me.’ He glances at me over his shoulder. ‘My son. Did I tell you about him?’
‘No, not really.’ I scuttle after him, quickly pulling on a long cardigan.
‘He’s fourteen and a total computer geek. Doesn’t have all that much to say to me at the moment but the Swiss Army knife was the first present he bought me without his mum involved and I’m always giving out to him when he loses stuff, so . . .’
‘No problem.’
We’re in the living room now. Lorcan is pulling at the sofa cushions, sliding his hands down the sides. ‘I’m sorry.’ He glances up at me again. ‘I’ll be out of your hair in a minute.’
‘It’s fine,’ I say. Now I’ve got over the surprise it’s actually quite nice to have him here. It might take my mind off my failed attempts to find Dr Rodriguez. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’
‘Sure.’ Lorcan flops onto the sofa. ‘Man, maybe it isn’t here.’
I feel down the back of the sofa where Lorcan was sitting and find the knife immediately. As I hand it to Lorcan, I can’t help but wonder whether he really lost it, or whether he deliberately left it here so he would have an excuse to come back.
I push this thought out of my head and wander into the kitchen. As the kettle boils, I bend down and check my reflection in the steel. My nose is shiny and I’m wearing only a trace of eyeliner, but at least it hasn’t smudged. I make a face at my reflection. Why on earth would Lorcan be interested in me?
‘Geniver?’ His voice is close.
I jerk upright, startled, and clutch at the wooden countertop. He’s standing in the doorway, watching me. ‘Jesus.’
‘Sorry.’ There’s a preoccupied look on his face. The Swiss Army knife is in his hand. As he speaks he absently flicks out the blade. The lethal metal glints in the overhead light.
I take an instinctive step away, remembering how easily it cut my hand yesterday.
‘Sorry,’ Lorcan says again, noticing my alarm. ‘Habit.’ He strokes the blade carefully back into place. ‘Look, I’m not just here for my knife. I mean, I did, obviously, leave it behind last night, but that’s not the only reason I came back.’
‘Oh?’ It comes out slightly strangled-sounding. I fold my arms and lean against the counter, trying to appear relaxed.
Lorcan grins. ‘We were talking. Last night, I mean. And I know there was something you wanted to talk about. And, well, sometimes it’s easier to speak to someone you don’t know.’
‘So you came round to listen?’ I raise my eyebrows.
‘To help, if I can.’ He doesn’t take his eyes off mine. ‘I wanted to be a priest when I was a kid.’
I laugh, as relief and disappointment spread through me in equal measures. ‘I’ve got plenty of friends, you know.’ I reach for two mugs.
‘Sure you do, yeah.’ He moves over to the fridge and pulls out the carton of milk. ‘But they all have children, don’t they?’
I shake my head, opening the cupboard and rootling around for tea bags. ‘What’s that got to do—?’
‘I saw you talking to one of them in the kitchen.’ He offers me the carton of milk. ‘Couldn’t help hearing some of it. How happy you were she was pregnant. Reassuring her you were all okay with it, which was obviously bollocks, but . . .’
‘You don’t know me.’ I grab the milk and turn away.
There’s a pause. The kettle boils and hisses away into silence again. I look up, wondering if I sounded rude.
Lorcan grins. ‘Never said I did. But tell me I’m wrong.’ He points to my bitten fingernails, clutching the milk carton. ‘Those nails don’t lie.’
I shake my head. I can’t think what to say. My head feels like the kettle has just boiled inside it.
‘Okay, look, I’m sorry.’ Lorcan shrugs. ‘I only wanted to help.’
I roll my eyes. ‘I don’t need any help.’
He stares at me. I glare back. I should feel furious at his interference. But there’s real kindness in the way he’s looking at me.
‘I just want her.’ My voice is tiny. Like a child’s. Small and vulnera
ble. I look down, humiliated.
‘Your daughter?’
I nod, unable to speak.
‘You never told me her name.’
‘Beth.’ It comes out like a sigh, so soft I think he won’t have heard it.
But he has. ‘Beth? That’s a beautiful name.’
I nod again. It’s all I have of her. Her name. I wipe my eyes. ‘Sorry, I’m not upset. I’m not.’
Lorcan chuckles. ‘Look, let me make the tea. You go and sit down.’
I walk past him, back to the living room. I sit on the sofa and wait. I can’t tell him. I can’t. It’ll sound mad and I don’t want to cry in front of him again.
He walks in with the tea and sets both mugs down on the table. He settles into the opposite corner of the sofa, right by the photo of my dad as a boy, and smiles. ‘I know it’s not the same, but I miss my son very much. He’s here in London and I spend nine months of the year in Cork . . .’ He tails off. ‘Look, I’ll just drink this and go.’
I nod. That’s the best thing. He should go. Just drink his tea and go.
The phone rings shrilly.
‘Gen?’ It’s Hen. Her voice is all wavery, like she’s been crying. ‘I’ve been thinking about you all morning. Please can we talk? I need to talk to you.’
‘What’s wrong?’ My mind immediately flashes back to her revelation at the party. ‘Is it the baby?’
‘What?’ She sniffs loudly. ‘No, yes, no . . . no, there’s nothing wrong. I just still feel so bad I didn’t tell you about . . .’
‘About being pregnant?’ I sigh. My chest constricts. For a second I feel the unfairness of having to deal with Hen’s guilt, then I push away the resentment. It’s not Hen’s fault things turned out the way they did. ‘It’s fine, Hen, we went over this at the party. I’m happy for you.’
‘I know but I’m really beating myself up that I didn’t tell you.’
Lorcan is on his feet across the room. I look up. He takes a long swig from his mug then sets it down on the table. He points to the door, indicating he’s going to leave.
‘Hang on, Hen.’ I put the phone down on the side table and walk over. ‘You don’t have to go,’ I say quietly.
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