by Karen Swan
But where once the wooden walls and floor had been a rich, polished, almost burgundy oak, now it was pale and stripped back to a raw, texturized blonde. And she had certainly never anticipated seeing, hanging from the centre of the ceiling, almost filling the gallery space, four metres tall and upside down, a Christmas tree! There wasn’t a bauble or swag of tinsel to be seen on it, instead its bushy branches splayed floorwards as though reaching for the guests as they passed underneath, its lush verdancy so tactile she wanted to reach out and brush her palm against it. There was a purity to the bold design statement that felt modern but also timeless, putting a stress on the natural, the raw, the crafted – and not the grand, as she had expected.
‘That thing’s not going to fall on us, is it?’ Ottie muttered under her breath, as they heard the gasps of the other guests coming in behind them.
‘This place!’
‘Ohmigod, how did they get that tree up there?’
‘Imagine living here . . .’
Ottie and Willow shared a knowing look. The delights of this place were as much about what couldn’t be seen as what could. Little did anyone here know – and would never know – that beneath the floor was a narrow staircase that led down to a small room which flooded when the water table was high and had been used in the past as a cell for trespassers, enemies and unfortunate tax collectors. Nor would they ever know what speeds you could get up to whizzing down the bannisters. Or that there were listening holes in some of the walls, allowing conversations to be overheard several rooms away.
A waiter came over with drinks and they automatically took one each, eavesdropping on the awestruck comments as they walked slowly with the line that had formed, making its way into the ballroom.
‘Do I look okay?’ Ottie hissed under her breath as a model-type drifted past in a tiny sequinned Balmain number.
‘Incredible. Although I still can’t believe your lodger bought you that dress,’ Willow remarked, glancing over at her again as they both took hurried, nervous sips.
‘Yeah, well, you know how poor the flower selection is in Tesco.’
Willow chuckled.
‘Besides, I can’t believe Mam found that. It fits you like a dream.’
‘Hmm, I’m not sure,’ Willow murmured, feeling self-conscious in it and not just on account of the bright colour and sweeping neckline. Most of the women were in Net-a-Porter’s latest and by comparison this dress looked like what it was: a very old hand-me-down.
‘What are you not sure about? You look the bomb. I already caught some fellas checking you out over there.’
‘Ugh, that’s the last thing I need. I’ve got to keep my focus – do what I need to do, you can do your thing, and with any luck we can be out of here and in front of the telly before Strictly finishes.’
‘You do realize that’s the most tragic thing you’ve ever said, right?’ Ottie asked as they stepped through into the ballroom.
‘Totally— Whoa!’
Again their eyes rose up as they were forced to scan the sight of the room in silence: a giant six-metre cloud of tiny white flowers and feathers seemed to hover just off the ceiling, the monolithic pillars wrapped with thick garlands of ivy and white Christmas roses. ‘Who are these people?’ Ottie shouted as they shuffled in, the volume levels quadrupling immediately. ‘Is this normal in their world?’
‘They might say the same of us? We’re the ones who lived here, remember.’
Her use of the past tense made them both flinch.
‘Yeah, well, not like this we didn’t.’ Ottie bit her lip. ‘And I still don’t know how the hell they did all this in a couple of weeks.’
‘Manpower. Joe said they put two hundred people onto it apparently.’
‘Jeesht, no wonder he’s been in such a good mood lately. His Christmas has certainly come early.’
At the far end of the room was a ten-metre-long onyx bar, a DJ playing on a purpose-built stage, the vibrations thrumming through her chest, and for a moment, Willow felt her worlds collide: Dublin and Lorne, freedom and familiarity, present and past. She swayed a little.
‘You know this song?’ Ottie asked her, having to shout in her ear to be heard.
‘Sure. They’re playing it in all the clubs.’
‘That makes me feel old. I can’t remember the last time I went to a club,’ Ottie said.
‘I don’t know why. You’re twenty-six, not fifty. You should be going out and meeting hot guys.’
‘Like you, you mean?’
‘Exactly. Have some fun.’ Willow tossed her dark mane back, feeling the party mood begin to twist around her in spite of her nerves – or perhaps because of them.
‘And what if I want more than “fun”?’
Willow shot her a warning look, stepping into the bigger sister’s shoes again. ‘Don’t buy into that trap, Ottie. There are no happy endings.’
‘Well, clearly that’s not true. Look at Mam and—’
‘No!’ Willow’s tone stopped her in her tracks. ‘Don’t perpetuate that lie.’
‘Willow!’ Ottie said, baffled. ‘What on earth –?’
But Willow was looking around the crowd with a studied determination. ‘I don’t recognize anyone. Do you?’
Ottie blinked, disconcerted, by what had just passed between them. ‘Not so far.’
‘Looks like the local uptake is low.’
‘Course it is. That invitation was just a PR stunt. Everyone saw through it. They’re having their own party in the Hare instead.’ Ottie suddenly clutched her arm gratefully. ‘Just thank God you’re here. I don’t think I could go through with this on my own.’
‘Through with what? You still haven’t told me what’s going on and you promised you would.’
‘And I will.’ She sipped her champagne nervously, scanning the crowd. ‘I definitely will. I just don’t want to jinx it. I just need to see him first.’
‘Him? Okay. Well, that’s some sort of clue, I guess.’
Ottie looked back at her nervously. ‘You are not Poirot so don’t even try.’
Willow groaned. ‘Oh jeesht, the Flanagans are here,’ she said with a roll of her eyes.
‘Where?’
Willow pointed them out across the room, standing by the bar. ‘Might’ve known they’d make it. They’re always so terrified of missing out on anything. It’s sort of sad really.’
‘I blame Shula. Just look at her,’ Ottie muttered, staring over from the top of her glass. ‘That dress is way too young for her. She’s so desperate to be noticed.’
‘Yeah – by her husband probably.’
Ottie’s head whipped round. ‘What does that mean?’
Willow hesitated, then leaned in. ‘Keep this to yourself – but Shula’s convinced he’s having an affair.’
‘. . . What?’
‘It doesn’t surprise me,’ Willow said witheringly. ‘He’s absolutely the type: egoistic, vain, desperate to stay young . . .You know what they say – once a cheater, always a cheater.’ She took a vicious swig of her drink.
‘How do you know all this?’
‘What – the type? Jeesht, there’s guys like that all over the place in Dublin. So fucking tragic, they really are.’
‘No, I mean . . .’ Ottie looked flustered. ‘How do you know Shula thinks this?’
‘Shula told Mam, who told Pip, who told me at the hospital this morning. Apparently, that’s why Mam’s stayed with them so long – not just because of her crisis with moving out, but Shula’s! Mam’s been trying to get her to leave him.’
Ottie’s eyes were wide. ‘And is she going to?’
Willow shrugged. ‘Who knows? Easier said than done, I guess.’
‘I guess.’ Ottie bit her lip. ‘Does Bertie know she knows?’
‘Don’t think so. Apparently she’s playing her cards close to her chest till she’s consulted a lawyer and decided what to do.’
‘Does Shula know who the other woman is?’
‘Yes, but Mam said she wouldn’t
say who.’ Willow sighed. ‘Not that it’ll stay secret for long. If there is some huge expensive divorce, all the gory details will end up in the papers anyway. Grim. Absolutely grim.’ She tipped her head towards her big sister, eyes blazing. ‘One more reason why never to get marri . . .’ Her voice faded out as she caught sight of Connor coming into the room.
Every time.
The sight of him floored her every time.
He had entered via the hidden door in the panelling that led to a passage between here and the kitchen – were the castle’s nooks and crannies becoming known to him already, the old lady of Lorne giving up her secrets so soon? He was wearing black tie – no novelty print or tricksy details, just a classic bespoke suit that didn’t need to shout for attention. But then with that face and that physique, he didn’t need gimmicks . . .
He looked uptight and distracted, very much on duty as his gaze swept over the crowd, checking all the details were correct. He had worked around the clock to make this party happen: employing a small army, throwing money at every problem, all to give his guests a wild time and consolidate his brand. Was he happy? Relieved? Was this how he’d imagined tonight – this weekend – playing out?
It was an unmitigated success, without question. She looked at his guests – almost all of them young, beautiful and rich, in spite of the ‘open house’ invitation that had gone out to the village. They all looked like they ought to be dancing in a ballroom in an Irish castle the weekend before Christmas, as though their lives were filled with these gilded moments.
She turned away sharply, feeling the reality of the moment fall upon her as she realized this was ‘it’, the moment of transition when Lorne stepped into the future.
‘Christ, I need another drink. Now,’ Ottie muttered agitatedly, looking around for a waiter. At some point in the past minute she had drained hers.
Willow watched as Connor chatted to one of his staff, saying something in his ear and oblivious to the interested glances landing on him like arrows. He hadn’t seen her yet and she was keen for it to stay that way a little longer. Their interactions were invariably weighted down by invisible forces that tipped them both off balance. One of them always seemed to say or do the wrong thing and the urge to avoid him was as powerful as the need to run to him – an unwinnable push-pull that kept her rooted to the spot. ‘Yeah, me too. Let’s go to the bar.’
‘Oh, no, but . . .’ Ottie lagged back. ‘Can’t we just find a waiter?’
‘Don’t worry. I’ve got a technique that gets me served at any bar in under a minute flat,’ Willow said assuredly, just as a waiter suddenly stepped in front of her.
‘Miss Lorne,’ he said, taking her by surprise.
‘Perfect,’ Ottie gasped, looking relieved and taking two glasses for herself, half downing one in a single gulp.
‘Yes?’
‘Mr Shaye has asked if you can meet him in the library in a few minutes.’
Willow blinked at the messenger. Connor had seen her? When? She’d barely lifted her eyes off him. ‘. . . Sure.’
‘Would you care for a fresh drink first?’ the waiter asked, seeing her empty glass and nervous expression.
‘Better had,’ Ottie said with a knowing look and seeming slightly more relaxed herself now as she downed her other glass too.
The waiter glided off.
‘So then it’s finally time to let this old lady go,’ Willow murmured, her eyes casting around the room as if for the last time, coming to rest on her sister.
‘And you’re absolutely sure about this?’ Ottie asked her. ‘No second thoughts?’
Willow hesitated, then shook her head – it was all done anyway. Her signature wasn’t going to make it any more real; the handover had already happened – the lives she and her sisters and her parents had lived here were already part of the past. They had moved out, the castle patched up, stripped back and brought back to life with this glamorous party crowd . . . It was more painful than she had imagined it would be; sitting in the study that day, staring at Connor’s telephone number, this revenge had tasted sweet. But it was bitter now. She swallowed hard. ‘No. You?’
Ottie sighed and looked at her with apprehensive eyes. She looked terrified too, yet her voice was firm. ‘No.’
‘Okay then. Well, you go do whatever it is you’ve got to do and I’ll do what I’ve got to do and I’ll see you back in the hall in ten minutes.’
Ottie grabbed her hand and squeezed it hard. ‘Ten minutes and it’ll all be done, Will. And then the rest of our lives can begin.’
Red Dress life. It was an easy concept to define; grabbing hold of it, though, was another matter. In her head, it had all seemed so clear: they loved each other. This was what she’d always wanted, the opportunity to live their lives freely. Together. But standing here now, alone, preparing to grab it . . . She felt overwhelmed and unsure. Was this really the right time? If Shula suspected, who else did too? She already knew what the gossips would say – like Ben, they wouldn’t see love, only the age difference, the betrayal, the scandal—
‘Hey, Ottie, I didn’t expect to see you here,’ a voice called out of the music.
Ottie looked in surprise to see Lorna Delaney making her way over to her. Ottie didn’t know her well, other than that she lived in the next village, Ballymorgan, and worked at the Stores for her parents. She was wearing a second-skin python-print dress, her hair dramatically blown-out and far too much make-up. Ottie guessed that she was feeling intimidated by the sophisticated party crowd and was grabbing for any familiar face. ‘Hey. How are you? I’ve not seen you for ages.’
‘Been keeping myself busy,’ Lorna shrugged. ‘You?’
Ottie wondered whether it had passed Lorna by that her father had recently died, or whether she just didn’t give a damn. ‘Oh . . . yeah. Things have been . . . hectic . . . Quiet season now though, thank God. It’s nice to have a few weeks of peace before everything kicks off again in the New Year.’ Ottie forced a smile but she didn’t want to be making small talk with this girl; she wanted Bertie to look over and see her here. She needed to tell him that Shula knew, the pretence was over. His marriage was dead one way or the other.
She could see him from here, still at the bar, engaging in polite chit-chat with a man to his right, his glass held loosely in one hand, the other stuffed casually in his trouser pocket. He looked infinitely at ease, and clearly oblivious to his own impending disaster. For Shula, beside him, was looking miserable, lost even, as she scanned the crowd with blank eyes. She looked pale beneath the lights and seemed to have lost weight too . . . Was he really so blind to his wife’s evident distress?
Ottie swallowed, feeling a pang of self-doubt at the sight of her rival looking defeated already. Though she was her mother’s best friend, Ottie actually rarely saw her; she and her mother always having long lunches in Waterford or spa trips away together, dinners at the Flanagan estate or else evenings at Lorne when Ottie was ensconced in her beach cottage. She had become almost theoretical in Ottie’s mind, someone who neglected her husband and was more interested in her social life and status than a fulfilling personal relationship.
She saw Bertie’s head turn in her direction, saw him startle at the sight of her in the red dress. Here to be seen; she would no longer hide nor be hidden. His mouth opened, as though to say something to her? Or his companion? She couldn’t be sure.
Their eyes were locked, two hundred people between them when she needed, more than ever, to see him alone. But –
It was already too late.
Shula had seen her too, as though feeling the flow of her husband’s focus across the room, and now she was hurrying towards her, pushing through the crowd with an anguished expression that told her everything: that this was going to happen right here. Right now.
Everyone was going to see. Everyone was going to know. Be careful what you wish for, right? Wasn’t it what she’d wanted?
Beside her, Lorna was saying something, rabbiting on between sipping her dr
ink through a straw and scanning the crowd for the next vaguely familiar person to latch on to.
Ottie couldn’t move. Her feet like tree roots, fastening her to the ground, helpless as Shula advanced with all the righteous fury of the betrayed. She swallowed and took a few deep breaths, aiming for a dignity that was going to be scattered in the next twenty seconds. Ten seconds . . . Five . . . And then she was there, less than two metres away, the crowd that had separated them like a school of fish now reduced to just the predator and the last remaining prey.
She saw Shula’s arm reach back as if in slow-motion, saw the way her mouth twisted and her eyes narrowed to slits, the flat of her hand slicing through the air and—
Ottie staggered back in stunned horror. The world shattered into a million crystal pieces.
Lorna’s hand flew to her cheek, the handprint immediately livid and raised.
‘Stay away from my husband, you little bitch!’ Shula screamed at her. ‘You hear me?’
Willow walked down the hallway, past the dozens of strangers carousing in her home. Small groups stood clustered against the walls, nibbling on canapés and chatting casually beneath the flower clouds, scattered couples getting close in deep doorways; one pair, arms slung around each other, seemingly already retiring for the night, a magnum in one hand as they staggered up the stairs.
She walked past, feeling like a ghost in her own castle, wearing the dress of one of her ancestors – Black Bess escaped on last night out . . .
‘Hey, Willow!’
She looked up to find Joe coming out of the back hall that led to the boot room and downstairs toilets. ‘Joe! You’re here,’ she said with relief as he jogged over and gave her a hug. It was so comforting to see a familiar face. ‘I’m not sure I’ve ever seen your legs before. I thought you had wheels, not feet.’
He laughed. ‘I decided they could let me out from behind the bar for the night. We’ve been that busy recently and I wasn’t going to miss this. What a party!’
‘You’re having fun then?’
‘Are you kidding? This is the best shindig I’ve ever seen. There’s a fella in the bogs saying he can fly us to Marrakech on Monday if we want to keep the party going.’
