“Which country?” Larry was really irritated now; with Mimi; with Ryan’s answering service, and particularly with Ryan.
“I didn’t ask,” Mimi offered. Then quietly, “Ms Leeson’s just arrived, sir.”
“Shit!” said Larry.
“I heard that,” responded his sister, striding through the doorway into his office. Lena Leeson was not the door-knocking kind.
“So you haven’t managed to track down Boy Wonder then?” she observed, planting her considerably-sized bottom on the edge of his glass and chrome desk.
“Not yet.” He smiled, more of a grimace - a vain attempt at brightness.
Lena could see straight through her little brother; it was obvious he was unconvinced the time between now and contacting his errant client was diminishing in anyway, and worse than that, he also seemed to be, well, scared.
“There’s something you’re not telling me,” she sing-songed at him, in her gravelly New York accent. Larry hastily wrapped the remains of the bagel in the napkin and threw them towards the bin. Lena followed the trajectory.
“Well, what have we here?” The magenta-taloned hands bent to retrieve the discarded script. She flipped the opening pages, raised an eyebrow and slammed the paperwork down on Larry’s desk.
“He’s not even seen the script?” She was incredulous.
“He doesn’t need to. The part’s global, it’s monolithic. The script mere detail, not important...” He trailed off.
“Not important? Maybe, if he were any normal, hungry, half-talented, not-too-bad looking actor perhaps. But you know Ryan. I know Ryan. He actually thinks things like the script matter, he actually believes acting is an art form; he has some mad cockamamie notion that his work could somehow be cerebral. Gimme-a-break, Larry. We’re on the verge of the biggest, single deal in the history of not only Leeson & Leeson, but the whole goddamn Universe and I can tell that you – beloved brother – are scared outta your mind because there is a distinct danger that the stupid, Irish son-of-a-bitch, could actually turn this down. He might, just might, say no.”
“Ah, come on Lena.” The reply was unconvincing.
She pulled a pack of cigarettes from her latest designer handbag, flipping her solid gold lighter and taking a deep drag of the sweet tobacco. She glared out of the window. This building is strictly no smoking thought Larry dismally, as he played with the heavy gold chain at his throat.
“Mr Rossini has been on, himself, personally, two times. He needs an answer. We need contracts, a schedule. He has two others lined up and I know Steven Saggito has already told half of LA he has the part.” She expertly flicked ash into the remains of his latte. “We need that half-baked son of a tinker and we need him now!”
Larry frowned, his stomach churning. Ryan was one of his oldest friends. They had been at drama school together before Larry decided the roar of the crowd was not for him and offered, half-jokingly, to become Ryan’s agent instead. They had, by many others’ standards, been successful but this was potentially the biggest deal he had ever handled. It could make them, all three of them, very wealthy and without any real need to do anything much for the rest of their lives.
“I am not flying back to Los Angeles unless I can drive straight to Rossini’s office with a clutch of papers in my briefcase, ready for the great man and our two bit TV star to sign.”
The significance of her presence in his office was portent, she rarely left her Californian masseur, hairdresser or plastic surgeon for longer than a weekend these days. Larry decided to come clean.
“The last time I saw him was a couple of weeks ago. He was stressed out of his mind, really strung out, said he was under pressure...needed a break. He and Angelique have split up, for good this time, said he needed to get his head round stuff, said he needed to go find himself.”
Lena dropped the cigarette in his coffee. It hissed, floating to the surface.
“Find himself?” she roared, leaping off the desk with as much velocity as her bulk would allow. The intercom buzzed.
“Mr O’Gorman on line one, long distance,” Mimi announced primly.
They both lunged for the phone. Lena was there first.
“Ryan, thank God, Alleluia! Where are you? We need you, come home immediately. I’ll send an airplane, helicopter, whatever...”
Silence.
“Ryan!” she yelled.
The line went dead.
Lena threw Larry’s office phone, complete with intercom the entire length of the room.
Chapter Seven –
Stranger On The Shore
The view forced her eyes wide open. It was surreal, yet so vivid it seeped into her pores as she stared. She could feel the top of her head lifting, like a tin can opening, the lid rising up and the bright fresh air flying in like a flash of lightening; sudden and scorching. It was the most amazing sensation. She breathed deeply, eyes stinging, lips tasting of salt. She felt her shoulders drop and her fists unfurl. Looking upwards, the sky swirled turquoise and sapphire above as the sun, hidden behind a clutch of smoky cloud, streaked the blue with cream plumes. It was like a painting she remembered from the convent, The Ascension of Our Lady into Heaven. Either the artist had come from County Mayo or the Virgin Mary had taken an unrecorded sabbatical to the West of Ireland, just before following her destiny and ascending to heaven.
She took another huge breath, and raising her arms screamed, and screamed and screamed. She had not felt this good in years.
Sean Grogan had been poking around with a stick in a pond when he heard the screams. He pulled the battered cap on his baldy head, to the left, to give his one good eye a little more clarity. Gazing upwards at the Christ-like figure on the precipice of the cliff, he sighed. What was it, another bloody American searching for their ‘Oirish’ roots? A Dubliner who can no longer stand the fact that they pay a fortune for a pint and have to stand in the rain to drink it, just because they fancy a smoke? Or worse still, a local whose holiday home redevelopment plans have been turned down by the council because of their new ‘anti-Ponderosa’ architectural policy?
Sean shifted in his wellies. If it jumps I’ll have to go and investigate, he mused grumpily.
Luckily for him, it did not jump. It dropped its outstretched arms and walked purposefully back to the vehicle parked a little way along from the cliff edge, climbed in and, turning the engine to life, rattled down the track towards him. He splodged out of the pond, to greet the ancient four-wheel drive on the gravely roadway. It stopped with a loud crunching, the window wound down, she bent towards him smiling.
“Grand day.”
He looked up. The sky had quickly closed in, grey and threatening.
“T’will change soon enough.”
She continued to smile at him.
“Need a lift?” She sounded English. “I’m going to Innishmahon. Do you need a lift?” She spoke loudly and gesticulated, as if he were deaf or simple, or both. Sean tugged the front of his cap, pulled the door open and climbed in. Huge droplets of icy rain splattered the windscreen. Sean leaned over and flicked the wiper switch.
“Thanks.” She was still smiling.
He recognised the 4x4, one of the vehicles Padar Quinn laughingly called his fleet, a few battered trucks, kept barely functional to hire to tourists renting holiday cottages on the island. It was well out-of-season for tourists. He allowed himself a brief speculation, giving her a quick once-over. What was she doing on the island off-season? Working? Visiting relatives? He huddled himself backwards into his ageing, tweed jacket, grunting softly.
“I’m here for an out-of-season break,” she offered brightly, reading his mind, “I haven’t been here since I was a child, used to come with my parents, they loved to study here, marine biology. The Coltranes. Did you know them?”
He rolled his one good eye up to heaven, frowning through the smeary windscreen as they rattled away. The bundle beneath the Tartan picnic rug on the back seat moved and a couple of pointed white ears, sharp black eyes and a
soft nose poked out. It sniffed the air with interest.
“That’s Monty, I’m Marianne,” she said chirpily, to the other bundle in the car. “We’re over from England, stopped with relatives in Dublin before heading out early this morning, boat, train and now car. We’re here for six glorious weeks, rented one of the Quinn’s cottages, looking forward to it, it’ll be great.”
He made no comment.
The rain battered the windscreen, the vehicle bumped along the track as the mist swirled about them. A few lights ahead in the encroaching twilight twinkled, flickered on and off and then all went dark.
“Crikey, the night comes in suddenly, doesn’t it?” She searched the dashboard. He leaned over again and flicked another switch, headlights.
“Especially when there’s a power cut.” He nodded ahead, the village was in darkness.
“Ah, does that happen often?”
“Once is too often.”
They continued the rest of the journey in silence.
With the 4x4 safely parked, Sean pushed open the door of the pub to allow her to enter, grunted a thank you for the lift and disappeared into the dark, leaving her standing in the half-light of a couple of fat church candles burning on the bar. A fire flickered in the hearth. There was a clank of bottles from somewhere below, the cellar door was propped ajar.
“Hello, anyone there?”
A burly, red-headed man emerged smiling, a couple of cases of bottles in his huge hands. She recognised him as the chap she had rented the car from at the petrol station earlier, hardly a petrol station, a couple of pumps and a bit of a shed behind. The whole lot looked as if it were held together with a sign advertising Mobil Oil on one end and a Sweet Afton poster at the other.
“Ah Miss, a bit of a power failure, would you credit it? And the dark rolled in like the divil. Did you find the pub okay? Sure wouldn’t be easy in the pitch black.” He worked as he spoke, stacking shelves with bottles, rattling the empty ice bucket. “Sit down and I’ll bring you over a nice hot whiskey. Then I’ll check with the wife if your cottage is ready. You’ll want a wash and brush up before a bite of supper, no doubt. And sure you must be dog-tired, it’s not an easy journey from Dublin, whatever the weather, and you’ve to come from England first...”
He did not seem to require responses to any of his many observations, so with Monty bundled under her arm, Marianne said nothing, taking a seat in an old armchair beside the fire. Padar called for hot water and after about ten minutes of bottle-clanking and fierce pump-polishing the whiskey appeared, as did Padar’s wife, bosomy and bustling. She was introduced as Oonagh and once she realised Marianne was on her own, immediately came to sit conspiratorially beside her, scratching Monty’s ears with her chunky, country-wife fingers.
“Now, Miss Coltrane...”
“Marianne, please.”
“Marianne. I’ve given you the best cottage. Not the largest, but the nicest ‘arse-pect’, when the weather allows, and the most comfortable, the bed is a good size and the fire draws well, heating the sitting room in no time. The front garden is well fenced, so the little fella can go out and do his business in safety.”
“Thank you, you’re very kind.”
“Not at all, I’m only sorry for the power failure, an awful business. Thank God the ole cooker is still on bottled gas. I’ve a lovely beef casserole on the go. Now, when would you like to eat?”
The woman looked intently into Marianne’s face.
“God love you, you look done in. A deeper weariness than just the journey, I would say.” Oonagh touched her hand briefly. Marianne gave her a quizzical look, but Oonagh did not elucidate. Marianne sipped her whiskey, as Monty lapped milk from a dish Padar had lain before him. Mrs Quinn took control.
“Might I suggest, Miss... Marianne, Padar goes and lights the fire. I’d put the electric blanket on, but with this...” She shrugged, turning her hands skywards. “So I’ll give him a couple of hotties for the bed, you have your supper and take a hot whiskey in a flask with you. Padar’ll light a few candles above in the cottage and we’ll have you settled before you fall off your feet with the tiredness. Sure the weather’s set fine for tomorrow and everything looks better in the sunshine.”
Monty sniffed the newcomer, he liked the smell of her and her voice was soothing. With his tummy full of warm milk, and a glowing hearth, he nudged Marianne with his nose, slowly wagging his tail, he seemed to urge his mistress to accept all put before her. Marianne nodded.
“Thank you, a good plan,” she conceded.
The remainder of the evening was something of a blur. She remembered that Sean Grogan and a couple of men had come in for a few pints as she ate. He had nodded goodnight to her as she left, carrying Monty and her overnight bag. She had shuffled the few, short steps from the pub to the cottage door, noticed that the rain had stopped, and was glad of it. The cottage was warm and the candlelight soft. She remembered finding the bathroom, cleaning her face, pulling off her moleskins and throwing them on the bedpost. She had put Monty and the picnic rug at the foot of the bed, bade him goodnight and then everything went dark, very dark. The dark velvet warmth of a sleep without dreams, or at least dreams which had the decency not to show themselves in the morning. One of the best night’s sleep she had in many, many months.
When she woke she did not know where she was, and then remembering, she slithered beneath the covers pulling the duvet over her face to lie completely still. The weeks stretched before her, like a row of precious jewels, linked only by the fact that one followed the other. She had nothing planned, nothing scheduled, no reason for any two days to be the same. There was no-one else to consider, nothing had to be done.
For once in her adult life, Marianne Coltrane was not on a deadline and this precious gift of time would be spent in Innishmahon, the little fishing village sitting on the edge of the island bearing the same name. Perhaps the smallest dot on the map, nevertheless Innishmahon rose up out of the sea boldly, staring defiantly across the Atlantic with its sweeping cliffs turned upwards, seeming to snub the vast continent of America that lay across the swathe of ocean. Marianne had always loved the place.
She sat up, contemplating the time laid out before her, six whole weeks, a delicious indulgence. She had only been here one night and was already beginning to unwind. She had never admitted, even to herself, that after all she had been through over the past few months, few years, if she was honest, she desperately needed some space, a bit of peace, time to herself. This six-week break was going to be perfect.
The electricity had returned mysteriously in the night and, standing by the kettle, her gaze crossed the stretch of green at the rear of the cottage. The little lawn led down to the lane and then onto scrub-grass, sand dunes and out to sea; a sea which shimmered purple-blue; white crests of waves, saluting her casually, as she watched. Oonagh had been right about the weather. It had changed overnight and though a stiff breeze greeted her when she opened the stable door of the kitchen to let Monty explore his new territory, the sun had a little heat in it. Pulling on a cardigan, she sat down on the small stone wall, sipping coffee and looking out to sea. It was already a grand day and she had only been awake for an hour.
She looked along the lane leading to the pub and village shop, with its fading name painted gold against midnight blue. It read, Maguire’s Purveyors of Game and Quality Victuallers and on the other side it exclaimed, Stout, Whiskey and Quality Provisions; the repetition of quality, obviously an essential element of the marketing strategy. The gate of the neat, cottage garden was a mere dozen steps from the side door of the pub, the front of which swung to the right, curving onto Innishmahon’s main street. Nothing had really changed in all the years since she had been there, a few satellite dishes, a couple of properties extended and renovated, but it all looked very much as she remembered from her childhood, familiar and safe.
To her left were two identical cottages, one painted duck egg blue, the other pale pink with rich dark green doors and window fra
mes. The buildings stood shoulder to shoulder, smiling in the sunshine, positioned slightly back from the lane as if in deference to her gateway, proudly leading onto the pathway towards the pub. Both properties were larger than her cottage but neither had windows that faced the dunes and the sea - being built sideways - shunning the view and no doubt the weather. Weathervane, as her cottage was called, had no such qualms about its stunning location, embracing it head-on with a small garden, a terrace and a glorious glass conservatory, all facing seaward to make the most of the spectacular and constantly changing landscape.
The little conservatory was a jewel of an embellishment, featuring multi-coloured glass panes; it had obviously been added at a time of great prosperity. Among its treasures: a grandiose Spanish chandelier, a fine Persian rug, a tired but elegant tangerine chaise longue, a Victorian china cabinet bearing a crystal decanter – empty but none the less appealing – and an original 1950s radio, resplendent in its highly polished walnut case. The glass doors at the end of the conservatory opened out and backwards, lying flat against the glass walls, revealing a small terrace of local slate, down to a sweep of lawn, then the fence, the lane and on to dunes and out to sea.
Retrieving Monty from a very interesting sniff around the legs of an ageing cane chair on the terrace, she bundled him under her arm and closed the doors proprietarily behind her.
“Already a grand day,” she announced, nuzzling his damp nose, “we’ll unpack, have breakfast and make a bit of a plan.”
Monty sat on the bed, chin resting on front paws, giving him the perfect position from which to adopt lookout. The bedroom window was across from the pub and gave an excellent view of comings and goings along the main road of the village. The ceiling in the room was very low; the top of the window was only waist-high on Marianne who was not tall by any stretch of the imagination. She could only see out of the window if she lay down beside him.
She followed his eye line. “You had better check this vantage point regularly, Monty, who knows what could be going on out there, we could easily miss something.”
The Hollow Heart (The Heartfelt Series) Page 9
