The Hollow Heart (The Heartfelt Series)

by Adrienne Vaughan

  “ This time next week, it will all be over, and Angelique will be safely ensconced in the clinic for the remainder of her pregnancy. So, not a word to anyone. We’ll surprise her.”

  “We’ll surprise more than her,” Ryan said flatly, draining the remains of his drink.

  Chapter Twenty One –

  The Power Of The Pen

  The road from Dun Laoghaire to Innishmahon is a long one. Marianne and Monty stopped overnight at a roadside hotel and made good time to Knock the next day. It was unheard of for Marianne to travel to Ireland and not have her fix of Dublin, the playground of her college days, but something was driving her on. She needed to be further away. She needed to be somewhere else. She needed to be in Innishmahon.

  She burst through the doors of Maguire’s, having driven straight off the ferry and into the car park. Padar was polishing glasses ahead of the lunchtime trade. He dropped the cloth, hurrying towards her with open arms.

  “Marie, heavens above, where have you sprung from? I’d no idea. Did you tell Oonagh you were coming?” laughed the landlord, embracing her heartily, as he rubbed Monty briskly under the chin.

  “What can I get you? Oonagh! Oonagh!” he called up the stairs.

  A heavily pregnant figure appeared, clad in a swirling purple kaftan.

  “Okay, I’m coming, where’s the fire, for god sake?”

  Padar oiked a finger at the figure in the shadows.

  “She’s here. Marie. She, and the little fella with her.”

  Oonagh was upon them in seconds, tears of joy running down her plump cheeks.

  “Hey, hey what’s all this?” Marianne hugged her friend.

  “Ah, hormones, only. How long are you here for? Come in, come in. Padar, did you get Marie a drink? She’s had a woeful journey altogether.” Oonagh busied herself behind the bar, pouring a drink for Marie. “Padar, fetch Monty some warm milk. God love them, they’re half-starved. Look at them!”

  Marianne smiled broadly as she watched the usual scenario unfold.

  “There is food in England you know, Oonagh. The war is over.”

  “Shut up,” Oonagh said, eyes twinkling, “well if there is, you eat none of it, and look at the poor little fella.” Monty wagged up at her. He loved Oonagh and Padar.

  “Well, you’re in luck. The people in Weathervane left yesterday and I don’t have another booking until next month.”

  “That’s good, but you’ll have to put the next lot off too.” Marianne sipped her drink.

  “Will I? Why? Are you staying for a good while?”

  “Put it this way. Is it for sale?”

  “At the right price,” Padar interjected, returning with the milk.

  “Ah, stop it, Padar,” Oonagh chided. “But not a holiday home, surely? Surely you’ll come and live among us?”

  “That’s the plan.” Marianne grinned at the couple.

  “I knew it. I knew you’d come home. Welcome, welcome, Marie. My heart is lifted. I’m delighted. Thanks be to God.” Oonagh was waddling gleefully towards Marianne.

  “She’ll have the Rosary out in a minute,” Miss MacReady strode through the bar, tartan poncho flying, wellington boots thwacking on the stone flags. She stopped and took Marianne’s hands in hers; birdlike eyes scanning her face.

  “I’m not a bit surprised to see you and, I too, am delighted if you’ve decided to make Innishmahon your home. We need women like you. We’ve a few battles to fight.”

  “Well, I’m here to help.”

  “Good. And no doubt you’re well out of this?” She slapped a magazine on the bar, stabbing at the cover with a blood red finger nail. The main photograph was Ryan O’Gorman and Angelique de Marcos, smiling in the sunshine. Angelique wore a flowing wedding gown, twists of orange blossom in her hair. She was wreathed in smiles, and holding her bouquet aloft. She was obviously pregnant. Ryan wore a crisp Asian style collarless shirt; they were both covered in rose petals and the headline read: ‘Superspy Star Weds Actress in Secret Ceremony.’

  Oonagh picked the magazine up slowly and then dropped it back on the bar as if it had bit her.

  “I knew nothing of this,” she exclaimed, “and I was on the website only yesterday. They certainly kept this under wraps.”

  Miss MacReady handed Marianne the magazine. Marianne scanned the cover, desperately trying not to appear shocked, hoping it was only she who heard the brittle crack as her heart shattered. She placed her feet slightly apart to prevent the ground from shifting any further. There was a loud whooshing in her ears. Her throat went dry.

  Miss MacReady retrieved the magazine from Marianne’s tightened fingers.

  “I’ll have a large whiskey, Padar, and so will Marie.”

  Padar ferreted under the bar and plonked a new litre bottle on the counter. He unscrewed the top and threw it on the fire, pouring them all large whiskeys. As if he smelled the free drink, Sean Grogan slid through the door. He cocked the one good eye at Marianne, and addressed Miss MacReady.

  “It’s back then, is it?”

  “For good. Buying the cottage next door.”

  “Didn’t know it was for sale.”

  “Sure everything’s for sale, Sean. Especially since the storm. Who wants to come here with no bridge?”

  “We’re better off without a bridge, only brought trouble.”

  “You do talk through your arse, Sean,” Padar poured them all another good measure of whiskey.

  In a matter of hours, news of Marianne’s return whipped round the island, and the next day, Father Gregory called at the cottage, quickly followed by Sinead and Phileas from the pharmacy, bearing apple cake and wine to add to Father Gregory’s gift of a potted aloe vera; renowned, he said, for both healing and survival.

  Marianne busied herself with repairs and renewals for her new home, which seemed sadly neglected in the few short months she had been away. She agreed what was a fair price with the Quinns, and promised to have the funds transferred swiftly from her Dublin bank account, once the sale had been completed on Oakwood Avenue. Oonagh said she was pleased the cottage had gone to a good home, laughing almost hysterically at her own joke, and then bursting into tears of gratitude, telling Marianne she did not know how she would have managed with the baby coming and business so dire. They were sitting in the deserted pub, looking at curtain fabrics.

  “I think we’ve saved each other,” Marianne said quietly, returning the latest copy of The Biz, Global Communications newly launched celebrity magazine, featuring yet another ‘world exclusive’ of Ryan’s wedding. She noted the author of the piece was none other than her erstwhile colleague, Paul Osborne. She had also noted Larry Leeson and his sister Lena Leeson were among the guests, together with Franco Rossini, the bride’s ‘beloved’ uncle, and producer, of Ryan’s film. Speculation regarding the unborn child’s parentage had also been resolved for the purposes of the eight-page full colour photo-spread.

  It read…’the bride and groom (twelve years older than his beautiful new spouse) are both happily awaiting the birth of their first child. Ryan has one son, the musician, Mike O’Gorman, from a previous relationship, who, with his model wife Zara, is said to be delighted that his father has found true love at last. Mike and Zara have a baby daughter, a ready-made playmate for the newest member of their extended family.’

  “You’ve read it, then?” Oonagh noted her friend’s empty look.

  “Hey, I have a new home, new life, and a hell of a bridge to help build.”

  “You’re throwing your weight behind it then?” shouted Padar from the cellar.

  “Yep! All eight stone of it.”

  “Don’t forget the power of the pen!” He smiled, head popping up through the trap door.

  “Good woman,” called Miss MacReady from the doorway, where she was hammering in a notice with a gold platform boot. “There’s a committee meeting this evening. I’ll see you there, so.” And she left, hopping into the street on the one boot, the other still in her hand.

  “Must be
a very important meeting tonight, she didn’t even have a drink,” Padar bemoaned, as Marianne read the notice and announced she was off too. “The meeting had better be here, or we’ll all be out the door with the poverty.”

  Oonagh did not comment, deciding instead, to take a nap, rather than make lunches that nobody wanted.

  All the great and the good were on the committee. Father Gregory was Chairman, with Vice Chairman, Padar Quinn, secretary, Miss MacReady, and newly-appointed communications officer, Marianne Coltrane. The initial ten-million euro allocated by the Dublin Government for the reconstruction of the bridge and repairs to the roads, had been halved, due to the economic climate, leaving little enough to reinstate the roads, let alone the bridge. Father Gregory explained that the committee would have to apply to the EU for top-up funding, and this would not be easy. With the ferry access reinstated, Innishmahon was no longer considered a priority case.

  “The few hundred islanders here are hardly a swayable force in the scheme of things,” he told them in his pulpit voice, “with so much of the storm damage affecting areas with large populations where allegiance will make a difference to a political party, we have little voice and if we can’t come up with something radical our small community won’t even be heard, let alone listened to.”

  Marianne was fully aware that Father Gregory and Miss MacReady had already done the best they could with limited funds and even less experience, but once the imminent danger had passed, the media spotlight had moved away from the island. There was no hope of raising the cash, without raising the island’s profile.

  After the meeting, which to Padar’s relief, was in the pub, the inhabitants of Weathervane cottage lit the fire and settled in for the night. The sea mist, sitting off shore all day, had come in quickly at dusk, and now rain swirled restlessly against the window.

  Marianne worked late into the night, tapping away at her laptop, Monty snoozing peacefully at her feet. She was just putting the finishing touches to her ten-point proactive PR strategy, when there was a loud rap on the cottage door. It made Marianne jump, and Monty growl. It was late for callers, even on Innishmahon. Miss MacReady stood in the porch, a leopard print turban rammed on her head, crystal earrings shimmering in the lamplight. Marianne beckoned her in, shutting the door quickly behind her.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you so late, Marie, but this came today, and I didn’t want to give it to the postman. Thought it best if no-one but you saw it.” Miss MacReady drew a long, thin airmail envelope from inside her floor-length wax coat. Marianne caught her breath, the writing on the front was a splodgy mess; she could barely make out her own name.

  “It’s been forwarded from England but the postmark is Mauritius.” Miss MacReady gripped Marianne’s hand as she handed her the letter. “There’s many a slip twixt the cup and the lip, as the old saying goes, Marie.”

  Marianne looked at the older woman quizzically.

  “Meaning there can be many ups and downs before the final outcome is reached, and sometimes you think something is over when it’s really just beginning, but in a different way.”

  Marianne stared at the envelope, dying to rip it open, yet dreading to. She heard the door close as Miss MacReady left. Taking a deep breath, she began to read.

  ‘My darling Marianne,

  This is the only way I could think to let you know what’s happening, my emails and mobile are constantly monitored. There’s no other way to say this except to come straight to the point. I am writing to let you know I’m marrying Angelique, quickly and in secret. It is, without doubt, a marriage of pure and utter convenience and, believe me, if there was any other way I could deal with this dreadful set of circumstances, I most certainly would. Suffice to say, I have no choice, there’s more than myself and my feelings to consider at this point. And then there are your feelings, my darling. I don’t know what to say, or what to write, or how to express my sorrow at dragging you into this mire.

  I’m not even sure of your feelings, our time together has been so fleeting, yet so precious. Rest assured, plans to extricate me from this are in place and, as soon as I possibly can, I’ll be with you to explain everything, please, please trust me.

  I’m praying this reaches you before the story breaks, but if it has, you most probably loathe and detest me and would prefer never to have anything to do with me ever again. Please believe me, it was never my intention to hurt you and, whatever happens, I love you, and when all this madness is over, I want to be with you more than anything, and I am hoping against all hope you will still feel the same. Yours for ever, Ryan.’

  Marianne’s knees buckled. She felt as if someone had punched her in the stomach. Sinking to the sofa, Monty jumped up beside her, his inquisitive nose snuffling the discarded sheets. She stood up, folded her arms, walked across the room, came back to the sofa and sat down. Picking up the letter, she read it again more slowly. Monty was watching her intently. Suddenly, she wrapped her arms around the little bundle of fur, squeezing him till he squirmed to be released. She let him down and caught sight of herself in the mirror. She stopped, surprised at her reflection, because despite everything she had just read, and was desperately trying to assimilate, she found herself with a strange look on her face, a crooked half-smile, her eyes bright.

  “Well, you never know, Miss MacReady could be right, and you know what they say, it ain’t over till it’s over,” she told her bizarre reflection.

  Chapter Twenty Two –

  Cause Célèbre

  It was a beautiful morning. Marianne made a breakfast of sausage and white pudding sandwiches, followed by a brisk walk along the sunlit cove as gulls glided through the air, the waves hardly breaking. The woman and the little dog stood still for a long minute, taking it all in.

  “Let’s never take all this for granted, Monty. Let’s make that promise to each other right now and forever.” She bent down and ruffled his fur. He wagged his tail, intelligent eyes looked straight into hers, before he trotted off to continue his usual diligent beachcombing. She had worked through the night on plans for the campaign to reinstate the bridge to the island.

  Fired with passion, having read Ryan’s letter, or a desire to make a mark in this, her newly chosen homeland, she was not sure which, but something had ignited deep within her and it felt positive and powerful. As a journalist, Marianne had always been a campaigner. It felt good to have a new campaign to feel passionate about.

  Marianne needed to run her proposal past Father Gregory and Miss MacReady at lunch. There was no time to lose. The deadline for the first bid for funding was approaching, and they had to have a strategy in place to even be considered for the match fund programme being offered by the EU. Despite some enthusiastic bucket-rattling and badge-selling to any visitors who had made the trip to the island since the storm, the ‘Reinstate the Bridge’ fighting fund, invested safely in the Post Office, was so meagre it would make little impact on the huge task they had set themselves. Major investment was needed; a carefully planned campaign, the only way forward.

  She marched back to the cottage, so absorbed she did not notice the figure on the cliff, camera lens trained upon her. Monty looked up and twitched his nose, he had picked up that scent before. He eyed his mistress. She did not break her stride. He had to canter to catch up.

  The news they had crossed the first hurdle and the ‘Bridge Too Far’ campaign had been added to the list for European funding, was celebrated in true Innishmahon style, with a proper hooley in Maguire’s. Father Gregory made a speech, praising the committee and, Marianne, in particular. The campaign had begun in earnest.

  Phase Two was to invite everyone who had been born on the island or who had ever visited for whatever reason, to return for one weekend, to start the foundations of the bridge-building by hand. Marianne had been inspired by the church at her childhood convent. The nuns had longed for a replica of the Grotto at Lourdes. It was during ‘the emergency’, as the second world war had been referred to by some in the Republic;
there was no money or materials for so-unnecessary a building project, but the local men, came together as a working party and, barrowing the stone from nearby mountains, hand-built a grotto for the community. The Bishop had been so impressed by their efforts he had sent beautiful life-sized statues of the Holy Virgin and Saint Bernadette. They had even replicated the spring at Our Lady’s feet, with some ingenious and discreet plumbing.

  “We’ll start the bridge-building the way they built the grotto back then,” she explained to the committee, handing out leaflets, calling for volunteers. “We’ll lay the foundations ourselves, with our own bare hands, then they’ll see we mean business and, if anyone who has ever visited the island volunteers to help, just for one weekend, it will demonstrate how badly we need the bridge to survive.”

  Marianne issued press releases; they launched a ‘Bridge Too Far’ website and Oonagh started a daily blog clocking up the numbers of respondents, highlighting writers, artists and other celebrities who had promised to come and join the working party. For those who could not attend, foundation stones were being ‘sold’ at one hundred euro a time. Cash was beginning to roll in.

  “I’m trying to get loads of superstars, boy bands and the rest of their pals to come. I’m on their websites and tweeting like mad,” Oonagh announced at the committee meeting prior to the ‘Bridge Too Far’ festival weekend, delighted with her role of adding celebrities to the guest list.

  “Will they take to the stage, do you think?” Miss MacReady was beside herself; she had a particular passion for boy bands.

  “Sure a session here would be the best of all worlds, and Father Gregory does a great version of ‘I don’t like Mondays’ except he sings Sundays,” laughed Padar, as the excitement began to take hold.

  Oonagh followed Marianne into the loo. Over the last few weeks, her friend had spoken of nothing except the campaign. It had absorbed her entirely. Oonagh thought she looked pale, despite the fire in her eyes. Marianne was dragging a brush through her hair.