Marianne gasped, “I’ve never seen it like this. It’s glorious.”
Miss MacReady, who had been dozing slightly from a little too much champagne, was suddenly alert. “Will you fly us in along the Liffey and over the Bank and Trinity College, just so I can get my bearings and make a proper entrance?” she asked the pilot
“Sorry Ma’am, I’ll come in from the North West and head straight to the landing zone. Mr O’Gorman wants to see Miss Coltrane as soon as possible. They’re my instructions.”
“I bet he does,” chortled Oonagh. Marianne looked knowingly at her friend, who was beaming out of the window. She looked better than she had in months. Marianne felt sure that, at the very least, the disease was in remission, and they could look forward to a string of happy times together.
Nipping over the treetops of St Stephen’s Green, Marianne spotted the large H on the roof of the hotel and, if she was not mistaken, as they drew closer, a man in faded jeans and an Irish rugby shirt, standing with his face craned upwards, clutching the rails of the safety zone just beyond the helicopter landing pad. Her heart leapt, her insides turned to slush, and she could feel tears behind her eyes. She never missed him as much as when she first saw him again, the longing to be with him so raw, it hurt. As if sensing the emotion, Miss MacReady gripped her hand.
“There he is love, there he is waiting, not long now.”
Marianne abandoned everyone and everything as she scrabbled out of the helicopter. Blades barely slowing, she charged across the tarmac. The man dived under the railings as soon as he spotted her, and ran towards her, arms outstretched, the draught from the blades making their clothes flap and their eyes water.
They flew into each other’s arms and held on tightly. Marianne buried her face in his chest, breathing him in. He wrapped his arms around her head, protecting her ears from the noise, turning her face upwards to kiss her forehead, nose, mouth. Suddenly, all was quiet, all was still, everything stopped. She was in his arms, lost in his kiss and, together, they were suspended in an exquisitely perfect moment in time. He broke away from her lips, hugging her to him.
“God I could eat you,” he said, into her hair.
“And I could eat a horse,” laughed Oonagh, sashaying behind them as best she could, given the amount of luggage she was carrying. The poor pilot was still unloading under Miss MacReady’s beady eye. Releasing Marianne with one arm, Ryan scooped Oonagh to him with the other, kissing both cheeks and grinning at her.
“You look good, Oonagh. Are you well enough for this? If you want to stop at any stage, take a break, bow out, no worries, give me the nod.”
“Are you out of your mind? I’m not missing one second of this. This is a dream come true. Bring it on, Mr O’Gorman, bring on as much of the ritzy, glitzy, showbiz razzmatazz as you like. I’m ready for it.”
“And so am I!” Miss MacReady joined them, tripping over the roof in red, frou-frou mules, as the helicopter pilot buckled under the baggage behind her. Ryan looked at Marianne and raised his eyebrows.
“I know.” She laughed. “We never did do normal!”
After a delicious lunch of Dublin Bay Prawns, fresh salad and baby new potatoes in butter and chives, devoured ravenously by all, Marianne, who had been grinning inanely at all three, relaxed back into one of the restaurant’s sumptuous sofas.
She unashamedly allowed herself to gaze adoringly at Ryan, who was strutting his stuff, entertaining them with snippets of showbiz gossip and a roundup of the latest happenings on set. He looked well, better than she had seen him look in a long time. Calm yet excited, animated and charming, groomed yet just a little ruffled, taking the edge off the smoothness.
“God but you’re gorgeous,” she said to herself, dreamily imagining them making love later on, and then realising she had actually said the words out loud, she joined the others in laughter, as Ryan twirled like a mannequin, giving them the benefit of a wiggle of his neat bottom in faded jeans. Lisa arrived, clipboard in hand, mobile phone glued to her ear, and Ryan indicated it was time to get the show on the road.
“Your luggage has gone ahead. There’s a car outside.” Lisa nodded down the sweeping staircase to the hotel entrance.
Once outside, Oonagh and Miss MacReady bundled into the discreet grey Mercedes to take the short journey to the luxury hotel where they were staying. Ryan took Marianne’s arm.
“Let’s walk.”
“I was just about to suggest the same.” She smiled.
Within minutes, they were strolling hand in hand along Grafton Street, amid bustling shoppers and buskers on every corner. Marianne noticed that, although Ryan was recognised as they passed along the busiest thoroughfare in the city, no-one bothered them.
Dubliners had always been at ease with celebrity, she surmised. The famous had always found sanctuary in the city’s bars and restaurants. The natives liked it that way, letting the great and good rub shoulders with them. Besides, they were usually so busy with their own colourful lives, the transience of celebrity was accepted for what it was.
“I love this city,” she said. They slowed as they passed a famous coffee house, to inhale the pungent fragrance of freshly ground beans. Turning right, the heady scent of lilies and roses filled the air, together with the flower seller’s shrill cry of bargains to be had.
Despite her protests, Ryan stopped to buy an armful of blooms, randomly selecting from the buckets on display and, once happy she could, in fact, carry no more, spun her through the door and into the snug of her, and as it turned out, his, favourite bar. The very pub where he had spotted her all those months ago and had assumed she was stalking him for a story.
“Let’s lay a few ghosts to rest,” he said, settling beside her and taking her hands. “I remember when I saw you here. Despite thinking you were on my tail for some sort of sordid expose, I also remember thinking how stunningly beautiful you were, and wishing you were on my tail for whatever reason.”
“I didn’t even see you that day.” She pushed his hair back from his forehead. “Probably wouldn’t have registered anyway. I was pretty frazzled at the time. No, flat out on the beach, that was the first time I saw you again, properly. God, you looked rough. I really did think you were drowning.” They laughed and then he was suddenly serious.
“I was pretty frazzled myself, ‘til I met you. You seem to smooth that bit out.” He looked at her intently.
“Which bit?”
“The bit that keeps churning away inside. It kind of stops when I’m with you, it all feels calmer, smoother, safer.”
She held his hand to her cheek and kissed his palm. “Me too.”
And then a man with a camera appeared from nowhere and stuck his head around the glass partition. The flash popped and he was gone. There was a commotion as a barman leapt over the counter, chasing after the photographer, shouting.
“Hey, none of that in here, this is where people relax, for fuck’s sake.”
“Indeed,” came a familiar voice from behind them. “A place where people can relax, be together, in private.” Paul Osborne was perched on a bar stool, pint in hand. “Slainté,” he said, grinning like a Cheshire cat.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Ryan snapped.
“I’m press, remember? There’s a press reception.”
Marianne jumped out of her seat.
“How dare you, you’re a disgrace to the profession!”
Ryan stood up beside her.
“Anyway, you’re out of touch Osborne. There’s no story here.”
“Are you sure?” Paul sneered, “seems the goodie, goodie Hollywood movie star, has yet again abandoned wife and child, for a little grope under the duvet with his favourite colleen.”
“There’s no story, Osborne. I’ve told you. Not that it’s any of your business, but Marianne and I are together, and arrangements relating to our private lives are exactly that. Private.”
Marianne saw a flicker cross Paul’s eyes. Ryan looked from Paul to Marianne and back. They we
re all standing now, the barman was hovering close by. The pub grew quiet.
“It’s not about you, arsehole,” Paul snarled.
Marianne stepped between the men.
“What do you want, Paul?”
Paul moved closer. Towering over her, he bent his head to hers, his forehead grazing her hair.
“He doesn’t deserve you. He’s a liar and a cheat and basically an arrogant, vain tosser, who keeps dangling you on a string so he can drop by for a decent meal and a good shag every now and…”
There was a faint whistling sound as Ryan landed a left hook to Paul’s jaw. The crowd gasped as one.
“Owww!” Paul put his hand to his chin, turning away from his assailant slowly, then, in a flash, he whipped back and landed Ryan a full punch to the stomach.
“Ugh!” Ryan bent double, winded. As he went down, Paul smacked him on the back of the head. Ryan lost his balance and fell to his knees.
“Stop!” Marianne screamed, lunging at Paul. At the same time the barman expertly scooped her up, placing her neatly behind the bar out of harm’s way, as the usually genteel and rarefied atmosphere exploded, and a full-on brawl ensued.
A drinker from a neighbouring table walloped Paul across the shoulders with an umbrella. Ryan, regaining his composure, used Paul’s distracted state to climb onto a chair, leaping onto his back and securing him in a headlock. Paul relieved the man of the umbrella and was using it to fend off Ryan’s attack. As Paul twirled round trying to free himself of Ryan, the barman tripped him up and they all fell to the floor in a swirling squirm on the dark, red Turkish carpet.
“Doesn’t show the blood,” the barman told Marianne, helpfully. Horrified, she broke free and was just about to join the writhing mass in an attempt to knock some sense into her lover and former colleague, when a long shadow fell across the room and, bit by bit, the warring factions quietened, gradually peeling away to the walls. Even the tall, brass gas lights standing on the marble bar seemed to quiver as an eerie silence descended.
“Well, well, well, what in heaven’s name is going on here? This is usually such a civilised part of the city. I mean, really!” The words hung in the air, the soft Cork accent menacing in its lightness. Ryan and Paul staggered to their feet. Ryan’s right eye was half-closed and there was a bloody gash above his brow. Paul’s nose was bleeding and his bottom lip had split.
Marianne groaned as she surveyed them, and the devastated snug. She glanced nervously at the huge, dark figure filling the doorway. The man in uniform gave her a slight salute, as shrewd bright eyes flashed around the room. “Well?”
“A minor disagreement, Inspector. Is all it was. All over now, forgotten,” offered the barman, busily wiping the marble top and setting a couple of glasses under the taps.
Ryan pushed his shoulders back, stood forward, hand extended.
“No harm done, sorry to trouble you, Inspector.”
The Garda eyed him suspiciously, not moving, and then, “Well lookat, it’s yourself, Ryan. Ryan O’Gorman, how the divil are you? Sure I’d no idea it was you.” The inspector shook his hand heartily. Ryan winced, and then as recognition dawned, grinned as the officer removed his hat.
“It’s me, Dermot. I always liked dressing up, so opted for a uniform when the acting offers dried up.” They hugged like long lost brothers, and the whole pub breathed a sigh of relief.
“Marianne, meet Dermot Finnegan, he was in drama school with me. Better actor than I ever was.” Ryan saluted the Garda.
“Yeah true enough. Trouble was, he was better looking than all of us. Some break!”
Marianne, bemused by the whole episode, was irritated Ryan and Dermot seemed suddenly so relaxed about everything. She turned to go and freshen up and found Paul standing beside her. He wiped his bloody nose with the back of his hand and gave her a sheepish glance. She sighed.
“Sorry,” he mouthed, then put his hand urgently to his lip. She rolled her eyes and shrugged. The inspector resumed his authoritative stance.
“Now.” He took his notebook out of his pocket, pencil poised. “Anything to report?” The incumbents of the bar mumbled and shuffled back to their seats. The Inspector looked at Paul.
“You sir, what’s your name?”
Paul looked anxiously from Marianne to Ryan.
“It’s alright, Inspector, it genuinely was a misunderstanding,” Marianne said softly, praying this would be the end of the matter. Inspector Finnegan looked from one to the other. Ryan gave him a nod.
“Ah, fair enough so.” The Garda put his pencil and pad away. “Any apologies required?” Silence. “If we’re drawing a line under this, I think the air should be cleared once and for all,” he said wisely.
Ryan looked at Paul. Paul looked back. Their faces were bloodied and bruised, hair standing on end, clothes torn. Paul held out a hand. He was trembling. Ryan stared at it for a long moment, then he took it.
“Behind us?” Ryan asked.
“Yes.” Paul held his gaze.
“All of it? Everything?”
“Finished. End of.”
“I have your word?”
“You have my word.”
They shook hands, both wincing in pain, as Marianne blinked away tears.
The door flew open and a flurry of colour burst into the room. Oonagh and Miss MacReady were dressed to the nines, and breathless.
“I told you there’d been trouble.” Miss MacReady nudged Oonagh as they surveyed the scene. Oonagh beamed at the officer.
“Alright?”
“All sorted here, Madam. No bother.” He beamed back.
“The cars are waiting to take us to the studio. Lisa’s put the press reception back until after the show, said you’d been unavoidably delayed. No-one was that bothered, they’d all had champagne and were going to the show anyway,” Miss MacReady told them.
“Ah, yes, the TV show, you’re on this evening.” Dermot reminded Ryan.
“Inspector, if we get these guys cleaned up and ready, would you mind escorting us?” Marianne asked, all eyes on the Garda. A police convoy would surely speed things up.
“Just about to suggest that myself,” grinned Dermot.
The makeup team did a superb job disguising evidence of Ryan’s brawl. The bruising hardly showed, and the floor manager thoughtfully turned his chair sideways on, so that his gently-swelling left eyelid could not be seen by the camera.
Paul had also been skilfully patched up by Oonagh and Miss MacReady, using a combination of their makeup bags. To Paul’s relief, Ryan issued instructions for him to travel to the studios with the rest of his party and, although Marianne knew Paul wanted to talk, she was not quite ready for a conversation with him, and had been happy to leave him to the care of the ‘Innishmahon’ fan club.
“What on earth were you fighting about?” Miss MacReady asked as they settled into the back of the car. She had insisted Paul sit between herself and Oonagh. Although Oonagh was uncomfortable, she had not minded patching the poor man up but she was unsure if he was to be treated as a fellow guest on their trip. Had Ryan and Marianne forgiven him, made friends, even?
“Something and nothing I suppose,” Miss MacReady continued.
“Probably more like everything,” Oonagh interjected. Paul looked out of the window in silence.
Meanwhile, Marianne’s fury with Paul and, indeed, Ryan, had subsided slightly, as she bathed the gash above Ryan’s eye in the bathroom of their suite. Particularly when he had given her his mournful, gooey-eyed pity-me face. She looked away, amused that he imagined for one second, she would fall for his awful performance. She pretended to ignore him, tutting loudly, as she dabbed his brow with a makeup pad drenched in face tonic. The astringent made him whine. She resisted the urge to kiss it better.
“Not very clever, eh?” he whispered. She carried on without comment. He was sitting on the loo, she reached over to find a tissue to dry the wound off and, needing more attention than he was receiving, Ryan threw his arms out to grab her and pull
her to him. Marianne made a skilful swerve to avoid him, tripped over the toilet brush and, as he lunged to save her, they both ended up in an inevitable pile on the bathroom floor.
“Ugh!” Ryan was winded. Marianne was sitting on top of him. She gave him a scathing look.
“You’re making it up, it’s not that bad.”
“I’m not. I really hurt, honestly.”
“Your own stupid fault.”
“Hey, I was provoked.”
“You’re not in the playground.”
Marianne squirmed about a bit, deliberately.
“Ach, ouch.” His eyes were watering. She relented.
“Looks like our night of passion is out of the question then.” She took hold of the side of the bath and hauled herself up. He took a deep breath.
“No way, I’ll take loads of painkillers, I’ll be fine.” He struggled to his feet.
“I could exchange it for a hot bath and a nice head massage until you feel better?”
“Oh that sounds grand.” He had trouble straightening up. She threw a towel at him.
“For me, ya eejit!” They started to laugh, Ryan holding his ribs, clearly in agony.
Smiling at the recollection, Marianne found Paul watching her in the rear-view mirror of the limousine. He smiled back, then put his hand to his lip, trying to prevent it from bleeding again. She shook her head despairingly, dropping her chin to her chest so he could not see her chuckling. She could not remember the last time two boys had fought over her. Grown up boys, at that.
Not unsurprisingly, Oonagh and Miss MacReady knew everybody they encountered at the TV studios. Miss MacReady introduced herself as the Director of Telecommunications for Innishmahon, and Oonagh flirtingly described herself as a close personal friend of Ryan O’Gorman’s, and his other close personal friend, Marianne Coltrane. As is the way in Dublin, no-one really cared who they were, they were there and were made welcome whoever they were, and the two ladies made the most of it.
The chat show went according to plan, the conversation was totally focused on the movie and related anecdotes as decreed by Lisa courtesy of the PR machine. But then a surprise was sprung. There was an extra guest on the show. A home coming gift for Ryan. And to a full musical fanfare, his old showbiz touring companion, Inspector Dermot Finnegan, took to the stage. They all laughed and chatted about the old days when they were in the band with George, and then Dermot persuaded Ryan to join him for a rousing rendition of ‘You’re Such A Good Looking Woman’.
The Hollow Heart (The Heartfelt Series) Page 27
