Gemma had finished Patty’s pedicure and now had time to drink some coffee and berate Tina for not getting the scoop on whether Mary was getting it together with the cute American. Tina explained that she couldn’t ask in the wake of her faux pas. Gemma laughed.
“Excuse me, I’m not from here – I can’t remember every little bleedin’ thing!” Tina snapped.
“There’s definitely something.” Gemma ignored her employee’s outburst. “I mean, he was staying in her house for over a week.”
“I heard she made him sleep on the floor,” said Tina, conspiratorially.
“Dr Macken told her to!” Gemma informed her.
“My arse! My father’s had a bad back for twenty years and I’ve never seen him lying on a floor.”
“Have you seen Mary and the American tagging trees?” Gemma queried.
“That’s so weird! I heard he’s looking for something belonging to his granny.”
“Excuse me?”
“That’s the word on the street. Some say there’s something buried under one.”
“Jesus. It could be anything.”
“I’d say it’s jewellery,” said Tina. “Obviously valuable or he wouldn’t go to the trouble.”
“And he visits that tree, the one where her little boy died. He’s been seen there a number of times.”
“Why would he do that?”
“I don’t know. It’s weird. They must be together.”
“I’m not so sure – I always thought she was a lesbian.”
“Sure, didn’t we all? Herself and Penny made a lovely couple to most people’s minds – until we found out that the bold Penny was servicing a married man all these years!” Gemma giggled. “People never fail to entertain.”
“Speaking of which, she was reeking of wine this morning,” Tina commented.
“Isn’t she always? Brona in the off-licence maintains she’s never out of the place.”
It was at this point that they heard crying in Room Three. They stared at one another. Gemma was the first to move towards the door, with Tina following.
“Run! Run!”
“Is she saying ‘run’?” Gemma asked Tina.
“Please don’t make me watch this!”
“Wha’ is she on?” Tina asked Gemma.
“I don’t want to be here! I won’t watch it. Do you hear me? I won’t watch it!”
“She’s crying,” Gemma said, with her hand on the door, which she opened to reveal a sleeping Mary. It was clear she was very distressed – her face was wet with tears and her face-pack ruined.
“I’m so sorry!” she screamed, so loudly that Tina jumped.
It was then that Gemma gently took her client’s hand and called her softly. “Mary! Wake up!”
“I’m so sorry!” Mary sobbed.
Tina started to cry. It was terribly upsetting to see such a strong woman crumble.
“It’s all right, Mary, come back to us,” Gemma said, squeezing her hand gently.
It was then that Mary woke to find her face a mess and an audience around her.
“You gave us a fright,” Gemma said, but she didn’t elaborate.
“Sorry – it was just a nightmare,” Mary stammered.
“Let me fix your face,” Tina said, wiping away her own tears, but Mary was too embarrassed – she just wanted to clean off the gunk and leave. Later she would hear bits and pieces of the story as to how Mary of the Sorrows lost it in Room Three.
19. People in glasshouses
At eighty-nine years of age, Dick Dogs was now a full-time resident of a local old folks’ home. It perched on a hillock overlooking a spectacular and colourful view that, ironically, most of the residents were unable to see.
In the wake of her embarrassment in the local beauty parlour, and the headache brought on by having to watch a young man’s agony, Mary had asked Ivan to accompany Sam in her place. He had brought a box of boiled sweets, which were immediately confiscated by Paula Dubury, who wondered aloud if he was intending to kill her residents. Sam had brought ice-cream, one of the few things his grandmother had enjoyed after her stroke. Paula smiled at him: not only had he presented the old man with a gift that wouldn’t lodge in his windpipe but also he was a vision in jeans and a white T-shirt. Among friends, she’d later compare him to James Dean in Rebel Without a Cause – and mention that since Ivan had met Sienna he had definitely put on a little weight, not that she minded much. As one of his early conquests, she’d had a soft spot for him since before his marriage to Norma.
Dick was as blind as a bat and deaf in one ear. Paula directed Ivan to the old man’s right side and Ivan reminded Dick of who he was before he introduced him to Sam.
“Sullivan, you say?” Dick shouted at Ivan.
“That’s right,” Ivan agreed.
“Which Sullivan?”
“He’s not from around here. His granny was a Breslin.”
“Ah, Lena!” he said immediately, and Sam’s heart skipped a beat.
“That’s right!” Sam roared.
“Ah, Lena,” he repeated, “my good friend David’s sister and the best-looking girl in the town!” He smiled, revealing a mouth empty of teeth. “She was a rare one.”
Sam didn’t know how to respond, but the old man was grinning madly at the memory of a young beauty.
“I’m glad she escaped,” he said, after a moment. “That fire, what a terrible thing! No one survived. My good friend David – I hope he slept through it. ’Twas a terrible thing to see.” The old man had tears in his eyes now. “The smell was the worst of it.” He covered his nose as though he could smell it still. “I’m glad she escaped it.” He paused. “They’re all ghosts now. Laid to rest. They were lucky in their sleep.” He laughed a little to himself.
Later, as Ivan and Sam walked down the pathway to their cars, under Paula’s watchful eye, Sam admitted that maybe it was time he, too, laid his grandmother to rest. He hadn’t found her inscription on the hundreds of trees he had tagged and now, on a bright spring day, the task seemed impossible. After all, his grandmother’s graffito had been the work of a bored teenager and hardly a message from the grave to her adoring grandson. Ivan had patted Sam on the back and mentioned that perhaps when he’d arrived in Kenmare he’d needed a project to fill his time and now he’d enough to do without it. Sam nodded at his astute friend because he was right. It had occurred to him that during the hours he’d spent tagging trees he’d been able to work out many of the things he’d refused to touch in therapy. In the woods, he’d allowed his mind to wander into times gone by, and when Mary had joined him he’d rediscovered comfort in the company of another human being.
That afternoon, with the warmth of the sun on his back, he left Dick Dogs and the ghost of his grandmother in a home on a hillock sweeping towards green crystal water overlooked by a cartoon blue sky.
It had been a long day for Penny. First there had been her awkward encounter with Mary and then an unexpected and deeply unpleasant phone call with her editor, who had called to advise that he had sold the story on to a daily tabloid newspaper that would run it the very next day. Penny was appalled. Her editor informed her that the money they’d receive would pay her salary for the next two years and that they just didn’t have the power to break such a story. He explained that the daily had enough contacts to check Penny’s facts and a legal team behind them to fight any action Mia Johnson might wish to take.
“We’re just too small,” he said.
“You mean we’ve got no balls!” she had said angrily.
“You still get credited but not as the writer.”
“So I’m the source? The sell-out, the fucking nark?”
“It’s a tabloid story and we’re not a tabloid.”
“It was my story,” she said, battling to hide the shake in her voice.
“Not any more,” he said, and hung up.
And there it was. Penny’s pet project had blown up in her face. Not only had she not told her best friend she was working on it
but now it was being retold by another writer who, no doubt, would subvert every element so that only poison would emerge. Penny was not Sam’s biggest fan but she wasn’t stupid either and, despite her inexplicable distaste for the man, her better self had ensured that the second draft of her article had been balanced. Now the story was out of her hands and, worse, she would be credited. Oh, God, Mary, please don’t hate me!
The phone rang just after eleven p.m., waking Penny from a drunken nap. The shrill voice hurt her sore head and it was a moment before she worked out who was speaking. Adam’s wife’s voice was distinctive with her Dutch accent. Penny was caught off-guard and the call had been a long time coming.
“You selfish bitch!” Alina correctly asserted.
Penny had known for a long time that putting her needs above those of Adam’s wife and children was indeed selfish. She had no real answer to the accusation thrown at her.
“I’m sorry,” she said, with her head in her hands.
“You’re sorry?” came her adversary’s disbelieving reply.
“I am. I’m sorry he married you when he was in love with me. I’m sorry I couldn’t have loved someone else. I’m sorry your marriage is a joke and I’m sorry that I’m alone. I’m sorry for a lot of things – for you, for your kids, for me and for him. I spend most of my time being sorry.”
For a moment there was silence at the end of the line and Penny wondered if her accuser would hang up.
“All you had to do was stay away,” Adam’s wife snapped.
“If only I could have.” Tears escaped and raced down her cheeks.
“I hate you!”
“I hate you more,” Penny replied. “And I’m sorry for that.”
Then she hung up and threw the phone against the wall while she rocked and wailed, allowing all her pent-up pain to spill out.
It wasn’t her broken phone that woke Penny the very next morning. Instead it was the incessant knocking and sustained ringing of the front-door bell. She dragged herself out of her bed and had barely unlatched the door when Mary stormed past her to the kitchen. Penny followed, mentally preparing herself for the onslaught. The newspaper was balled in her friend’s hand and red-ringed eyes suggested that she was very upset.
“I’m sorry,” Penny said, putting her hands in her pockets to conceal the shaking.
“I don’t understand,” Mary said, eyes filling. “How could you? How could you not even tell me?”
“I was going to. It wasn’t supposed to come out until after Mia played Wembley next week. My editor sold it on. I swear I didn’t know.”
“You didn’t know. You did this, Penny! You did it!” Mary slumped onto a chair.
“Have you spoken to him?”
“What would I say?”
Penny shook her head. “I know you’re angry but I didn’t mean for it to happen this way. It was a good story and I’m a journalist.”
“That article is nothing but gossip-ridden tat. You think there’s merit in destroying a person?”
“Your friend was the one who did the destroying,” Penny defended herself.
“Really?” There was steel in Mary’s voice.
“He’s devastated everyone he’s ever known. He was a heroin addict, for Jesus’ sake – and, frankly, since he’s come here he’s been playing you for a fool. He’s dangerous and not to be trusted.”
“Why? Because he was an addict? That’s rich coming from you!”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You want to know?” Mary asked, giving Penny a way out – but Penny didn’t take it.
“Yeah, I want to know.”
Mary went to the sitting room and returned with a few empty vodka bottles, which she placed in front of Penny. She went to the fridge and opened it. It was empty. She went to the bag that lay by the bin and untied the knot. White and red wine bottles and numerous cans spilled from it.
“How dare you?” Penny said, fighting tears.
“Is that it? How dare I? No excuses? No bullshit about an impromptu party or your editor and his wife coming to dinner or that it’s been months since you’ve been to the bottle bank?”
“Get out!” Penny roared, so loudly that it was possible her neighbours heard.
“My pleasure.” Mary grabbed her bag.
She made it to the car before she began to cry. It was ironic that she had intended to visit her friend to address her drinking problem that morning. Jerry Letter had called with a copy of the article. She had read it in disbelief. Hurt and shock had followed. Mostly she felt bitterly let down by both Sam and Penny. Penny had borne the brunt of it, but why wouldn’t she? She was supposed to be Mary’s best friend, not her worst enemy.
Penny was left shaking from her encounter with her best friend. She picked up the crumpled paper and straightened it on the table. The picture was of Mia. The story was about Mia. Sam was reduced to a footnote in the story of someone far more interesting to the public. He was merely the latest crisis that Mia had had to overcome: falling sales, a failing relationship with a man once her Svengali, then a junkie in her bed. A junkie whom she’d saved so that he could walk away from her. How Mia had suffered! How devastated she must be! How would this affect her new album? How would it affect her sell-out show at Wembley? A show that had previously been cancelled so that she could be at the side of her deadbeat boyfriend. Did his defection mean that the end of her career was in sight, or would she rise from the ashes, as the title of her first album, Phoenix, implied?
Penny realized now that the reason she hadn’t lasted in the city was because she wasn’t very good at her job. She had foolishly believed that because Sam Sullivan’s life was interesting to her it would be interesting to others. How stupid of her! Of course Mia was the story. Who the fuck was Sam Sullivan? All this time she’d worried that Sam would make a fool of Mary but in the end the only fool was her. You’re such a loser.
She cleared up the bottles. She walked around in circles, not sure what to do or what to think. Her best friend had turned on her. Mary had been venomous. She had humiliated and insulted her and, OK, she had been upset about the article but Penny hadn’t done anything to deliberately hurt her while Mary had sought to destroy Penny, trying to make out that she was an alcoholic – and maybe she was. She knew she drank too much and maybe, if she tried, she’d find it difficult to stop – or maybe she wouldn’t. Besides, Mary’s intervention hadn’t been prompted by concern: it had been an attack. She wouldn’t allow herself to concentrate on Mary’s accusations. She wouldn’t allow herself to think about them – because Mary was right. She cleaned the house, even scrubbing the bathrooms in the hope that hard labour would silence her conscience. I made a mistake. I didn’t mean to hurt anyone. I don’t need her. I don’t need anybody.
After Mary’s ugly encounter with Penny, she drove first without direction but later found herself heading towards Cork. From her car, as Tina Turner blasted out “Proud Mary”, which complemented Mary’s hysteria beautifully, she called Ivan.
He was halfway through the article, which his mother had left for him to read. “Turn the music down,” he ordered.
She switched it off.
“You’ve seen it,” he said.
“A fascinating read.” She laughed just enough to hint at the possibility of impending insanity.
“Are you OK?”
“I really cared about him.” She’d given up on pretence. “‘Care’… That’s a funny word. I care about Mr Monkels.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“I thought I knew him. But how could I know him? I’ve had a longer relationship with an expensive night cream.”
“It’s a lot to take in but I’m not sure any of it changes who he is now.”
“Yeah, maybe, but then again, maybe Penny’s right – maybe he’s made a fool of me.”
“Then he’s made a fool of all of us and I don’t think that’s true.”
“Heroin,” she murmured. “He told me he died once. He said
he didn’t see anything or believe in anything. How could he see anything when he was off his tits?”
“He came here to get better,” Ivan reminded her.
“I always knew he wouldn’t stay. I always knew there was something. So he gets better and I get worse!” Her laughter was fat with tears. “I was OK. I was content with my lot. I didn’t care – I didn’t want to.”
“You can’t go back. You’ve come alive again, Mary. Don’t lament that,” Ivan warned. “If you thank him for nothing, thank him for that.”
“Heroin,” she repeated, in disbelief. “The article refers to him as a pathetic junkie.”
There was silence for a moment while Mary absorbed this new information. “And of all the frigging ex-girlfriends! What next? Demi Moore was his babysitter or Julia Roberts was his prom date?”
Ivan laughed a little but he didn’t say anything. Mary didn’t need to hear the hint of excitement his voice would betray. Mia Johnson – that lucky bastard!
It was Ivan who broke the news of Sam’s exposure to him. He did so over the phone in a stilted manner that suggested his own hurt and hinted at a little anger. Sam was gracious and thanked his friend for the tip-off.
“So it’s true?” Ivan asked.
“It’s true I was a heroin addict. It’s true I’ve done a lot of things I’m not proud of.”
“You’re clean?” Ivan asked.
“Yes.”
“You’re not the man I’ve just read about?”
“No, I’m not,” Sam said, a little relieved that his friend was giving him the benefit of the doubt.
“You should have said something.”
“I needed not to be that guy for a while. Does Mary know?”
“Yes.”
“She hates me.”
“I don’t know.”
“Where is she?”
“She’s gone for a drive.”
“I would have said something,” Sam said, “eventually.”
“I hope for your sake it isn’t too late,” Ivan said, and hung up.
Sam sat in his sitting room. The news had acted like some sort of anaesthetic that crept through him and left him paralysed. It’s over.
No Way to Say Goodbye Page 20
