by Andrea Mara
Hey, just me. I’m outside Metro – are we still meeting? Am I in right place – 4pm Metro on South William Street?
She hits send, before remembering Lauren’s phone is languishing in her airing cupboard. Sighing, she types out another message, this time to Lauren’s daughter’s phone.
Am outside Metro. Are you still good to meet?
She waits, stamping her feet against the cold, and a minute later, Lauren’s reply comes in.
So sorry, problem with Rebecca, can’t meet now. Need to drive back home asap. Really sorry. Will explain later.
Pocketing her phone, Cleo heads south towards Aungier Street, a little irritated at the late notice but mostly – surprisingly – disappointed they didn’t get to catch up. Realisation hits – she was looking forward to it. What would Delphine think about that – putting down roots in Dublin?
But back in the apartment, it’s freezing cold, and even ten minutes after switching on the storage heater, Cleo can still see her breath. And she misses her cosy New York apartment again and reckons her mom doesn’t need to worry.
A few chapters into her book, Cleo’s phone buzzes with another message.
Crisis averted, didn’t need to go home after all, am outside your apartment block with apology cake and coffee – I know you’re on ground floor but not sure which apartment is yours, can you buzz me in?
Jeez, what is up with her today? Cleo presses the buzzer with one hand, typing her reply with the other.
Yes, ground floor, apartment 2, buzzing you in now.
She opens the apartment door then walks across to the living-room window to take a last look before closing the drapes and accepting nightfall. There’s something magical about Dublin on Saturday night – the shoppers and workers going home, crossed with the partygoers going out.
The door creaks as it’s pushed open and she calls out, “In here, Lauren!”
She hears her walk into the room and turns to say hello but the smile slips from her face when she sees a stranger in her living room.
“You must be Cleo,” the stranger says. “It’s about time we met. You probably know me as VIN.”
LAUREN
Chapter 54
The last doughnut is winking at me from the box on the coffee table, and I call upstairs to Rebecca to take it away, but she doesn’t hear. It’s dark outside and time to pull the curtains but I’m too tired to move off the couch. Opening my laptop, I go on to Twitter to see if the VIN account is still there. I wonder will the Guards take it down or will it just sit there, a testament to the last two months of hell? Rebecca arrives into the sitting room and looks over my shoulder.
“Who’s Vin-Horus?” she asks.
“It’s not ‘Horus’ – it’s a set of initials – H. O. Rus. My troll. Though I still don’t know what the letters mean.”
“But is it not Horus, the Egyptian guy?”
“Who?”
“The Egyptian God – in mythology?”
I twist around to look at her.
“You know, the son of Osiris? He spent most of his time in battle with Set – Osiris’s killer – trying to avenge his father’s death,” she continues, as though everyone knows this. “I wonder why your troll chose his name?”
I have no idea. Jonathan’s never mentioned anything about his father. Could it have something to do with Sorcha’s father – he seemed to have issues with him? Maybe it has nothing to do with a god called Horus and really does represent someone’s initials or an acronym. I must ask the Guards.
“Rebecca, have you seen my phone anywhere? Did I leave it in your room?” I ask her, sticking my hand down between the couch cushions to check for it there.
“No, do you want to ring it from mine?” she says, passing me her phone.
I hit call on my own number, but there’s no ringing sound anywhere in the house. Then I hear Dave’s voice on the other end of the line, and it hits me – I left it in his kitchen when I stormed out earlier. Shit. If he looks at my picture gallery, he’s going to see the photo Grace took of his laptop.
“Sorry, it’s me, I guess I left my phone there – can I pop down to pick it up?”
He says he’ll drop it over. There’s nothing in his voice to suggest he’s seen the photo, but still I’m transported back twenty-five years, watching my mother search my room for the naggin of vodka I knew was under the bed.
As we wait, I ask Rebecca if I can take a look through her Snapchat. That earns me an eye-roll.
“Mum, I said I was sorry last night, you need to trust me.”
“Yes, but you need to rebuild that trust, and I have to keep a much closer eye on your social media until you do.”
We do indeed turn into our mothers, I think, as I scroll through her most recent snaps. There are no more photos of me, just two selfies and one of the book she’s reading. She’s standing behind the couch looking down at me with a ‘see, told you’ look on her face, and I nod to let her know so far, so good.
Instagram next. More selfies, pictures of her friends, and some from her last basketball game. I scroll back further and find some from Nadine’s house – one of Ava standing beside the front door making a face, one of Rebecca in the garden, and then a close-up of an unfamiliar painting. It looks like a vase of dying flowers. The caption is “Who are we to judge?”.
“Where’s that from?” I ask her.
Her cheeks flame. “It’s my room in Dad’s house. One of those pieces of art that Nadine’s got all over the place – well, not art, her own paintings. She thinks it’s art.”
“Ah Rebecca, we’ve talked about this – you can’t be putting up stuff like that. What if Nadine saw it?”
I scroll back further and find another one – this time I recognise it as the grey and brown seascape in Nadine’s kitchen. Nadine has signed it in dramatic script, and titled it too. “Blackthorn Bay at Dawn”.
How odd. I’m nearly sure that’s where Grace said she was from. Why would Nadine paint a picture of it? Or are they from the same place? I glance up at Rebecca.
“Do Nadine and Grace come from the same village – is that how they know each other?”
She shrugs. “I don’t know where either of them is from.”
The doorbell rings and she goes out to answer, arriving back with Dave trailing behind. As he nods hello and hands over my phone, there’s nothing at all in his expression to suggest he’s seen Grace’s photo.
I check for messages – one from my mum, and one from Cleo.
Hey, just me. I’m outside Metro – are we still meeting? Am I in right place – 4pm Metro on South William Street?
Were we supposed to meet? I know I said earlier we’d catch up for coffee but we never made a concrete plan. How does she think we’re meeting today? Maybe she sent it to me by accident. It’s after five now, so she’ll be long gone. I type a quick reply.
Hi, sorry, did you send this to me in error? Don’t think we were due to meet today?
Dave clears his throat.
“Sorry, just a strange message from a friend. Cheers for dropping it over, Dave. Actually, out of curiosity, do Nadine and Grace come from the same place – Blackthorn Bay in Waterford?”
He looks confused. “No, what made you think that? Nadine’s from Dublin and I don’t know where Grace is from.”
“She’s from Blackthorn Bay in Waterford – the place in Nadine’s painting in the kitchen.”
“That’s not Waterford – it’s some place in Australia Nadine visited years ago. What made you think it was Waterford?”
“Oh right, that’s funny. Grace said she’s from there. How odd. Where is she from then?”
Dave shakes his head. “No idea. I don’t really know her. She had two good reference letters, she was way cheaper than anyone else, and she was desperate to make up for hitting the car, so we hired her. I didn’t ask too much about her background.”
I sit up straighter. “What do you mean hitting the car?”
Dave walks around and sits on the arm of the couch. “She h
it the wing mirror off my car one night and called in to apologise and pay for it. She was worried we’d want her to put it through the insurance and said she couldn’t afford to lose her no-claims bonus. She stayed for ages, Jesus I thought she’d never leave. And in the end it cost way more than I thought it would – sure wasn’t I on to you from the garage that day?”
Rebecca sits down on the rug opposite, interested now.
“But is she not Nadine’s cleaner for years?” I ask Dave. “I got the impression she’s been there a long time?”
He shakes his head again. “No, only a couple of months. I didn’t think we needed a cleaner, but she was so upset that night – going on and on about being a widow and needing work, and she was offering to do it for next to nothing. So we said yes. Why?”
None of this makes any sense. What happened to the husband with the bad back – why would she say she’s a widow? And why say she’s from Blackthorn Bay – did she pluck the name off the wall in front of her when I asked?
Pulling my laptop onto my knee, I open Google.
“What’s her surname?”
Dave scratches his head. Surely he knows her surname. He catches my look.
“I know it, it was on the reference letters, I’m just trying to remember. Meaney. That was it, Grace Meaney.”
I type it in to Google and find dozens and dozens of entries for different people of different ages, none of whom look like the Grace we know.
“Hang on, I don’t think you have that right, Dad,” Rebecca says suddenly, shaking her head. “I saw her name on an envelope in her handbag once.”
We both look at her.
“Okay, I see how that sounds, but I wasn’t snooping! I was looking for my scarf – you know, the one with the skulls on it? And when I moved Grace’s bag, I thought I saw a scarf like it inside – underneath an envelope and some letters. I didn’t want to go poking around in her handbag obviously, and anyway it might not have been my scarf. But I remember seeing her name on the envelope. It was funny, because it’s the same name as a character from a Doctor Who movie from years ago, and Grace is nothing like the character. Anyway, it wasn’t my scarf in the end – I found mine here on our kitchen table that night.”
Because Grace brought it here, telling me Rebecca forgot it. My God.
“Can you tell me her name?” I ask quietly.
“Holloway. Grace Holloway.”
Something loosens inside me.
“That’s Cleo’s surname. She’s Cleo Holloway.”
Chapter 55
The woman standing in Cleo’s living room looks like a very ordinary woman – slight in build, early forties, unremarkable brown hair going grey, intelligent eyes, but Cleo has never seen her in her life. And yet she’s in her apartment, and she’s just said she’s VIN.
“Um, I just got a message on my cell from Lauren to say she’s outside – is she with you? What’s going on?”
The woman holds up a phone in her left hand.
“You didn’t get a message from Lauren. You got a message from an unknown number.” She smiles. “From me, saying I was on Lauren’s daughter’s phone.”
It isn’t making any sense, but Cleo knows she really wants Lauren to walk in behind this woman now and say this is the long story she mentioned earlier, and it’s all just fine. The woman closes the living-room door behind her and faces Cleo, a smile still on her face. It’s odd and awkward and Cleo doesn’t quite know how to ask her to leave. It’s the kind of thing you think you’ll do easily, until you find yourself in the situation. She clears her throat and tries.
“I’m afraid I don’t understand what’s going on, but I’m due in work soon, so perhaps I can catch up with Lauren directly to hear more about it?”
The woman shakes her head, still smiling, and takes a step towards Cleo. Her parka jacket looks far too big for her and beneath it she’s wearing a plain black top and jeans – she looks decidedly normal. Then Cleo sees it glinting in the overhead light – the woman has something metallic in her right hand, just visible below the sleeve of her jacket.
A knife. Jesus Christ. A knife like you’d use for chopping vegetables, except it’s in a stranger’s hand and she’s standing in Cleo’s apartment.
“I really need you to leave now, please,” Cleo tells her, realising too late that she’s taken a step back towards the window.
“I’ve waited a long time to meet you, Cleo, and I’m not going anywhere.” Her voice is smooth and confident, her smile still in place.
“Okay, so if you’re VIN, why don’t you just tell me what you want with me and Lauren, and we can go our separate ways? How about that?” Cleo sounds confident too but, inside, her mind is a scattergun, trying to pull pieces of information together. Her eyes skim the apartment – where’s her cell? On cue, it beeps from the table across the room, but there’s no way to reach it without passing the woman. The window behind her is nearer, but locked. Her laptop is sitting on the arm of the couch. Could she grab it and smash the window? The woman follows Cleo’s eyes with hers.
“As it happens, we’ll need your laptop. But keep your hands off it for now. Will we sit down?”
Cleo stays where she is as the woman takes a seat on the couch, and pats the cushion beside her.
“Cleo, I’m not sure why you think you have a choice in any of this – I didn’t go to all this trouble to be ignored. Sit.”
This time Cleo does as she’s told. Now she’s only six inches from her. As the woman speaks, Cleo’s eyes fix on her mouth, on the creased lipstick, the colour of overripe plums.
“You can call me VIN but my name is Grace. I don’t imagine Lauren has mentioned me – I’m her ex-husband’s cleaner. Much as she’s enjoyed hearing snippets of his new life from me, I doubt I come up in her conversations.”
Cleo finds her voice. “Why are you here? And if Lauren isn’t with you, how did you find me?”
“I messaged you to meet at Metro, then waited across the road watching. When I messaged you to say I couldn’t make it after all, you left, and I followed you here. It was simple once I had your phone number.”
Cleo’s mouth falls open as the pieces slot into place. My God, she’d led the woman straight here.
“But that’s not the interesting part, Cleo,” Grace continues. “I want to tell you a story about your mother, and a man who sold out his family, dumping them for a whore. Did you know Delphine stole my father – that he was mine before he was yours? And then I lost my mam too. Your whore-mother took my whole life away from me, and I’ve been waiting for a very long time to show her what that’s like.”
Cleo shakes her head; none of it makes any sense.
“Don’t shake your head at me,” she snaps, and Cleo stops.
“I think you’ve made a mistake,” Cleo tells her, whispering. “My mother is called Delphine, but she’s American. She’s not from here. She’s not with your father or with anyone. My dad died a long time ago, and she never met anyone else.”
The thin lips part and a burst of laughter comes out.
“Is that what she told you? That he died, as though it was some kind of passive event? He didn’t just die. He drove her home after a party, because she refused to walk, and he crashed the car and lost his life, and she walked away, free to live hers. Is that fair?”
Cleo has no idea what she’s talking about, but finds herself shaking her head.
“And then I lost the one person who mattered more to me than anyone. My mother took her own life when my father died – did you know that? By killing my father, she killed my mother too.” A flash of anger crosses her face. “Did the whore ever tell you that?”
Cleo shakes her head again, searching for words to appease her, but her mind is still reeling, grasping at things she’s saying, and trying to find a way out. Carefully, without moving her head, she looks down. The knife is still in Grace’s right hand, the phone is now in her purse on the floor. Could she risk grabbing the blade?
Grace shakes her head as th
ough Cleo had said it out loud.
“Don’t even think about it.” She nods towards the knife. “This will be deep in your ribs before you know what’s happening. Understand?”
“Yes.” Cleo takes in a breath. “Can I ask, why do you believe my mother did this? Have you maybe mixed her up with someone else?”
Cleo braces herself for another burst of anger, but this time there’s none. Grace reaches down to her purse and takes something out – an old Polaroid of a woman sitting on a beach reading a book. Delphine. It must be years old – her hair is longer than Cleo has ever known it. A photo from some time before she was born, and not one she’s ever seen. Grace holds it up to her face.
“Like twins, three decades apart. She was about your age when this was taken, I’d say – what are you, thirty?” She asks it as though making small talk in a coffee shop.
Cleo nods.
“Where did you get this photo? Where was it taken?”
“My father took it. On a beach in West Cork, when he was supposed to be on a business trip. I found it in a notebook after my mother died. I knew the whore was American but I didn’t know if she’d gone back or not after he died. But of course she did, leaving everyone else to deal with the debris she’d left behind, including me, the motherless child nobody wanted. I knew some day I’d see her again, and then I did. In a photo taken on a beach.”
