This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names,
characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the
author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons,
living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
Ebook Published 2012
by Poolbeg Press Ltd
123 Grange Hill, Baldoyle
Dublin 13, Ireland
E-mail: [email protected]
www.poolbeg.com
© Mary O’Sullivan 2007
Copyright for typesetting, layout, design, ebook
© Poolbeg Press Ltd
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 978-1-78199-0216
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photography, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. The book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
Note on the author
Mary O’Sullivan lives in Carrigaline, County Cork, with her husband Seán. Her novels Parting Company and As Easy As That were also published by Poolbeg.
Acknowledgements
My life’s ambition has been to be a published author. For giving me that opportunity I would like to sincerely thank Poolbeg Press. To Paula, Niamh, David and all the crew, a big thank you.
It has yet again been my privilege to have my work edited by the very talented author, playwright and editor extraordinaire, Gaye Shortland. Thank you, Gaye.
To Karen Kinsella, Mary Lynsky and Mary Malone, I give a big thank you for reading raw first drafts without complaint and for your enthusiasm and encouragement. I have been very heartened by the support I have received since venturing into the world of novel writing. Each and every good wish is deeply appreciated.
To my family: Seán, Owen and Vera in Carrigaline, Paul in New Zealand, Annie and Emmett in Bonn, sisters-in-law Eileen, Rose, Anne and Geraldine in Cork. My grateful thanks and love always.
For Paul and Owen
With warm memories of the children you were and respect for the men you have become.
Chapter 1
Ella knew what he was going to say long before he voiced the words. The whole scene had an inevitability, as if it had been waiting for this moment in the silences and unspoken tensions of their relationship.
He was holding his head, pacing the room, struggling for control. She sat still, wedged into her chair between cushions of guilt and hopelessness. She would have reached out to him, would have put her arms around him and held him close to her, laughed in the way she used to do, made him smile, kissed away his anger. She would have. But she could not.
“You’re making no effort, Ella,” he said. “There’s nothing really wrong with you. Haven’t you been listening to your doctor? Have you been listening to anyone else at all? Would you just snap out of it, for Christ’s sake!”
Walking over to where she was sitting he stooped down and took her hands in his, the gentleness of his touch a contrast to the anger of his words. She looked into the familiar blue eyes, noticed the dark stubble on his chin, the stray threads of white in his thick, black hair. She examined his features and waited for some stirring of emotion, some vestige of feeling for this man who was pleading with her to respond. He was good-looking in a sophisticated way. A generic handsomeness, born of good breeding and careful grooming. She felt nothing but regret and pity.
“I’m sorry, Andrew,” she whispered.
Dropping her hands, he straightened up. He walked to the door and then turned back to face her.
“I give up,” he said. “Bury yourself here if that’s what you want. But you can stop using your accident as an excuse. That was almost a year ago and you’re fully recovered now. You’re just being selfish.”
He slammed the door shut.
Ella closed her eyes and listened to the sounds of her husband getting ready for the party she was refusing to attend. She shivered at the thought of the noisy, meaningless jumble of prescribed chitchat which passed for party conversation. The type of social occasion she used to love. Maybe she should go. Everyone would compliment her on how well she was looking, acknowledging the level of social acceptability Ella and Andrew Ford had attained, how successful their business had become. Nobody would mention the accident. That would be impolite. A party pooper.
Ella heard the rattle of car keys as Andrew picked them up from the hall table. He banged the front door on his way out. She relaxed and sank further into the blackness, into the only place where her mind would allow her to go.
* * *
Andrew mingled. He was good at that. The noise and vibrancy of the party was such a welcome relief from the silent blackness of Ella that he launched himself into the spirit of it with gusto. ‘Resting. Just a little tired,’ was his stock reply to the questions on Ella’s whereabouts. There were fewer people asking now. An unaccompanied Andrew Ford on the social circuit was getting to be the norm.
He grabbed a drink from a passing waiter. The Cox brothers were not sparing anything in celebrating the completion of their latest apartment block. The wine and champagne were flowing. And so well they might. Andrew had handled the sale of the old brewery to the Coxes. They had bought the derelict building for a song and had converted it into an apartment block. It was all sold now, from the bijou one-bedroom flats to the penthouse suite. At exorbitant prices. This party was in effect an advertising campaign for their next project. Another old building at a knockdown price was due to get the Cox treatment. This time Andrew had found them a disused warehouse and the Coxes would soon transform the grotty building into the place to live, the address to have. Andrew raised his glass in a silent toast to the enterprising brothers. Being the estate agents for them meant that every time the Coxes made money, so did Andrew and Ella Ford.
“That’s a very smug smile, Andrew.”
Maxine Doran was standing in front of him, smiling. She looked stunning, her golden skin testament to the fact that she was just back from holiday in some exotic location. Or more likely a shoot. She was one of the more sought-after models.
“Just enjoying my champagne, Maxine. You look wonderful. Is the tan from holiday or work?”
“A bit of both actually. I was in The Seychelles. Where’s Ella?”
“She’s resting. She still gets very tired.”
Maxine nodded in sympathy. “It will take her a long time to get over that awful accident. She was so lucky to survive. I believe she’s back at work?”
Andrew nodded. That was one of the most puzzling aspects of Ella’s painfully slow recovery. She had been back in the office even before getting medical clearance. And she seemed to have lost none of her business acumen. She had been, and still was, one of the most astute business people Andrew had ever worked with.
“So what do you think about this new warehouse development?” Maxine asked. “Would you advise someone to invest? In, say, a two-bed apartment with maybe a roof garden?”
“Are you interested? I’ve a copy of the plans in the office. If you call in, I can show them to you. You would want to move quickly though. Interest is brisk already.”
Maxine laughed. “Ever the estate agent, aren’t you? I’ll call to your office if you promise to have a drink with me afterwards.”
Andrew held out his hand to
her. “Deal. Just ring to let me know and we’ll take it from there.”
Maxine took his hand, leaned towards him and kissed him on the cheek. Her softness, her perfume, the gentle touch of her lips, all reminded Andrew how much he missed intimacy with Ellen. How much he missed the warmth and sharing they used to have. He pushed the thought out of his mind and smiled at the beautiful woman in front of him.
“Where are you living now?” he asked. “You have a downtown apartment, don’t you?”
Maxine signalled to a passing waiter and took another glass of champagne from the tray. Raising her glass, she took a sip and then slowly licked her lips. Andrew stared at the tip of her pink tongue. He felt his breath quicken.
“Why not come to see my apartment now, Andrew? Carry out a valuation. You’re at the cutting edge of all this property business. You could let me know where I stand. Financially, that is.”
Andrew’s blood began to course through his veins. He was not naïve. He knew that Maxine Doran’s invitation had nothing to do with valuing her property. He was flattered. And surprised. He and Ella knew the model socially. They usually ended up on the same invitation lists. Of course, he had always admired Maxine but she had never before shown any interest in him. She was usually on the arm of some powerbroker. Even though Ford Auctioneers was growing, it was not yet in the Maxine Doran super-league. He thought again of his wife, of Ella. Poor, sad, depressed Ella. Cold, unresponsive Ella. He took Maxine’s champagne glass and placed it on a table.
“Let’s say our goodbyes. I’ll meet you in the car park in ten minutes. You can lead the way.”
She lowered her eyelids and looked up at him through her long, curling lashes.
“I hope you like where I’m going to lead you, Andrew.”
Game on. Andrew knew he was going to be very good at playing follow the leader.
* * *
Ella was still sitting in the same position as she had been when Andrew left for the Cox brothers party. She was held there by the weight of her tiredness, by the heavy pall of guilt, by the replaying over and over in her mind of those few horrific seconds of slaughter and destruction. The accident. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder was the latest official title given to her despair. Selfishness, Andrew called it. They were all wrong. This depression was far deeper and more disabling than reaction or introspection. It was starting again now, the whole scene playing over in her head. She could not outrun, outwit or obliterate the images. Ella closed her eyes and frame by frame, relived the accident.
* * *
It had been raining all that evening. She never liked showing prospective clients around a property on a gloomy grey day. Bad weather always had a negative effect on moods and perceptions. She was sure as she led the way around the five-bedroom house that her clients felt as cold and miserable as she did. She stood on the landing and looked out into the garden. It seemed desolate and bare. Ella frowned. The garden should be one of the best features of this property, the focal point of the beautiful bay windows. Anyway, her instinct told her that these particular clients were not serious buyers. She waited for them as they poked and prodded at everything, leaving no corner unexplored and no door unopened. Glancing at her watch she noticed that it was almost six o’clock. She would have to call back to the office before going home. Getting ready for the dinner party would be a rush. Damn! Time to bring this pointless inspection to an end. She excused herself, allowing the couple time to formulate a polite refusal and giving her a chance to ring Andrew.
“Hi, Andy. Just reminding you that we have dinner with the Mahers tonight.”
“Shit! I completely forgot.”
Ella laughed. “How did I know you’d say that? I must be psychic!”
“I don’t know what I’d do without you. Will you be back soon or will I head home and meet you there?”
“I’m out at The Orchards. I’ll see you at home as soon as possible.”
“Any good?” he asked.
“WOTS,” Ella said, using their code for waste-of-time clients.
“See you soon then. Take care. The traffic will be heavy in this rain.”
She had switched off her phone and gone to find her clients who were now opening each and every kitchen press. They all went through the motions of pretending that this was a serious viewing of the property. When they parted company at the front door they knew they would not be meeting again.
It was raining so heavily by now that Ella got drenched when she left the car to lock the gates behind her. The clock on the dash told her it was already twenty minutes past six. Blast! It was all right out here but she knew traffic would be chaotic nearer the city. Maybe she could skip the office and go straight home. But she was waiting on a close-of-deal call and had forgotten to give the prospective buyer her mobile number. If she rang him now, she would seem over-anxious and pushy. It was potentially a huge opportunity. An American with a tenuous Irish ancestry and a fortune in dot.com money to invest in Irish property. It was one call she could not afford to miss. Nothing for it but to wait in the office. Anyway, there was a seven o’clock deadline on the call and these Americans were usually as punctual as they were wealthy.
Ella was seeing the road ahead through wavering rivulets of rain. The windscreen wipers were walloping over and back but were fighting a losing battle with the torrents of water. The channels at the side of the narrow road were beginning to overflow. The sooner she got off the miserable soon-to-be-flooded little strip of tarmac the better. She pressed her foot on the accelerator. The car aquaplaned. One second she was driving forward and the next she was being borne helplessly towards the ditch on the opposite side of the road. Her hands were glued rigidly to the steering wheel, her breath stuck somewhere between lungs and mouth. Then she felt the tyres grip. She turned the steering wheel and the car responded. Control returned as quickly as it had been lost. Her breath gushed out and the blood she had not realised had left her face rushed back.
“Fuck!” she said softly, the profanity a mixture of relief and fear.
Back on her own side of the road, she slowed down to a crawling pace. There was a hairpin bend ahead and besides she was shaking with fright. That had been so close. Too close. This was her last coherent thought. The four-wheel drive lunged at her from around the bend, looming huge and menacing and already out of control. Ella knew then that the skid had only given her a scare, a forerunner of the terror which gripped her now. It filled her with the knowledge that she might never see Andrew again, never hear him laugh, never see another sunrise or feel the wind on her face.
The woman at the wheel of the Land Cruiser was screaming, her mouth open wide, her eyes staring. She had one hand reaching behind her towards the back seat and Ella realised there must be a child or children there. Real time stopped. Sound and vision were swept into a maelstrom of intense, slow-moving emotion. Fear was the overriding feeling but it was tempered with fascination. Minute details burned onto Ella’s brain, as if her senses were grabbing at the last smells, sights and sounds they would ever perceive. She smelt the scent of her perfume mixed with perspiration and knew it was the smell of fear, heard the thunderous crunch of metal on metal as the two vehicles crashed, saw an intricate spider-web pattern creep across the windscreen of the 4x4 as the woman’s blonde head hit it with force. Ella struggled for breath as her airbag pushed her back and the impetus of the motor pushed her forward. Her car began to spin out of control. The Land Cruiser was heading for the opposite ditch. When the 4x4 mounted the stone wall, Ella was turned in that direction. A child’s face was glued to the back window. A beautiful child. A little boy, blonde-haired like his mother. He was crying, calling out for help. Ella’s car spun again and this time it landed in the deep roadside channel. It had overturned. The rest of Ella’s nightmare was viewed from this upside-down perspective, until finally, mercifully, when the hell became too much, she lost consciousness.
* * *
Ella shook her head now and stood up. Why was this happening? Why did sh
e have to relive this nightmare over and over? It had not been her fault. The inquest had said so. Andrew had said so. The man who was the husband of the woman and father of the little boy had said so. Why couldn’t she forgive herself? And why was she sitting here, full of self-pity, when she should be at the Cox brothers party? By her husband’s side. She looked at her watch. It was twelve fifteen. Where had the night gone? She must have slept without realising it. Too late to go out now. “Too late,” Ella muttered out loud as she thought of the person she had been before that horrible day. Sometimes she imagined that the bright, ambitious, fun-loving Ella had died in the crash and was replaced by this manic-depressive zombie who was also named Ella. Maybe she was just plain exhausted. Sleep was now just a series of hellish re-enactments of the accident.
She went to the medicine cabinet and took out two of the sleeping tablets the doctor had prescribed for her. Two little nuggets of oblivion. She swallowed them with a glass of water and then went to bed. She fell into a drug-induced, gloriously dreamless sleep.
* * *
Maxine’s apartment was just what Andrew would have expected her to have. It was chic, spacious and tasteful. He examined the artwork on the walls with interest.
“You have quite an eye for up-and-coming talent, haven’t you?” he remarked.
“My talent lies in knowing the right people. It pays to know who to talk to.”
Andrew looked sharply at her, surprised and a bit disappointed at the crass comment. She laughed at him. “C’mon, Andrew! Don’t be a hypocrite. You haven’t built up your business without kissing some bottoms. You might like to call it networking but it’s the same thing. How many of your clients, the big ones, the money-spinners, do you actually like?”
Taking the drink she offered him, Andrew sat down on the cream leather sofa. She was right. He had to deal on a daily basis with gobshites but he smiled at them and agreed with their points of view and went to their parties. With few exceptions he had learned that the bigger the account, the more obnoxious the account-holder. He shrugged.
Ebb and Flow Page 1
