Ebb and Flow

by Mary O'Sullivan

  Ella got up and walked over to Andrew’s chair and sat in it. If only she could slip into his mind as easily. She used to always know what he was thinking. They would say things simultaneously, finish sentences for each other. A unit. Andrew and Ella as fellow students, as boyfriend-girlfriend, as husband-wife. Andrew and Ella as lovers, as business partners. And now? Karen Trevor had split them in two, sent Ella spinning into a world of darkness and despair and left Andrew resentful, to live his life alone.

  Karen’s pleading and silent screaming had been more strident this evening. As Ella had stood in front of Harriet Wellsley’s portrait with Rob and Jason Laide, she had believed for an instant that Karen’s hands would reach out and touch her. So much for Peter Sheehan’s therapy. He had mentioned “Survivor’s Guilt”, suggesting that maybe Ella felt guilty because she’d survived the accident and Karen and the child had died. Bullshit! Karen had caused the tragedy. She had been driving too fast. There was nothing Ella could have done to save her. Karen Trevor had taken Ella’s life too. She had taken the fun and the joy and the love. But she had not left guilt in its place. No. Smart-ass Peter Sheehan, with his white smile and green eyes, was wrong. Whatever it was that was haunting Ella and making her existence hell, it was not survivor’s guilt. Besides, the sleeping pills he had prescribed had given her a headache today, hadn’t they? Maybe his great reputation was not well deserved.

  The more she thought about Peter Sheehan, the angrier she became. She had a good mind to ring him now, to let him know that his treatment was ineffective. She was still getting flashbacks, still tense and nervous, still depressed. And he had not bothered to tell her the results of her blood tests. She had the phone in her hand before she realised his office would be closed by now.

  As she was about to replace the receiver, she noticed a message flashing. This was Andrew’s line but it would be a business call anyway. Ella tapped in the number for the message minder and Noel Cox’s voice echoed around the empty office.

  “Hi, Andrew. Just letting you know that Gary and I will be out of the country for the next few days. We’ll touch base when we get back. You might have a decision on the Ballyhaven site for me by then.”

  Ella checked the time the message had been sent and played it again. Just to be sure. She switched it off and sat staring into space. She recalled, word for word, what Andrew had said to her this evening. He was going to meet the Coxes tonight to finalise plans for marketing their new development. He had lied. Why? Why?

  When the answer came to her, Ella was still spinning in the world of despair and darkness into which Karen Trevor had catapulted her but she knew now, with a cruel knowing, that even though Andrew was still resentful, he was no longer alone.

  * * *

  Jason flicked on every light switch as he went through his house. He still felt a bit less in control than he should be. Going into the lounge, he went over to the custom-built bar and poured himself a large whiskey. The liquid seared his throat and dribbled hotly into his gut but the creepy feeling still lingered. He must be losing his fucking marbles! But yet he could not forget the feeling in the stable that someone, or something, had pushed him in the back. And then there was that portrait of the lady. The Maxine Doran look-alike. It was as if Maxine had dressed up in a big frock and feathery hat and had her picture painted but this lady person had died years and years ago. Yet she could not be really dead because Maxine was walking around with the lady’s perfect face.

  Jason banged his glass impatiently on the bar top. He was definitely cracking up. Anyone would think he had tried some of Dirk Van Aken’s merchandise. Jason straightened his shoulders back proudly. Whatever else he had been guilty of in his lifetime, and that covered nearly everything, he had never, ever, taken drugs. Lately he had started to buy them from Van Aken, ship them, deal them. Yes. But ingest them? Never! They were just a means of funding his future plans. And how! The profits were mindboggling.

  Manor House was all that Sharon could want. Everything she deserved. At least that is what Jason thought from what he had seen tonight. The gardens, stables, the huge reception rooms, even servants’ quarters. Maybe it would be the place where Sharon would finally settle. Maybe she would turn Manor House into a home. And stop her fucking travelling.

  Jason filled his glass again. He would have to ring Sharon now. Tell her that he had gone to see the place where he thought they should live. If she was not on the other end of the line tonight he would be very, very angry. Over and over again he had told himself that he would not take her coldness, her indifference, her lack of respect any more. And over and over he crawled to her, topped up her bank account, paid her credit-card bills, waited for her to come home. Stuck to their deal. He would like to travel with her. Sometimes anyway, if he wasn’t too busy. But Sharon didn’t want him. Her travel time was her time and hers alone. Except of course for the young men who shared it with her.

  Jason had worked himself into a rage by now. He dialled Sharon’s number in Junkergasse. She answered immediately and the sound of her velvety voice poured instant balm over his anger.

  “How is the skiing going, Shar?”

  “I haven’t done any yet. I’ve just been around Salzburg for the past few days. A bit of shopping. A few concerts.”

  “All that classical stuff?” Jason asked, remembering Sharon’s attempts many years ago to whet his interest in the scraping and screeching she called music.

  “This is the birthplace of Mozart, Jason.”

  The impatience in her tone told Jason that his ignorance had annoyed her. Yet again. Yes, he knew Salzburg was the birthplace of that Mozart guy. How could he not when the whole city was a monument to its most famous son? They even stamped his face on their chocolate. But he just had no interest in the long-dead old fucker. The here and now was what counted.

  “I went to view a property this evening, Sharon. I think you’ll love it but I want to make sure before going any further. Manor House is the name of the place.”

  “Where the Trevors live?”

  “Yeah. Do you know it?”

  “I was there once as a child. A birthday party for Karen Trevor. Karen Wellsley as she was then. Poor Karen. So Rob is selling out?”

  “Yeah. And as it happens Ford Auctioneers are handling that sale too. Ella Ford showed me around the place this evening. I think it is you, Shar. Stables and all.”

  “Can you afford Manor House?”

  Jason was taken aback by her question. Since when had Sharon cared about their financial situation? She just took and never asked where it came from or how much was left.

  “Just you leave the money side of things to me. I only need to know if you’re interested in Manor House or not.”

  “Who wouldn’t be?” Sharon asked and her question brought a smile to Jason’s face. He might yet impress Sharon enough to gain her respect. Then he remembered something else that would probably interest her.

  “There are a lot of paintings, family portraits, that kind of thing in the house. But the oddest thing, there’s a huge portrait of Lady something Wellsley and you would honestly believe that Maxine Doran had dressed up and sat for the artist. The likeness is creepy.”

  “That would be Lady Harriet,” Sharon said. “She was a renowned for her beauty but there’s some story about her. She disgraced herself somehow or other. Interesting character. And now that you mention it, she was reputed to have the same type of blonde-haired, blue-eyed beauty as Maxine Doran has. So you’ll be making a bid on Manor House?”

  Jason thought for a moment. He had a lot of irons in the fire at present. The Ballyhaven project, when it kicked in, would soak up the money. And of course he had just bought a pub there. Setting that up would cost too. But he would never have a better opportunity to impress Sharon, to tie her down here for a while. Sure, he could afford it. He could afford anything since he’d made the deal with Van Aken. A couple of consignments of Dirk’s merchandise, channelled safely through Laide Transport, would soon sort out any
shortfall.

  “Yeah. Since you like the idea. I’ll get an engineer to look over it for me. One of ours. He’ll bring the price down. When are you going skiing?”

  “We leave for Lech tomorrow. The snow is good.”

  “Enjoy. Take care, Sharon.”

  “Will do. See you soon.”

  Jason held the phone in his hand long after Sharon had cut the connection. “We,” she had said. “We leave for Lech tomorrow.” She didn’t even try to hide it any more. Why should she? They had long ago decided on this openness shit. This living of separate lives. It was the price he had to pay to hold on to her. It was a price that Jason, up to now, had been more than willing to pay.

  Sharon had done her part. She had opened doors for him that otherwise would have been slammed in his face, she had helped him make significant contacts, introduced him into her social circle, made him respectable. But she had not given him a family. An heir. Nor had she ever, in all their years together, given him her respect.

  He banged the phone down and made up his mind. Manor House would be his last concession. Sharon would have to settle down, make a home for him, have his child before it was too late. She was thirty-four now. No longer the young thing he had fallen in love with. Nor was he any longer the street hustler she had fallen for. He was a powerful businessman in his own right. Fuck Sharon and her bloody Mozart and her boyfriends! She was taking him for granted. Nobody did that to Jason Laide and got away with it.

  Chapter 10

  Ella had taken her sleeping pills last night, just as she had all over the weekend. Possible headache was a far superior option to certain heartache. She did not want to know what time Andrew came home, what lies he would tell. Nor did she want to smell the lingering traces of another woman on his skin or see the satisfied afterglow of sex in his eyes. Peter Sheehan’s pills had dropped her into a dreamless sleep.

  She opened her eyes this Monday morning to a room flooded with clear light. It was late. Lying still she sensed the empty space beside her. Had Andrew already gone to work or had he not come home at all last night? Afraid of the answer, Ella lay on her back, her eyes focused on the ceiling light. It had a cream shade, circular, heavy, diffusing warm tones when the bulb was lit. Very gradually, blink by blink, Ella edged her gaze away from the ceiling and towards Andrew’s side of the bed. There was a dent in his pillow. An imprint of where his head had rested. The duvet was tossed back. Slowly, Ella leaned over and sniffed the space where Andrew had lain. She smelt nothing except the odour of her husband. His aftershave, his deodorant, him. Essence of Andrew.

  She showered and dressed in a cocoon of drug-induced drowsiness. Coffee would dispel the remaining traces of sleep. Coffee would allow the day, the truth, the questions to begin. She was halfway down the stairs when Andrew came into the hall, briefcase in hand. He looked calm, responsible. A busy man on his way to work. Not a trace of lies or deceit on his open face, in his dark blue eyes.

  He smiled at Ella. “You looked so peaceful this morning, I decided to let you sleep on. Did you have a good rest?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  She stopped then, mouth shut, staring at her husband, not knowing what to say next. Should she tell him? Should she let him know she had discovered his deceit? Ask him why he had lied? Who he had been with?

  “Are you all right, Ella?”

  She nodded. Of course she was all right! Why wouldn’t she be? She had Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, survivor’s guilt and cuckolded wife’s dementia but what the hell! Fuck you, Andrew Ford! She smiled down at him from her perch on the stairs, from her lonely place halfway up and halfway down, half-awake, half-asleep. Half alive.

  “I’ll see you in the office,” she said.

  “Yeah. See you later,” Andrew answered airily. “There are some things we must talk over.”

  Then he turned on his heel and walked out the front door.

  Ella began her slow descent of the stairs, her slow entry into a day she would rather not face.

  * * *

  Andrew was getting ready to leave the office just as Ella arrived in.

  “Glad you’re here,” he said. “I’ve had Jason Laide on the phone. He’s getting an engineer to vet Manor House for him.”

  “Good,” Ella answered, dropping her bag on her desk, holding back the words she really wanted to say.

  “Maybe,” he agreed. “But I’ve just had a call from another client who wants to view the house. It’s not a done deal for Jason Laide yet.”

  This was good news. Ella got the distinct impression that Jason Laide was totally overawed by Manor House, that he believed he could buy into its history and its inherent dignity by buying the property. He would outbid any other potential customer in order to stake his claim on respectability. The bigger the selling price, the bigger the commission.

  “Well, who is it?” she asked, wondering if it was somebody who could challenge Jason Laide’s resources.

  “Nobody you know. It was just an inquiry anyway. We’ll wait and see.”

  He had gone out the door before Ella could pin down her uneasy feelings. Just as the door shut, she realised Andrew was lying to her again. About a potential client for Manor House?

  A tight band of tension clamped around her head. The same as yesterday. And the day before. In another few minutes the pain would start.

  Angry, she picked up the phone and dialled Peter Sheehan’s number.

  His secretary was apologetic. “He’s at the hospital this morning, Mrs Ford. If it’s urgent, I could fit you in for an appointment this afternoon.”

  Ella made the arrangements. It was urgent. She urgently needed to tell Peter Sheehan that the sleeping tablets he had prescribed were giving her a headache, that his treatment, or what he termed as treatment, was not working. That she was sadder. Madder.

  The bureaucracy of buying and selling property generated mounds of paperwork. Ella could not concentrate on it. She pushed it aside and logged onto the web. Trawling around, she found the website of an auctioneer in Cuanowen. That was easy. There was only one, Cuanowen Properties Ltd. Cuanowen. Home. Or at least it had once been home for the young Ella.

  Several properties were shown for sale in the area but only one appealed to her. More than appealed. It was a new build bungalow right on the coastline. How had they got planning permission? Enlarging the picture, she examined the details. Four-bed, all ensuite, glass-fronted, overlooking the sea, wooden floors, under-floor heating. Fully furnished. Price on application. As Ella well knew, that meant a very high price tag, one that could kill all enquiries if it was published. Nevertheless she took down the contact phone number and logged off. She looked at her paperwork again but all she could think of was the way Andrew had slid out the door, disappearing before she could ask him any more questions. As if he had been trying to hide something else from her. Something about Manor House. That should be easy enough to check. All she had to do was cross the office and go to Andrew’s desk.

  When Ella checked the calls-received list on Andrew’s phone she recognised Jason Laide’s number instantly. Their accountant had called too. Just the two calls directly to Andrew’s line this morning. Could the accountant be the person interested in Manor House? Maybe Andrew didn’t want to say it until he had something definite. Only one way to find out.

  “Good morning, Gerard,” she said brightly to the Ford Auctioneers accountant when she had been put through to him. “I was just wondering if you have all the documents you need for our annual accounts.”

  “Yes, Ella, thank you. As I told Andrew this morning it will be another week before your tax returns are sorted out. I’ll let you know as soon as they are ready.” If he was puzzled, he kept it out of his voice.

  “Fine, Gerard. Anything else you’d like to know? Any more information. On sales, projections, anything?”

  Ella could almost hear the “she’s barmy after the accident” thought forming in his head. She could sense everything except an interest in Manor House. Sh
e finished the call with as much speed and dignity as possible. The inquiry about Manor House must have come to Andrew through the front office. Knowing that her behaviour had a manic edge to it, Ella dashed out to reception and asked for a list of all calls that morning. Clutching the page, she dashed back into her office and pored over it. Caller, time, enquiry and follow-up were all logged on the page. Not one call referred to Manor House. If Andrew had got a call about Manor House, he had taken it on his mobile, which meant it was from a personal friend. Or else he was just lying. For what possible reason? To pretend he was showing someone around the property when he was elsewhere, just as he had done with the Cox brothers meeting?

  Ella dropped her head onto her hands. The headache was pounding now. What in the fuck was she supposed to do? Should she confront Andrew with what she knew, accuse him, question him? She had a right. But he would probably lie again. Deny. Should she demean herself by searching through his pockets, his clothes, for telltale signs, for clues that he was seeing, holding, laughing with, loving someone else? Wave evidence in his face? A ticket stub, a hotel receipt, an item of silky underwear. Every letter that Ella had ever surreptitiously read in the agony columns of magazines came into her mind now. She had never bothered reading the answers, preferring to think these problems were all fictitious and that anyway they had no relevance to her life.

  Grabbing her bag, Ella walked out of the office. She held her head high as she passed through reception, wondering how many of the staff knew that Andrew was playing around behind her back. Had he asked them to cover for him?