Ebb and Flow

by Mary O'Sullivan

“Now, now, I don’t like your tone. I’m a client. Have some respect. And talking of respect, that’s why I’m ringing you now. Out of respect. I want to let you know that I got fed up waiting for you and your accident-prone wife to close the deal on Manor House. I’ve just been with Rob Trevor. The deal is done. Manor House is mine as soon as the paperwork is through. My solicitor is working on it as we speak.”

  If Jason Laide had been expecting a shocked reaction he was not disappointed. Andrew spluttered and stammered before finally getting his words together. “You can’t do that! You can’t just go off and make a deal behind our backs.”

  “I can and I did. Ask Rob Trevor. Just to show there are no hard feelings I’m going to pay you a bonus, but there’s a condition attached. Want to know what it is?”

  “Laide, you can shove your bonus. You’re not getting Manor House. Another client has outbid you. Rob Trevor knows that too.”

  “But he doesn’t want to sell to Maxine Doran. He couldn’t bear the thought of a trollop like her in his house. She would probably put a red light over the lovely double doors and open up for business.”

  For the second time in as many minutes Jason had stunned Andrew. So! Rob Trevor had obviously told him about Maxine’s offer on Manor House. Andrew had to bite hard on his lip so as not to shout at Laide. Outraged by the slurs cast on Maxine, he had never felt so incensed. Some instinct told him that being ignored would offend Jason Laide more than rising to the putrid bait he was dangling. The thought of offending Laide helped Andrew silence his need to defend Maxine.

  “I take it you agree with Rob Trevor’s opinion then?” Jason said when he realised Andrew was not going to answer him.

  “What do you want, Laide? What is it you’re after?”

  “Ballyhaven of course. I want those fifty acres. If you just wise up and sell them to me, then you could be saving yourself and other people a lot of trouble.”

  “What in the hell are you on about now?”

  “Well, we all have secrets, don’t we? Even people like your buddies Pascal McEvoy and Oliver Griffin. They might thank you for keeping me happy. Not to mention the woman who calls herself Maxine Doran.”

  “You bastard! You’re trying to blackmail me. How dare you drag my friends into it! And Maxine. You piece of scum!”

  Andrew heard Jason’s sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line. He was no longer amused.

  “I’m on my way to the airport to collect my wife. I’ll call into your office later. We’ll talk then.”

  Jason clicked off the phone, leaving Andrew standing with the receiver in his hand.

  He was still standing there five minutes later, staring at the phone. All the pieces began to fit together as he recalled the conversation word for word: “the woman who calls herself Maxine Doran.” His knees buckled. He sat and ran his hands through his hair. Fuck! Why hadn’t she told him? Why hadn’t Maxine told him that Jason Laide was the piece of filth who was blackmailing her? The pig who had filmed her when she was little more than a child. She knew Jason had put in a bid for Manor House. Andrew himself had told her that. Was this why she wanted the big old house so badly? To spite her tormentor? Or maybe she was working with him. Maybe she had told the photographer where to find them?

  Andrew dropped his head into his hands. Even more than Jason Laide’s threats, the thought he could not handle was that Maxine had used him. He could not, would not, believe that. What they had shared had been real. But how real was Maxine Doran? The girl who used to be Marie Murphy.

  He glanced at his watch. It was almost nine o’clock. Any minute now the staff would be here, chattering and ready to start the day’s work. For once Andrew was happy to leave it to them. He would ring Rob Trevor first to confirm Laide’s claim and try to reverse Rob’s decision if he could. He should contact Oliver and Pascal to warn them about Laide but that would have to wait. He had more important things to do. He was going to the Registrar’s Office to find out just who Maxine Doran was and where she had come from. Only then would he be able to decide where he and this girl who was once called Marie Murphy were going.

  * * *

  Sharon waited for a feeling of belonging to swamp her. She was home. Standing on Irish soil. But all she felt was terror. Wishing she was back in Salzburg. The baggage conveyer belt was empty by now. Passengers from the Salzburg flight had collected their luggage and drifted one by one out through the Arrivals exit.

  She wheeled her case towards the ladies’ cloakroom, the canvas holdall balanced on top, her hand luggage gripped tightly in her free hand. Going in, she turned her back on the mirrors and leaned against the vanity unit. Her phone was still switched off. Jason would be trying to contact her. She could picture him, scanning faces, anxiously watching new arrivals, beginning to panic as he checked and rechecked the monitor. He would probably make enquiries to be told that yes indeed, the flight from Salzburg had landed thirty minutes ago and all passengers were now disembarked. Sharon closed her eyes and took some deep breaths.

  “Are you feeling all right?”

  Embarrassed, Sharon opened her eyes and smiled at the elderly woman standing in front of her. She seemed like a kindly person and Sharon had to quell the temptation to spill out her troubles to this stranger. The gentle little lady with the white hair who was still standing waiting for an answer!

  “I’m fine. Thank you for your concern. Just tired from the early flight.”

  “Are you sure?” the woman asked anxiously. “Maybe you should go and have a nice cup of tea. You’ll feel better then.”

  “Yes, you’re right,” Sharon agreed, straightening herself up and pretending to check her hair and make-up in the mirror until the old woman finally toddled off, leaving Sharon alone in the cloakroom.

  Quickly, before someone else came in, she secured her precious hand luggage onto the handle of her suitcase, opened the canvas holdall and scooped out the bundles of tissue paper. Balling them up as tightly as possible, she threw them into the disposal bin for paper towels.

  Then working with shaking fingers, she ripped off the airline tag, tore it into tiny pieces and shoved the sticky little ball into her handbag. Glad now that she had had the foresight to remove the stiff base from the holdall before packing it, she found that she was left with an easily foldable piece of canvas.

  A toilet flushed. Sharon started. She had not realised there was someone else here. She dashed into a vacant cubicle, shoving her wheeled luggage ahead of her, and continued her folding of the canvas holdall. When it was scrunched as small as she could make it, she lifted the lid on the sanitary bin and breathed a sigh of relief when the holdall slipped in easily. It was gone. Lost. All she had to do now was make the loss official.

  The bureaucracy of the Lost And Found department took another twenty minutes but Sharon didn’t mind. At the end of that time she had a piece of paper in her hand to say her canvas holdall had been booked onto the flight in Salzburg and appeared not to have arrived in Ireland.

  As she walked through the Arrivals exit her legs shook. She and Jason saw each other immediately. His normally pale face was flushed red. He raced towards her, coming inside the barrier.

  “Where in the fuck have you been?” he greeted her. “Everyone else from your flight is gone ages ago.”

  “They’ve lost one of my cases,” Sharon said, and she did not have to act the anxiety in her face and voice. “I had to go to lost luggage and fill out endless forms.”

  “Stupid bastards,” Jason muttered. “No hassle. You can buy whatever you need until your case turns up. Anyway you must have plenty to keep you going with what’s in there.” He glanced at the overstuffed case she was pushing.

  He grabbed the case from her and began to push it towards the exit. Sharon followed on, clutching her hand luggage tightly, willing him to ask the question so that she could get it over with. He continued on ahead of her complaining about the weight of her luggage, wondering if she had brought “some of her bloody statues” as he called
the sculptures she had so carefully collected for the Junkergasse house. His car was, as usual, illegally parked close to the exit so they did not have far to walk. Opening the boot, he heaved the case in and slammed the lid shut. He just abandoned the trolley then and jumped into the car. Sharon barely had time to tie her seat belt before he took off, driving too fast through the airport, driving manically when they reached the motorway.

  “I have a big surprise for you, Mrs Laide. You’re going to love this. I closed the deal on Manor House this morning. It’s ours, bar the legalities. Would you like to see it now?”

  “I’m tired, Jason. Do you mind if we just go to our old house first so that I can have a rest. It is still ours, isn’t it?”

  “Well, the buyers haven’t moved in yet if that’s what you mean,” he answered sulkily. Sharon knew she had ruined his surprise and that his mood would be bad now. It would get worse. And since he had not asked the appropriate question she would have to volunteer the information.

  “Jason. The case that’s gone missing . . .”

  “What about it? Your make-up or something? Do you want to go shopping?”

  “Your papers were in that case.”

  Rubber screeched as Jason jammed on the brakes. The driver behind them pressed on his car horn and kept it depressed. Sharon closed her eyes, aware just of blaring horns and squealing rubber and waited for the inevitable crash.

  “You mean you’ve lost my property? My livelihood? My insurance? You stupid bitch!”

  Sharon opened her eyes and looked across at the man she had once thought so exciting. She shuddered. He had somehow avoided a crash and was driving on but he was seething with anger, eyes flashing, beads of sweat on his forehead.

  “Surely you must have made copies of these things if they are that important to you?”

  “Of course not, you moron! That was the point. Only I had them. That’s what made them so valuable. Have you any idea what you’ve done?”

  The temptation to answer that question was so strong that Sharon had to press her lips firmly together. Holding it all inside, the disgust, the fear, the need for vengeance, she cleared her throat before she spoke, her voice soothing and steady by sheer force of will.

  “They promised me they’d have my case back soon. Probably by tomorrow.”

  “Soon! Probably! For fuck’s sake! What were you thinking of? Why did you let those sensitive papers out of your sight? Why didn’t you keep them in your hand luggage? What have you in there? Your fucking perfumes and make-up?”

  Sharon clasped her holdall close to her. Her hands were shaking. “Yes. I’m sorry, Jason. But it struck me that some of that material – the tapes – might have caused some problems coming through customs.”

  He scowled but she saw she had scored a point.

  “And I did tell you that your things were safe in the bank vault,” she went on. “You should have left them there. Why do you need them now?”

  “None of your business. My property and nothing to do with you. I should never have let you anywhere near it. I’ll get onto that fucking airline as soon as we’re back at the house. I’ll sort them!”

  “I don’t think that would be such a good idea, Jason. I’ve already dealt with it by reporting the loss and filling in all the necessary forms. If you make a huge fuss it might arouse suspicion about the contents. You wouldn’t want people opening the case and rifling through your things, would you? But suit yourself. I’ll give you the reference number if you want it.”

  “Fuck!”

  Sharon glanced at her husband again. He was pale now, more than pale. Ghastly. They drove the rest of the way in silence.

  Pleading tiredness, Sharon went straight to the master bedroom when they got to the house. She locked the door behind her. The room was tasteful, sparklingly clean and soulless. She threw her holdall onto the four-poster bed and opened it up. Carefully she loosened Jason’s files and videos from the underwear in which it was wrapped. His blackmail stash. His video of Maxine Doran.

  Picking up the haul, she walked into the adjoining dressing room. This was hers. Jason never came in here. Not as far as she knew. She dragged out a stool and standing on it put the papers and videos up in the highest press. That was as safe as she could make them for the time being.

  A thump on the bedroom door made her jump so that she nearly fell off the stool. She pushed the stool back in its usual place and rushed to open the door to Jason. She must, must, keep him as calm as possible until she was ready. Until her work was done.

  * * *

  Never one to behave as expected, DiAngeli was all calmness and maturity this morning. Rehearsals in the Royal Theatre Carré were rolling ahead with military precision. A big surprise to those who had not worked with him before. The show was coming together very well. By three o’clock this afternoon it would be the slickest, most inspired fashion show of the season.

  The manic little designer always pulled it off, Maxine thought, as she stood quietly in the wings, waiting for her cue to make a trial run on the catwalk. She felt uncomfortable, glancing about her continuously, wondering which of the cameramen, stagehands, theatre cleaners were in Van Aken’s employ, very aware that she had now put herself in danger by bringing herself to Van Aken’s attention.

  “Maxine! You’re on! C’mon, c’mon! What’s wrong with you this morning?” shouted DiAngeli’s second in command who had by now assumed the role of hysterical artist so that his boss could don a mantle of calm.

  Maxine sighed and strode towards the stage and improvised catwalk. Her stride had an edge of anger. She was disgusted by the naiveté she had displayed last night and worried by the fact that this morning Andrew’s phone was still switched off. She had thought of ringing his office. But what if he had deliberately switched off his phone to avoid talking to her? Maybe he had got back with Ella. Maybe they were together in bed this moment, having a glorious reconciliation.

  “Maxine! Oh, my God! What are you doing? Turn! Sashay! Hips, girl! Hips!”

  Maxine brought her attention back to her work. A flicker of light up in the gods told her she was being watched. Perhaps Andrew Ford had abandoned her but she believed that Dirk Van Aken had not.

  Chapter 28

  Ella glared at Andrew’s mobile phone. It was sitting on his desk, switched off, as it had been for the past four hours. Wherever her husband had gone he certainly did not want to be contacted. Ella would have believed he was with his girlfriend had he not told her last night that Maxine Doran was working in Amsterdam. She buzzed the front desk.

  “You’re sure Andrew didn’t say where he was going? Or that he didn’t leave any message for me?”

  “Absolutely sure,” the girl answered with barely concealed impatience. “He left shortly after I arrived. Just told me to keep an eye on things until you got here.”

  Ella put down the phone, embarrassed that she had interrogated the girl yet again. She desperately needed to discuss Manor House with Andrew. He had left her with no option now but to wait until he came back from wherever he was.

  Ella had been angry with Rob Trevor when he rang earlier. Neither he nor Jason should have gone behind her back and closed the deal on Manor House without her. Rob could have told Jason Laide to work through the proper channels. She shrugged then. What the hell! Jason got his mansion, Rob got his money, the Fords’ commission was still on the table and Maxine would be the only loser. And maybe Andrew too. He had seemed very anxious to secure Manor House for the supermodel.

  Ella drummed the desk impatiently with her fingers. Where in the hell was Andrew? If only he hadn’t forgotten his phone. He might be with the Coxes or some other client. So why hadn’t he left a message for Ella as to his whereabouts? As he always did. She could ring around. Her hand reached towards the receiver and then dropped again as Andrew stormed through the door.

  “Well, good afternoon,” she said, watching as he took some sheets of paper out of his inside pocket and threw them on his desk. Trouble, Ella thought
as she noted his dark eyebrows drawn together, the tight line of his mouth and his hair standing in peaks.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “Jason fucking Laide!”

  Ella was stunned by the vehemence of the answer. Then she remembered the photo Andrew had tried to hide from her. They had suspected Jason of being behind that.

  “The photo of you and Maxine?”

  “No. Well, not just that. He’s bought Manor House. He went to Rob Trevor at the crack of dawn this morning and signed some sort of agreement.”

  “I know. Rob rang. I don’t think there’s much we can do about it. Jason paid a hefty deposit too. In cash. I realise Maxine wanted to –”

  “She has a right!” Andrew shouted, beginning to pace now, distractedly running his fingers through his hair. “She’s a Wellsley. She should have, she must have that house.”

  “What are you talking about, Andrew? Would you calm down?”

  He sat at his desk and dropped his head onto his hands. His stillness was even more intense than his frantic pacing. Ella stood and walked over to his desk. Laying her hand on his shoulder, she felt the knotted muscles and tremors of anxiety.

  “I can’t explain it all, Ella, but I’ve been to the Registrar’s Office and done some research. It turns out that Maxine’s great-grandmother was Harriet Wellsley.”

  “The woman in the portrait in Manor House?”

  “Yes.”

  Ella’s hand slipped off Andrew’s shoulder and fell to her side as she thought about Harriet Wellsley. The beautiful woman in the portrait. The black sheep of the Wellsley clan. The woman who resembled Maxine so much. The woman who had obsessed Karen Trevor. She remembered Rob’s description of Karen standing in front of Harriet’s portrait for hours on end. Just staring. It seemed as if the lady Harriet was reaching out to fascinate them all again. She shivered.

  “I don’t understand,” she said. “Why did you have to do research? Did Maxine not tell you?”

  “I don’t think she knows.”