by Faith Hogan
Grace could not speak, she tried to take in the words, but they weren’t hitting home, her lungs had cut off breathing and after a moment she had to remind herself to suck and blow. It was as though someone had bubbled-wrapped the world and insulated her from those two words.
‘I thought you should be first to hear, and of course to tell Delilah.’
‘He can’t be; he can’t be dead – how?’ Grace’s voice didn’t sound as if it belonged to her. She dropped to the nearest chair. Paul, dead? There had to be a mistake. This was all some awful mix up. ‘How…’ Her mind raced. ‘I mean, when…’
‘Look dear, you’re in shock, we’re both in shock, probably. You’ll have to decide how best to break it to Delilah. She’s, what…’ Evie leaned her head to the side. It was strange to hear this woman speak of her daughter as though she knew her well, as though there were some connection there far beyond what Grace felt there was any right to be. ‘She’s sixteen this year, isn’t she?’ Evie nodded sagely, twisted the emerald and diamond band on her wedding finger. ‘A difficult age to lose her father,’ she shook her head, as though it was all a question of timing. Shock, even Grace could see it, she was in shock. ‘All she needs to hear is that it was painless, as far as the doctors are saying. He was driving at the time, so…’
‘Can we see him?’ Grace had to let the fact that Evie knew anything about their lives slip past her. In this moment, she had to concentrate on taking in the news. ‘What about…’
‘It would be better for Delilah to wait; at least until we see what she has to be prepared for.’ Evie picked an imaginary hair from the lapel of her soft expensive jacket. ‘They want us to identify him. Well, they want me to identify him.’ She sniffed. Perhaps it was as close as she came to crying.
‘Oh?’ Grace felt the room spin about her. Her hands were sweating against her bare legs. She’d put on a denim skirt for a day at the beach. It felt sticky and clingy and as though it might have grown a couple of sizes too small. The whole house suddenly moved in closer about her for a moment. She felt she might faint. She took a deep breath, raised her eyes to see Evie regarding her reservedly.
‘It’s shock. Better to be in the boat you’re in than where Annalise Connolly is.’ The words were cold, but maybe Evie too was still in shock. ‘She was in the car with him. They were travelling from the hospital early in the morning, and swerved to avoid a dog.’ Her voice quivered, only slightly, and then she straightened herself, cleared her throat. ‘He careered into one of those big trucks, from what the traffic police could tell me.’ She nodded towards the front of the house. ‘He was trying to avoid a dog. A blasted dog.’
‘Is she… is she going to be okay?’
‘I didn’t ask.’ Evie stared blankly at Grace; perhaps it was just dawning on her that she should have. ‘I suppose she must be or they’d have said, wouldn’t they?’
‘And the boys?’ It was strange talking about Annalise Connolly’s children like this. They never talked about them; Paul talked about everything but his life with Annalise and the two sons they had together.
‘No, it was just Paul and Annalise, from what the guards can make out.’ Evie shook her head. ‘You’d have to wonder…’ She didn’t finish the sentence, but Grace had a fair idea of the sentiment. Maybe before Delilah was born she’d have felt the same.
‘So, do you want to come?’ She was looking at her watch, a simple Cartier gold snake slid about her papery wrist.
‘Pardon?’ Grace had lost track of Evie’s words, as though she’d missed a step somewhere between the kitchen and the front door; the universe had taken a sidestep on her.
‘The guards, they’re waiting outside to take us to see him. It’s only right that you’re there too. After all, you had a child together.’
‘He was my husband,’ Grace said. He’d never divorced her. She still wore her ring most days. He was still a big part of their lives, even if he had fathered the two boys with Annalise Connolly.
‘No, Grace.’ Evie gazed with the fervour of a zealot. ‘No, Grace. He was still my husband. We never got divorced.’
2
Annalise Connolly
2011
Annalise had a feeling they were laughing at her, but she wasn’t sure why. Of course, she was nervous, it wasn’t every day you got on ‘Talkshop’. It was a big deal and she wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for Gail and the Miss Ireland contest. The show was meant to be ‘current affairs for women, by women’. Annalise wasn’t really into current affairs, so she hadn’t made too many comments so far. Gail said keep quiet unless they talk about fashion or beauty. Well, when Annalise heard them start up about Titanic, she figured that was her cue. She’d gone to see it with her mum, yonks ago. To her mind, it was a classic, none of that old black and white stuff for Annalise thank you. She didn’t really get the whole thing about commemorating it, but to her mind, it was as good as anything to commemorate. She’d take Leo DiCaprio any day over some long-dead war hero who probably had poor grooming and no interest in fashion or appearance. Not that she was shallow, of course, but looks were very important for media work.
‘So sad,’ she said as soon as she got a chance and tried to look doe-eyed for the camera.
‘Actually the people of Belfast are delighted to celebrate it,’ the haughty feminist on the far side of the table said over glasses that didn’t quite sit before her eyes.
‘Well, I don’t know how anyone wouldn’t cry when Leonardo DiCaprio died at the end,’ Annalise said.
‘We are talking about the same thing here, right?’ The feminist sat forward a little, as though she might produce a little square egg to show everyone just how much in control she was of those ovaries. ‘I mean, you do realize that was just a film?’
‘Of course, I went to see it with my mum, and you’re wrong, you know; it wasn’t a hundred years ago, I was still at school when we went to see it.’ Annalise could hear the muffled snigger of Susan Lynsey, although she was no one to be laughing at anyone, with her boring junior minister boyfriend. Susan was a model too, but she was strictly fashion and snotty about it. Susan didn’t ‘do’ bikini shots, she had said earlier, swiping disdainfully at Annalise when they mentioned her Miss Ireland title.
‘Oh, Annalise,’ Susan said, her voice syrupy, but her eyes were mocking. ‘We’re talking about the actual Titanic,’ she smiled sweetly, ‘the one that sank on its maiden voyage a hundred years ago.’ They all laughed at that. Annalise didn’t see the joke, but she remembered to smile at the camera when it zoomed in close to her face, doing her best to look like Kim Kardashian after her divorce was announced.
*
Annalise couldn’t say a word. She patted at her lashes, could feel the mascara thick and clumpy come apart. How was she supposed to know there was an actual ship that sank a hundred years ago? Who really cared about a hundred years ago anyway? She was a laughing stock, knew it before she left the studio. She was defeated. It felt as if she’d managed to throw away her big opportunity before it had even arrived on her doorstep. To think that this morning she’d been dreaming about a career in television. Hah, they wouldn’t ask her back now.
Annalise hadn’t the heart to tell her father. He was so proud of her. Instead, she sat in the little Mini Cooper he gave her for Christmas and made her way to see Gail Rosenstock. Gail had a suite of rooms in one of the smart Georgian Squares south of Grafton Street. The whole place was a mixture of fresh lilies and grey walls hung with large black frames of her best models in black and white prints. Annalise never really believed she’d make it onto the wall. Not fashionable enough; Miss Irelands never were. She hadn’t realized it before she won the competition, but there was a difference between fashion and glamour. The first, Gail told her, was chic; the other was glitz. No matter what Annalise did, she was never going to be fashion. As she weaved her way stylishly along the path, she was conscious as ever that Gail might be watching her approach. Annalise wanted to throw herself at the glossed front door and bawl li
ke a baby at the unfairness of it all. Perhaps she was naively hoping for support or at the very least constructive advice. Gail Rosenstock had put her on her books just eighteen months earlier. It wasn’t an easy relationship. She was in no doubt that Gail had her favourites. The Miss Ireland crown seemed to have pushed her to the top of the pile, but before the finals, she’d been handing out leaflets in a bikini at the boat show.
‘You’re not seriously going to tell me you never knew the Titanic was a real ship, a real disaster story.’ Gail looked at her as though Annalise had just attached herself to her shoe and she knew it was going to be problematic to extricate herself.
‘Of course I knew, I was just nervous, first time on the telly and all that. They weren’t nice at all.’ She couldn’t admit it, but what good did it do anyone knowing about things that happened that long ago? Annalise prided herself on her in-depth understanding of pertinent facts. For instance, not one of those intellectual types could have named out the hottest nail colours for the coming season from all the top French houses.
‘You know the Pageant are trying to shake off that whole dumb blonde image. The feminists are doing a real hatchet job on everything this year.’ Gail was looking at the backs of her hands, but her voice was dangerously low. ‘They called me this morning, Annalise.’
‘Oh,’ Annalise felt her mouth go dry. ‘And?’
‘The clip went viral. Susan Lynsey posted it on social media and it seems she made it look even worse than it was. You’re on repeat saying the same thing over and over, and then there’s that dreadful empty-headed pout at the end.’
‘Well, didn’t you say that all publicity is good publicity?’ Maybe they weren’t exactly the words, but it was the gist.
‘This makes you look silly, and the pageant people feel, by extension, it makes them look ridiculous.’ She shook her head; the only sentiment here was annoyance. Annalise had messed up and Gail wasn’t going to make her feel good about it. ‘They want the crown back and they are giving you the opportunity to do it quietly or else they will make an example of you.’
‘That’s not fair.’ Annalise knew she sounded no better than a teenager – worse, she sounded like a pre-schooler. ‘They wouldn’t.’ It was all she could manage. She caught sight of herself in the mirror behind Gail. For a moment, all she could see was a disappointed little girl. She felt as though all the blood in her body was travelling fast from her head to the tips of her new Gucci stilettos. ‘Don’t they understand what this means to me? To my family? God, my dad will be devastated.’ She whispered the words, hardly aware of Gail anymore. These days, Annalise, with her false hair, nails and permatan rarely looked vulnerable, but now she knew she was disintegrating into a horrible caricature of the carefully created image. And she was far too upset to do anything about it.
‘You’ll have to hand the crown back,’ Gail was speaking quickly, the shock of red hair that she clung on to, despite its obvious thinness, a thorny crest threatening to degenerate on her creamy scalp at any moment. It moved manically about her pate as though controlled by some power even greater than Gail’s. ‘I don’t want to be associated with this kind of publicity – mud sticks,’ she bellowed across the desk at the distraught Annalise.
‘Okay, so, what do I do?’ She hadn’t missed the implication, this was bigger than just giving the crown back.
‘Keep a low profile, talk to the pageant people, see if you can win them around, see if they have anything else to offer, but I doubt it.’ Gail lit one of her long filtered cigarettes belligerently; she still smoked at her desk. There was no smoking ban for Gail, she made the rules and everyone stuck by them.
*
It was with a heavy heart that Annalise handed her crown onto the runner-up and made her way to the Liffey Medical Clinic. She cried the whole way. It felt as if she’d lost the one thing worth having. She went straight to the bathrooms on arrival. There was no fixing the mess her make-up had jellied into; she washed off what remained of it. Afterwards, staring at her bare face in the muted lights, she didn’t even try to convince herself that things would get better. It was as if the sparkle had fallen from the glitterball of life. Still, she might as well keep the appointment. She wasn’t sure if bigger boobs were the way to go, but anything had to be better than wallowing in the loss of her big chance.
*
Paul Starr wasn’t the first man to tell Annalise Connolly that she was beautiful. The difference was, when he said it, she had a feeling he was telling her not to get anything from her, but rather to give her something for herself. That was just Paul. They’d met, quite by accident. She’d been hoping to get a little work done, discreet enhancement, just a little pick-me-up for her self-esteem as much as for her B-cups. David Rayner was the best surgeon in the business. Rumour had it that he’d done work on Katie Price, in her Jordan days – not that Annalise wanted to go that route. To be fair, she was very upset when she knocked on his door. Amazing the difference a couple of days makes. The crowning ceremony had been the best night of her life.
‘You think surgery is for you?’ The doctor looked at her in a way that suggested that she was not quite in on the joke, but he made her feel as if she didn’t need to be. He was tall, maybe twenty years older than she was, but still attractive. She could tell he didn’t work out, but he was in great shape, without that completely buffed look that the fashion boys went for.
‘I’m not sure, I think it’s the only thing to do now…’ she said and, to her mortification, felt hot tears well up behind her eyes. The tale of the last couple of days came tumbling out and Paul handed over tissues while she blubbered about all she’d managed to mess up for almost half an hour.
‘I think you should count yourself very lucky. Who wants to be in a pageant when you could so easily be doing something far more worthwhile?’ he said as he walked towards a small cupboard on the other side of the room. He made them tea. ‘Green or white?’ he asked as he dropped bags into the boiling water. The smell revived her, just a little.
‘White is good,’ she said, eventually looking around the office that she’d been too distraught to take in before. The silence of the place was a little unnerving, but there was no denying that money and taste had free rein on choosing the medley of cream, white and ash that acted only as a backdrop to the man himself and the drama of the canvases on the walls. ‘You have good taste,’ she said, nodding towards a giant painting on the wall to her left.
‘No, I’m afraid that I’m just the lucky recipient. My wife.’ His expression darkened, and a vague, shallow furrow creased his eyes. ‘She’s a very talented artist.’ The way he said it, Annalise had a feeling that maybe that was all she was.
‘Oh?’ she studied the painting; it only took a moment to recognize that distinctive style. ‘Oh, my God, you’re married to Grace Kennedy?’ The delicate cup almost fell from her hand. ‘My mum loves her work – Dad bought a small print for their anniversary.’
‘Yes, well, marriage is a funny thing.’ He said the words sadly, his eyes never leaving her face, and in that moment, she felt something tug at her heart. Maybe not all of her emotions had been wrenched from her?
‘Feel any better?’ he asked her as she sipped her tea.
‘A little,’ she whispered shyly.
‘Well, as a doctor,’ he smiled at her, ‘I’m going to prescribe the following.’ He took out a notepad and slipped a slim pen from his pocket. ‘First, I think you should forget about the Miss Ireland competition. None of the supermodels ever bothered with any of that, did they?’ He smiled at her.
‘No, but they…’
‘Never mind “but they”,’ he said, writing for a moment on the pad before him. ‘Next, I don’t think I should perform the surgery on you for a number of reasons.’ He locked eyes with her so she caught her breath; she couldn’t break the contact even if she tried. ‘Number one, you clearly don’t need it – unless you want to be a page three girl and, to be frank, I think you’re much too classy.’ He smiled at
her. ‘Number two, even if you think it will make you feel better, I guarantee, it’ll make you feel worse – ouch!’ Even Annalise managed to smile at that. ‘And number three, I’m a heart surgeon, not a plastic surgeon, so I’d probably not make the best job of it anyway.’ He took up a folder from the desk and pointed to his name, printed in bold caps across it. ‘Sorry.’ He smiled again, almost apologetically, ‘but I couldn’t let you leave here, not without making sure that you’d be all right; you were obviously so upset when you arrived.’
‘I must have been if I came into the wrong surgery.’ Annalise found herself laughing, an unexpected outcome for the day.
‘So, at least you’re smiling.’ He got up to show her out. ‘Cosmetic Surgery is on the next floor, but really, my advice is for you to go home and get over this disappointment.’ He handed her the slip of paper he’d been writing on the desk. Outside in the waiting room, two women sat beneath a giant oil painting of a serene lake in the midday sun. Annalise wondered about Grace Kennedy and what kind of a woman it took to captivate a man like Paul Starr. She knew men like him were way out of her league – they’d go for the smart girls, the talented girls, the successful girls. At the lift, she unfolded the piece of paper he had handed her. It contained only two words: Good luck and then his phone number beneath.
2016
Twenty-six years of age, and she had a grey rib. Annalise Connolly couldn’t figure why these things always happened to her. These days, life happened to Annalise, nothing she could do about it. That was half the problem though, wasn’t it? That and the fact that she felt fat and manky and trapped! There, she said it. She peered closer into her bathroom mirror. It wasn’t good. She was morphing into someone unrecognizable. She was wearing a scrunchy, for heaven’s sake. Not a good scrunchy either; not one like Ralph Lauren featured in his Spring/Summer New York collection, where the models had their hair sculpted – yes, actually sculpted. God, Annalise thought to herself, I’d love that. There were probably livelier looking corpses up in Glasnevin cemetery. Paul had said it, at the time; lime green was not a good colour for a north facing en-suite. She should have listened to him; he was never wrong. Paul. They were, she knew, an unlikely pair. A Michael Douglas and Catherine Zeta Jones – only they were both ancient.
