The Year of Living Famously

by Laura Caldwell

  I took them and studied them, struggling to hide how pleased I was by her mothering.

  “Oh, I have to see them on you.” She hustled me off to the fitting room, where she stood outside until I came out to model for her. “Adorable!” she proclaimed.

  I told the saleslady to ring them up. Even if I’d hated them, I think I would have bought them just to see Nell smile.

  I took a nap when we got back from shopping that day. When I woke up, Declan was sitting at the kitchen table with piles of paper surrounding him.

  “Graham already has ten houses for us to think about,” he said. “He faxed us the listings to the corner store.”

  Nell came in the kitchen, and together we starting looking through them with Declan.

  “Glory be to God!” Nell said. “These must cost a fortune. They’re right mansions, they are.”

  She wasn’t far off base. These were real houses. Some had five bedrooms, some boasted four to five thousand square feet.

  Then I looked at the list prices and nearly gasped. When Nell left the room for a moment, I whispered, “Dec, we don’t need a million-dollar house.”

  “A million won’t get us anything,” he said, holding out a listing. It showed a white ranch house with a roof that looked more weather-beaten-gray than a nice Ralph-Lauren-paint-kind-of-gray. The bushes out front were bedraggled; the sidewalk leading up to the house was broken in places. It had three bedrooms and 1.5 baths, and the description said it was “cozy” with “knotty pine cabinets.” The list price was $990,000. Was that all a million dollars bought these days?

  “It’s in Bel Air,” Declan said, pointing to the picture “but it’s in a neighborhood, right next to a bunch of other houses. We might as well stay in our apartment. Now, this is something that might work for us.”

  He gave me another listing that showed a Southwestern desert–style home with adobe walls and a large arched front window. Holmby Hills, Luxury Living at Its Finest! the description boasted. It went on to brag about the four bedrooms and three and a half baths, the location at the prestigious Bel Air Crest, the pool, the spa, the “grand, sweeping staircase.” Finally, at the end, it mentioned the price tag of well over two million dollars.

  “Okay, I’m not even commenting on the price right now,” I said to Declan. “We just don’t need something this big. It’s only the two of us.”

  “Not really,” he said. “I’ve got to get an assistant, and they’ll need to work there. And you need a proper office, and I’d like to have someplace to review scripts and such.”

  “Ah, you’re so grand, are you now?” Nell said, coming back into the kitchen and putting a kettle on the stove.

  “No, Ma, it’s just how it has to be. Besides, the most important point is the security. This place has an alarm system, a gated entrance and a safe room.”

  “What do you need all that for?” Nell said.

  Declan glanced at me. I knew he liked to protect his mother from any unpleasantness in his life. He felt she had enough of her own.

  “We just have to be careful now,” he said. “That’s all.”

  I thought of Amy Rose for the first time since we had arrived. I wondered if she was watching our apartment in Venice, waiting for us, for Declan, to come home. The concept of tall gates and a red light on an alarm system made me feel safer at that moment. I picked up the stack of faxes again.

  That night we went with the twins and Dec’s family to the Octagon Bar in the Clarence Hotel, which was apparently owned by some of the members of U2.

  Declan adored U2. Our apartment always pulsed with their music when he was home. He was forever talking about the Octagon Bar and how “brilliant” it was, and so I’d expected something impressive, or at least impressively hedonistic in a rock-star kind of way. But really, it seemed like a rec room in somebody’s basement. There were the intriguing octagonal contours, of course, and there was an octagon-shaped bar in the center, but the ceilings were low, the lighting bad and patchy, and the bucket chairs dated-looking.

  Declan’s mom was nervous as we took our seats. “I haven’t seen anyone yet,” she said, “but if I do you can be sure it will be ugly, now, won’t it?”

  Nell had been the former head of housekeeping at the Clarence before leaving for the Shelbourne. She seemed to think that she might be bodily thrown out of the Octagon Bar once someone spotted her. In fact, she seemed upset when she didn’t get tossed. No one recognized her at all.

  Wonderfully enough, since we’d been in Dublin, only a few people recognized, or at least admitted to recognizing, Declan, either. Oh, there was a sole photographer who approached us on the street, and asked, politely, for a photo. We obliged, he snapped two shots, and was gone. A short article had also appeared in the Irish Times, which mentioned that “Ireland’s new top gun in Hollywood” was back in his native city for a visit. Other than that, our time in Dublin had been spent blissfully without the press, without fans.

  There was one guy, though, who approached us that night at the Octagon, as we sat in the bucket chairs near a table that was too small for all our drinks.

  “Declan McKenna,” the guy said in a disappointed voice, as if to really say, I thought I told you not to show your face around these parts anymore.

  “Yes?” Declan said. He looked up with his now-practiced, yes-it’s-me-I’m-a-celebrity-you’re-right face.

  “Declan McKenna,” the guy repeated. He was standing still, but the top half of his body swayed like a tree in the wind. It was at that moment, I think, that we all realized the guy was blotto. The twins tensed, sat a little taller in their chairs.

  “Ya come back to conquer the homeland, did ya?” the guy said. “Think you can swing in here on your vine and we’ll all dance a jig for ya?”

  “No,” Declan said, perfectly pleasant. “No, not at all. Just visiting.”

  “Visiting? Ha!” The man ran a hand over his beard. He wore a triumphant expression as if he’d just figured out Declan’s real intentions. “We’re not impressed by you, ya hear that?”

  “Sure,” Declan said.

  “You’re shite, that’s all. You’re a fecking pissant Yank bastard now, don’t pretend you’re not.”

  “Okay.”

  “I want you out of town as soon as you can get on your horse.”

  “I thought it was a vine,” Declan said.

  The man looked angry, then confused, as if he’d been caught making a big mistake. “Just leave soon!” he said.

  “Sure,” Dec said. “Thanks for stopping by.”

  The guy meandered away, his tree-trunk upper body undulating slightly. Dec and the twins and his father burst into raucous laughter.

  “What?” Nell said. “Sure, you’re not all laughing, are you? The cheek of that nutter! He insulted you!”

  “Christ, that was a brill slag,” Colin said, wiping his eyes.

  “Brilliant,” Declan agreed. “It’s just like Bono said. ‘When there’s a big house on a hill in America, people walk by and say, “That will be me someday.” But when they’re in Ireland, they look up at the house and say, “I’m going to get that guy someday.’”’

  The week in Dublin sped by. We visited aunts and uncles of Declan’s, we baby-sat for Nat, we drank too much with the twins. Despite the change of scenery, our days felt the way they had before Normandy came out. Life was effervescent, wonderful, somehow normal. But on the afternoon before we were supposed to leave, Declan went out to the corner store to get another fax from Graham.

  When he came back, he hustled me into the tiny guest bedroom we were sharing. “Look,” he said, handing me a few sheets of paper.

  * * *

  Stunning 1926 Old Hollywood Spanish on Mulholland Drive. Panoramic canyon and valley views. Gated entrance. Ultimate privacy. Ballroom-size living room. Gorgeous master suite. Media room. Exquisite kitchen, pool, spa.

  * * *

  Then my eyes found the price tag. $4,100,000.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.” I
looked back up at Declan.

  “Hold on there,” he said. “That’s not quite the price.”

  “It says four million dollars.”

  “Listen, love, it used to be four million, when it was listed last year. The owner took it off the market right quick when he became ill. He died a month ago, and the estate lawyer is selling it. He just called Graham’s agent yesterday and said he’ll punt it for 2.7.”

  “Two point seven million,” I said. I was somewhat used to hearing about other people paying outrageous prices, especially in Manhattan, but I’d never myself had to bat around such figures before.

  “It’s a bloody steal,” Declan said, his voice getting more excited. “We’re the only ones who the agent has told, but we have to let her know today.”

  “What do you mean? We haven’t even seen it yet!”

  “Graham said that’s how these estate sales go sometimes. You’ve got to jump on it. He’s been there with Sherry, and they both love it. They say it’s perfect for us.”

  “How do they know if it’s perfect for us? We can’t buy a house without seeing it first.”

  “Look, love.” Declan sat on the bed and pulled me down next to him. “I’m trying to save money because that’s what you want to do, and I agree we should watch it. But we do have the money now, and we’re not going to get a deal like this ever again. This is a half-price home, for Christ’s sake!”

  “A half-price home we haven’t seen yet.” Was I the only sane one here?

  “Well, look at the rest of the pictures.” He pointed to photos of a charming kitchen and two offices (“one for each of us,” Declan said) and a sunroom that looked over the valley and the canyon.

  “It’s beautiful,” I said, “from what I can tell, but I haven’t seen it with my own eyes. How am I supposed to move in there?”

  “Hold up,” Declan said. He picked up the phone on the white wood nightstand. “Graham,” he said after a few seconds. “Yeah, it’s Declan. Listen, can you tell Kyra about the house?”

  I shot Declan a look, but took the phone.

  “Kyra,” Graham said. How soothing and confident that voice of his was. “This place has you two written all over it. It’s just beautiful. It’s not too overstated, but it’s very lux. The living room is huge yet it’s comfortable and casual, too. There are two offices. It would be a perfect place for you to work on your designs. The master is stunning, with closets bigger than your kitchen.”

  I admit I perked up at the part about the closets.

  “I know this is a strange way to do things,” Graham said, “and I wouldn’t even mention this to you two if I wasn’t absolutely positive that you’d love it. I tell you what, even if you get home and you hate it, or you just want to live in it for a few months while you’re looking at another place, you could turn this puppy around in a few months and make a mil easy. I’d do it myself if I didn’t have money tied up in other places.”

  I was silent. The part about being able to sell helped, but was that true? I knew nothing about real estate.

  “Kyra,” Graham said, “I think you know that you can’t stay in that apartment. That woman who was outside when you left for the airport—I’ve seen her type before. She makes me nervous.”

  “Me, too.”

  “Look, talk to Declan some more and let me know, okay? The agent is breathing down my neck, but I’ll hold her off for a few more hours.”

  “Thanks, Graham.”

  I hung up the phone. Declan watched me with expectant eyes, like a kid waiting to find out if he can stay up late.

  Crazy, ludicrous, stupid, some woman was saying in my head, but I kept hearing another voice, this one stronger. It was Amy Rose saying, You’re going to visit our family in Dublin…I’m here to go to Dublin, too. And I could see her neat handwriting on the letters—I’ve watched you through the curtains with that woman.

  She scared me—there was no way around it—and the thought of constantly looking over my shoulder for her was unbearable. Then there were the photographers camped out in our alley or near the front door.

  “I guess it would be better to get out of the apartment soon,” I said.

  Declan nodded. I got the feeling that he was afraid to say anything, lest he break the tentative spell Graham had cast over me.

  “If I hate it, we’re looking for something else right away,” I said.

  “Right. Right. Perfect.”

  We sat in silence. In the other room, I could hear Liam talking to Nell and her childish laugh in return.

  “Are we doing this, love?” Declan said.

  I groaned. I rubbed my forehead. Finally, I looked up at Dec. “Okay,” I said. “We’re doing it.”

  Declan and the twins and I went out to celebrate our new house that night.

  “I want to hear some music,” I said in the car. “Some Irish music.”

  “Oh, she wants Irish music, does she?” Tommy said.

  “Let’s go to Temple Bar,” I said, thinking of Margaux. What would she say when she heard about our house?

  “You were in Temple Bar when we went to the Octagon Bar,” Colin said.

  “But that was a hotel! I want a real Irish bar.”

  “Well then, pet, we can’t go to Temple Bar,” Colin said.

  “Ah, let’s go,” Declan said. “What my girl wants, my girl gets.”

  Fifteen minutes later, we parked and walked the crowded cobblestone streets of Temple Bar. The pubs and restaurants blared their music, as if the loudest would win the most tourists. We went to Oliver St. John Gogarty’s, a busy three-story bar and restaurant.

  “At least let’s go to the upstairs bar,” Colin said. “It’s not as unhinged as the rest of this place.”

  The top-level had crackled, red brick walls and an old oak bar where whiskey bottles hung upside down at the ready. The bartenders were red-faced and friendly. And there was a band, just as I’d hoped, but they weren’t onstage. Instead, they sat around a long, rectangular table, playing to themselves—for themselves, it seemed—although they were surrounded by watchers and dancers and drunks.

  Declan and the twins refused to let me order wine and instead made me drink Guinness. Guinness, I learned, is a bit of a sneaker in terms of intoxication. It slowly made me loopy, happy.

  “Anyone want to pop out for a bit of a smoke?” Colin asked, flashing a joint in his palm.

  “Me, please!” I said. I hadn’t gotten stoned in years, but it sounded as if it would complement my buzz perfectly.

  “I’m driving,” Tommy said. He picked up his pint of Guinness and kept drinking.

  “Nah,” Declan said. “I don’t do that shit anymore.”

  Colin and I left the bar. He led me down the cobblestone street and over a bridge with iron railings painted white.

  The lights overhead were bright. Cars sped by, crossing the River Liffey. We leaned over the railing in the center of the bridge, watching the brown swirling water.

  “Here you go, pet,” Colin said, handing me the lit joint.

  “Here?” I said. I swiveled my head around guiltily. “We’re in the middle of a bridge.”

  “It’s the best place. The cops think bridges are for lovers and jumpers, so as long as we’re two people and we don’t look ready to jump, they’ll leave us alone.”

  I looked around again. A bundle of young guys walked past us, none of them glancing our way. The cars streamed by.

  Finally, I took the joint from Colin’s hand and inhaled big. I waited for the rush to hit my brain. Nothing happened.

  “No offense, Colin, but your pot sucks.”

  “True, true. We only get shite here. But every once in a while something gives you a kick.”

  We leaned on our elbows and watched the water some more.

  “It’s been great craic having you two here,” Colin said.

  “Great craic. God, that term kills me! Maybe I should start saying ‘heroin.’ You know, ‘It’s been such good heroin having you around.’” I peeled off in
to a fit of giggles. Okay, possibly I was a tad baked.

  Colin laughed with me. “Sure, but I’m serious,” he said. “Declan is mad for you, and I just want you to know that Tommy and I approve. You get on with Declan better than any woman I’ve seen before.”

  “Well, thank God, because we’re already married.”

  “Honestly, Declan is different with you.”

  “How so?” I turned to face him. This interested me.

  Colin gave a lift of his shoulders. “It’s like he’s really Declan with you. The Declan I know and Tommy knows. Before, when he was with other women, he always seemed like someone else.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He was acting. Like he was in a film or something. But with you, pet—” Colin ruffled my hair “—what you see is what you get. You get the real Declan.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “Thanks for telling me that.”

  We stood in silence a few minutes more before we walked back and joined Declan and Tommy. The bar seemed more golden inside now, the band louder than when we left, more lyrical, magical. The sound from the fiddles soared to the ceiling and floated back to my ears. I kissed Declan flush on the mouth, then wandered away without a word. Later—it could have been ten minutes or two hours—he found me at the bar, talking to a man named Mick, a fiftyish reporter for the Irish Times, covering the Middle East beat, and Morag, a nineteen-year-old girl who was out on the town for the first time since the birth of her eight-week-old son. Declan chatted with the three of us for a while. I can’t for the life of me remember the topic, but I remember I was enthralled with my new friends, with that night.

  Declan and I eventually drifted away to the window where we watched a soft rain fall on the shiny stones of the street below.

  “How remarkable,” I said.

  “What’s that, love?”

  “I just had beers and great conversation with an unwed teenage mother and a Middle East reporter.”