Hot Property

by Susanne O’Leary

  ***

  A sound yanked her out of the black hole of sleep she had fallen into. Dazed, she looked around, momentarily confused about where she was or what time it was. The light was still on, and the dying embers of the fire glowed in the grate. There was that sound again. Her phone.

  Megan stretched out her arm and fished the phone from the table. She glanced at the caller ID. Beata. She pressed the button. “Hello?”

  “Megan?” Beata said in a near sob. “Sorry to disturb you so late. But…”

  “What’s the matter?

  “It’s Boris,” Beata wept. “He’s—” She stopped. “I can’t bear to talk about it. Please, Megan, will you come here?”

  Chapter 19

  Megan slowly gathered her wits. Beata’s call had startled her out of the dreamlike state she had been in since Paudie left. She pulled the blanket up to her chin and thought about what had happened earlier. Looking around the room, she somehow expected it to be different, as if a fairy-tale creature had paid a brief visit and then disappeared in a puff of smoke. Then she remembered. She closed her eyes and let the tears come. Paudie, she thought. What was that? Just a brief interlude? We had this amazing sex and then you just left. I never thought you’d do this to me.

  The pain was quickly replaced by the searing heat of anger. He was just like all of them. Took what he wanted and then left. But I’m not going to let it destroy me. Not this time. He can just go to hell. They can all go to hell, she thought. All the fucking men on this planet.

  Stiff and sore, she got off the couch and walked slowly up the stairs to the bathroom. She stood in a hot shower for a long time, scrubbing herself clean, trying to wash away the pain and the shame she felt at having been used yet again.

  Her phone rang again as she dried herself. She ran downstairs. Paudie, she thought, her heart lifting, calling to say he loves me. That he’s sorry he had to leave like that…

  But the missed call number was Beata’s, followed by a text message saying “please come as soon as you can.”

  ***

  Megan drove to The Blue Door with a feeling of impending doom. What was going on? Had Boris been found injured, or worse—dead? She stopped the car in a shower of gravel, flung the door open and raced into the kitchen, where she found Beata at the table, looking at a small object in front of her.

  She looked up as Megan arrived. “Oh, Megan!”

  Breathless, Megan stared at Beata’s red eyes. “What’s the matter? What’s happened?”

  Beata started to cry. “It’s Boris. She pointed at the thing before her. “He came with this…”

  Megan’s eyes focused on a small, blue velvet box. She reached out, opened it and gasped. “Oh my GOD! This is some rock!”

  Beata nodded. “I know,” she wept. “He came here tonight. Just barged into the kitchen while I was having supper. And then he—” She sobbed uncontrollably.

  “What? He—what? Come on, tell me!”

  “He… he… got on his knees and asked me to… to… marry him.” Beata buried her face in her hands and kept weeping.

  Dumbfounded, Megan stared at Beata. “And why is this such a tragedy? A man comes into the kitchen and presents you with this incredible diamond ring and asks you to marry him? Wouldn’t that be any girl’s dream?”

  Beata lifted her tear streaked face. “It would if he wasn’t a fucking—Russian!”

  Her knees weak, Megan sank down on a chair beside Beata. “What’s so wrong with that?”

  “I’m Polish, Megan. Do you know what the Russians did to us? Invaded our country. Forced us into submission. Then we had to learn their language. They were unbelievably cruel. The Soviet regime was brutal. My dad had to leave the country because of his political activities. Many of my relatives—oh, I don’t even want to think about it.”

  “But that was a long time ago, surely? I mean, Boris is too young to have—” Megan stopped. “Isn’t it foolish to let history prevent you from loving someone? To let what happened years ago stop you from being happy?”

  Beata sniffed. “I don’t think you understand. We fought so long for independence in Poland. We’ve been invaded by so many all through history. And now, when we’re finally a free, proud people, here I go falling in love with the enemy. It’s difficult for you to understand that, I suppose.”

  “Hey,” Megan said. “I’m Irish. We were invaded too, you know. Occupied for centuries. Our land taken. My ancestors were forced to learn English and forbidden to speak Irish or even have their own church.”

  Beata sighed. “Yeah, but that was even longer ago.”

  “A hundred years or so. That’s not very long in history.”

  Beata glared at Megan. “Sure. But how would you feel about marrying an Englishman?”

  “If I loved him, I wouldn’t hesitate. And my family would be fine with that, even though my great grandfather and his brothers fought in the Civil War. Some of them had to run away to America. But we get on now. The British and Irish have no problem with each other anymore. The hatchet has truly been buried. It’s all history, Beata” Megan drew breath. She was suddenly so tired she wanted to lie down on the floor and go to sleep.

  Beata pondered for a moment. “Yes, but still…” She sighed deeply.

  “How could he afford such a rock, by the way?” Megan asked, eyeing the ring. “It looks like a full carat of the best quality diamond. Must have cost at least six thousand euros.”

  “He worked all summer at the surfing school. Then he took off and got a job in a supermarket in Killarney, working overtime. He’s been saving up for two years, he says. Ever since the first time we met.”

  “That’s so sweet. Even you must admit that. But you haven’t told me what happened. He proposed and then what?”

  Beata sighed. “I wasn’t very nice, I’m afraid. I shouted at him. Something rude—I don’t remember exactly what. I was so shocked by what he did. And I’ve been mad at him ever since he just disappeared without a word. So he ran out and slammed the door. I bet he’s in Mulligans right now getting drunk.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  Beata shrugged. “Don’t know. I wish things could be the same as before.”

  “Things never stay the same.” Megan looked sternly at Beata. “Listen, you have a very rare thing here. A man willing to commit. A man who worked hard for years to give you a beautiful engagement ring. I know and you know that deep down you love him with all your heart. So he’s Russian? So bloody what? You both live in Ireland and, I presume, want to stay here. You’ll end up feeling more Irish than anyone.” Feeling dizzy, Megan drew breath.

  Beata stared at her. She opened her mouth to say something, but was interrupted by a loud knock on the back door and a voice, “Beata, there’s been an accident out at Mulligans.”

  Beata shot off her chair and tore the door open to reveal a breathless young man, his eyes wild.

  “What happened?” she shouted.

  “It’s Boris. He got into a bit of an argument outside the pub. There was some kind of scuffle, and then he fell backwards and hit his head on the pavement,” the young man said. “He didn’t get up, so we called an ambulance. He’s on his way to hospital in Tralee. Looks bad, the paramedics said.”

  ***

  The Accident and Emergency ward at Tralee hospital was buzzing. Nurses and paramedics ran around trying to keep up with the demand on the ward. A large number of people with various injuries thronged the waiting room and corridors. Several trollies with seriously injured and ill patients waited outside the cubicles, where doctors in scrubs assessed and treated as many as they could in the shortest possible time.

  Beata and Megan looked wildly around, trying to find Boris.

  “We have to ask someone,” Megan said. “If he arrived here in an ambulance, they must have registered him or something.”

  Beata squeezed Megan’s arm. Her face was pale with a greenish tinge and her eyes bleak. “If he’s dead, he’ll be in the morgue.”

 
“Don’t be morbid. Come on, we’ll ask that nurse at the reception desk.” Megan pulled Beata along with her and pushed her way to the desk. “Hello,” she said to the nurse who was shuffling papers around and talking on the phone at the same time. “We’re looking for a man who must have arrived here in an ambulance about half an hour ago with head injuries.”

  The nurse held up a hand and kept talking into the phone. Megan waited. Beata shivered and whimpered.

  The nurse hung up her phone and looked at them. “Name?”

  “Megan O’Farrell.”

  “No,” the nurse snapped, “the name of the patient.”

  “Boris,” Beata said.

  The nurse lifted an eyebrow. “And the last name?”

  “Demidenko,” Beata said.

  The nurse shuffled some more papers until she found what she was looking for. “Here’s the list of the latest admittances.” She scanned the list. “Murphy, O’Mara…Hmm. Oh, yes, here we are… Demidenko, Boris. Admitted about half an hour ago.” She looked at them. “Are you family?”

  “N… I mean yes. I’m his… partner,” Beata said. “He has no real family in this country.”

  “Okay.” The nurse consulted her piece of paper. “He hasn’t been admitted to a ward yet, so he must be in one of the cubicles. He’ll be there until we find a bed for him.”

  “Is he very bad?” Megan asked.

  The nurse shrugged. “I can’t tell you that. You’ll have to ask a doctor. If you can find one,” she added as Megan and Beata hurried away.

  Beata and Megan went back to the cubicles trying to find Boris. But there was no sign of him.

  “Where is he?” Beata sobbed. “Do you think he’s dead and they’ve put him in the morgue? Oh, Megan this is all my fault. If I hadn’t been so stupid this wouldn’t have happened.”

  “Please, Beata, shut up. We’ll find him.” Megan flicked open a curtain only to find a woman with both her hands bandaged and a man looking helpless beside her. “Sorry,” she said and closed the curtain.

  They continued along the line of cubicles, opening curtains, apologising to injured people and their families. Two bad burns, one heart attack and three hip fractures later, they still hadn’t found Boris. Beata finally looked so distressed Megan had to get her a chair and a cup of tea.

  “He’s dead, I tell you,” Beata sobbed. “We have to go to the morgue.”

  “Please, Beata, stop saying that. Maybe he’s been admitted to a ward? You can see for yourself how disorganised this place is. Nobody seems to know where anyone is.” She held a cardboard mug of tepid tea to Beata’s lips. “Come on, drink this. It’ll help you feel better. I put plenty of sugar in it.”

  Beata took a few sips. “It’s horrible. I need a cigarette.”

  “You stopped smoking two weeks ago.”

  “I know, but now I really need a fag.”

  “Beata!” a voice said.

  They looked up. Megan’s jaw dropped.

  Beata gasped. “Boris!”

  Megan couldn’t believe it. There he was, looking pale and wan with a bandage stuck to the back of his head, holding on to the wall for support.

  Beata shot up from her chair. “Boris, sweetheart, please sit down. What are you doing walking around with such an injury?”

  He smiled weakly and touched the bandage. “Yes. I got hurt. Hit my head hard.” He sank down on the chair. “But doctor say not too bad. Must rest and good in few days. Got paper for medicine, and then I go back here for check-up in one week.”

  “I can’t believe they let you go,” Megan said. “A blow to the head can be very dangerous.”

  Boris sat down on the chair Beata had vacated. “Russian head much harder than Irish head.”

  Beata put her hand on his shoulder. “We’ll take you home. You need to get to bed.”

  “Don’t we all,” Megan said, as a wall of fatigue hit her so hard she nearly sank to the floor.

  “Let’s get going, then,” Beata ordered, her usual vim and vigour back in her voice. “Megan, take his arm, and I’ll take the other one.”

  A little unsteady, Boris stood up and put one arm around Beata’s shoulder and the other one around Megan. “This way I like. Two pretty girls by my side.” He looked down at Beata. “But what was that you called me?”

  “I’m sorry I said those things,” Beata sobbed. “Called you a fucking Russian bastard and… Oh God, I’m such a bitch.”

  “Yes, you are” Boris said. “But I don’t mean those things. You always call me that. But just now, you say… you call me—”

  Beata looked confused. “What?” Then she blushed. “Oh, that. I said ‘sweetheart’.”

  “That’s the one. You never call me that word before.”

  “I know. I never felt like it.” Beata looked adoringly at Boris. “But now I do, you fucking Russian bastard.”

  Boris beamed. “I love you, Beata, my very own Polish bitch.”

  ***

  The happy conclusion of Boris’ adventure ended back at The Blue Door with tea and a plateful of chocolate chip cookies. But the sight of Beata sitting on Boris’ knee, kissing him between bites of cookie and slurps of tea, made Megan feel like an intruder. She excused herself and drove back to her house, bleary-eyed. It was now three in the morning. Too exhausted to get upstairs to bed, she simply crawled under the blanket on the couch.

  Beata’s happiness had made her own misery even more unbearable. Everyone’s happy except me, she thought, tears spilling into her ears as she lay on the couch, staring at the ceiling. She closed her burning eyes, exhaustion finally taking over. She half noticed the breeze from the open window ruffling newspapers and blowing bits of papers onto the floor but was too tired to do anything about it. Sleep finally won over heartache, and she drifted off to sleep.

  ***

  Megan threw herself into work. It was the only way to cope with the turmoil in her mind, and the memory of the night with Paudie. She had called him the following morning but only got his voicemail, so she left a message. He didn’t reply. She sent him a text message asking him to call her back. He didn’t. His silence was puzzling and hurtful but she couldn’t bring herself to call him again.

  He had whispered such sweet words to her. She knew he meant those words, had felt it as they made love, and seen it in his eyes, so tender in the soft lamplight. But he obviously felt his future would be better with Bunny than with her. Or he didn’t have the courage to break up with Bunny. Or—Megan racked her brain for an answer but couldn’t find it. Was Paudie such a coward he would rather live with a woman he didn’t love just for the sake of convenience? She found that nearly impossible to believe.

  Work saved her from sinking into depression: making beds at The Blue Door; organising the bookings; shopping for Beata, who was looking after Boris and making him rest as much as possible; setting up her website and a Facebook page for her business; scanning photos Alex had taken and trying to decide which ones would be the best advertisement for her photo-shoot hosting; surfing the Internet to learn about make-up trends and fashion so she could provide an online fashion and make-up advice service. All this took up enough time to make her too tired to think and exhausted enough to sleep reasonably well.

  There was no sign of Paudie or Bunny. Megan knew he would be busy on the farm; or perhaps he was selling off his stock so they could start growing their organic products? He had said Bunny wanted to plant fruit trees, the autumn was the ideal time. She kept away from the hills above the house and went shopping in Tralee rather than the local supermarket.

  The local news was full of Garret Nolan and the trial. He was finally sentenced to two years in prison. Megan heard on the grapevine that Dan was giving up his firm and moving to Dublin. She felt a huge sense of relief that the chances of bumping into him were now very small.

  Three weeks passed, then four. Megan got an excited e-mail from Alex one morning, inviting her to join him for the ready-to-wear fashion week in Paris ten days later. “It would be a grea
t way to get a crash course in the latest trends,” he said. “Trevor and I are renting a little apartment on the Left Bank. You could stay with us if you want.”

  Megan jumped at this chance. “If I want?” she replied. “Try to stop me.”

  His reply arrived only minutes later. “So happy, darling. It will be huge fun. We’ll mingle with the fashion crowd and network like mad. I’d like to get you some sponsorship for your site, too, if you offer advertising. And you could get some great bookings this way. Try to get your website looking fabulous by then.”

  Megan smiled, feeling something akin to happiness for the first time in weeks. Yes, she thought, I need to get away for a bit. I haven’t been out of Kerry since I arrived four months ago. And what a strange time it has been…

  Megan stretched and sighed, realising she had been sitting at her desk in the front room for hours. She got up and tidied her desk. She had been neglecting the housework lately. The whole house needed a good going-over. She took a brush and a few dusters and went around the house tidying up, dusting, getting rid of cobwebs.

  The worst mess was in the living room, where piles of Sunday papers toppled onto the floor, the cushions on the couch were flat and rumpled and the fireplace full of ash and clinker. Megan realised she had been living in this mess for weeks without seeing it. She rolled up her sleeves and got stuck in.

  It wasn’t until she pushed the couch away from the fireplace that she found it. A crumpled piece of paper underneath, covered in dust. She blew the dust off it, smoothed it out and peered at what was written there. Her heart nearly stopped. It was a note from Paudie. A note he must have written before leaving that night. Holding her breath, her heart pounding, she read the scribbled message.

  The handwriting was difficult to decipher. Megan held it up to the light. It said something about what happened, then some scribbles she couldn’t make out, then: a mistake. I will … then a bit she couldn’t read … Bunny so we can make a life together. I’m sorry if … another scribbled line, then: I love you and will always remember this night. Paudie.