by Anita Notaro
‘I can check that for you.’ He was on the phone in an instant, leaving her with a fast beating heart and sweaty palms at the thought of having to speak to David’s parents.
‘I’m going to go and see my mother.’ Suddenly Libby jumped up, grabbed her bag and headed for the door.
‘I’ll drop you there.’
‘No, honestly, I’m fine, really.’
‘You’re not in any fit condition to drive. I can just leave you off and then I’ll head home.’
She nodded, already at the door, then turned in realization. ‘I’ll have to tell Mrs O’C. . . . people will start phoning . . . I don’t want her to find out that way . . . she . . .’ Libby gave a soft moan, sorry now that she’d never really made any effort to get to know the woman. It would have made what she had to do now a lot easier. ‘. . . She loved him, was with his family before they went away. She’s known him since he was a child.’
Garda Reynolds nodded sadly, ‘I’ll wait in the car.’
Libby moved like a robot jerkily towards the kitchen, where the older woman was working quietly. She stood looking at her back for a moment, realizing there was no easy way to do it.
‘Mrs O’– a pair of inquisitive eyes faced her instantly. They were cautious, as usual. When Libby came into the kitchen like this it was usually to complain, or to give her an order, and she disliked the former and detested the latter.
‘I’m afraid something awful’s happened. It’s David, he . . . he had a heart attack last night.’ She bit her lip, knowing that if she gave way to tears now she’d never stop. How can I say these words? she thought, afraid to speak them aloud for the first time and make the whole horrendous thing real, yet knowing that she had no alternative. ‘I don’t know any other way to tell you.’ She could barely get the words out, they seemed so treacherous.
The housekeeper had never heard her sound so . . . she struggled to find the word . . . so soft. She knew it must be very bad.
‘I’m afraid he died within a short time.’ A million questions flooded her woolly brain at that moment. Who had been with him? Had he said anything? Where were his things? She felt hysterical.
‘Ah, no.’ The tortured words jolted her back to reality. Her housekeeper’s worn, lined face had dealt with a lifetime of bad news but she wasn’t prepared for this. She sank tiredly into a chair and put her head in her hands. Libby started to move then stopped, wanting to give her a hug but knowing they weren’t close enough.
‘I know how much you cared for him. It must be a terrible shock. Will I make you some tea?’
What was it about tea, that it was always automatically offered as a magical potion to cure all ills?
The other woman shook her head and Libby saw she was crying.
‘I’m very sorry to have to tell you this way, but people may start calling or phoning and I didn’t want you to hear it from anyone else. Would you like a brandy, perhaps?’
‘He was such a beautiful boy, I held him when he was only days old and he grew into a lovely, lovely man.’ The old eyes were glassy; her voice was barely audible and sounded incredibly weary.
‘I know.’ Libby poured a brandy from the bottle of ten-year-old that she kept in the kitchen for cooking.
‘I just can’t believe it. He was so young and always so healthy.’
Libby sat with Mrs O’Connell for a few minutes longer and let her reminisce about her beautiful baby. Eventually she stood up uncertainly.
‘I’m sorry to leave now but I have to get to my mother. She doesn’t know. Will you be OK here by yourself?’
Mrs O’Connell nodded.
‘Please just take it easy. It’s probably better to let the machine take calls. A lot of people will start ringing once it gets out.’
‘Don’t worry about me. Will you be all right yourself?’
‘Yes.’
‘Right so.’
‘If I’m calling I’ll use the code.’ David always made the three of them use his code – let the phone ring twice, hang up, then immediately ring again. Strange to think she’d never share that with anyone again.
‘I’ll go then.’ Libby didn’t know what else to do.
‘God bless you.’ It was the friendliest they’d ever been.
Chapter Eight
LIBBY SLIPPED QUIETLY out of the room, out of the house, into the only safe haven she knew at the moment.
‘Are you OK?’
‘Yes, thank you.’
John Reynolds drove off slowly. She gave him directions and huddled in the corner for warmth, grateful he wasn’t expecting her to make small talk.
Twenty minutes later they arrived at the large modern house in Foxrock, which her parents had bought for their retirement ten years ago. It was an exciting building, if you liked that particular style. Libby never had. All white and chrome and glass, it was much more suited to a young architect type; she’d been surprised when her parents had decided they loved it. The wide sweeping drive was bordered by truly magnificent lawns that owed more to the constant attentions of a gardener than to mother nature.
She got out awkwardly. All her movements seemed puppet-like this morning. John Reynolds jumped out as well. ‘I’ll say goodbye, then.’
She shook the outstretched hand. ‘I can’t thank you enough, you’ve been more than kind.’
‘No problem at all. I’m very sorry for your troubles. Good luck to you, now.’ He had a funny, old man way with words and she suspected it was the product of a country upbringing.
She headed for the door, dreading seeing her mother yet needing her badly.
‘Hello Vera, is Mum in?’
‘Libby love, what brings you here so early?’
They were standing in the big open-plan hall with winter morning light threatening to blind them.
‘I need to talk to Mum, Vera. Is she up yet?’
‘Yes, I’ve just brought her up a cup of tea. Would you like a coffee?’
‘No thanks, I’ll go up.’ She moved away quickly as the situation almost overwhelmed her again. Her heels clicked out a warning on the polished maple floor.
‘Elizabeth, darling, what are you doing . . .?’ Her mother turned and caught the first glimpse of her daughter’s ashen face. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Oh Mum.’ All the pent-up emotion came out in one great, shuddering sob.
Christina Marlowe was a tall, handsome, sixty-something woman with good skin and poker-straight silver hair that hung just below her ears and was kept from her face by a thin navy velvet hairband, by now a sort of trademark. A widow for some five years, her greatest regret was that she’d only had one child. She’d always seen herself with lots of daughters, instead of a single busy one, who didn’t stay in touch as often as Christina would have liked. She was putting the finishing touches to her already immaculate make-up when the unexpected visitor hurled herself at her and buried her face in her chest.
‘Please Libby, tell me, what is it?’ she said, reverting to the childhood name she hadn’t used for years.
‘It’s David.’
‘What’s wrong, have you had a row?’ She fully expected Libby to announce a minor upset in a major disaster way. She knew her daughter had a very good marriage but throughout her life Libby had always felt that total happiness was hers for the taking, that she deserved nothing less. Even the smallest thing that went wrong became a drama. She also believed she was nearly always right, which sometimes made her a difficult mate, Christina suspected.
Libby shook her head and great gulping sobs racked her body as she searched for the right words. There were only wrong ones.
‘He’s dead.’ It was bald and cold and brutal, which was exactly how she felt.
‘No.’ All colour drained from Christina’s face as she sat her much-loved baby down on the bed. ‘Oh my God . . . Libby please . . . darling, tell me what happened?’
‘I got a call in the middle of the night, he had a heart attack in a restaurant. The police came to the door. By the time I made it
to the hospital he was . . . oh Mum, what am I going to do without him?’ It was a pitiful plea and there was simply no answer that could comfort her.
‘Shush now, it’ll be all right, I promise.’ They sat together, arms wrapped around each other, mother stroking child’s head, until Vera, who wasn’t nearly as discreet as Mrs O’Connell, strolled in and found them.
‘Anyone for a nice cup of cof— what’s wrong?’
‘Vera, be an angel and make a pot of strong tea and bring it up here, please. I’m afraid David’s had a heart attack and . . .’
‘Oh my God, I’m sorry. Libby love, come ’ere to me. Is he OK?’ Vera knew of no ailment that a hug couldn’t cure.
Christina shook her head wearily, a warning sign and Vera moved backwards, shocked yet not fully understanding why. Her mind began to race with fear, but she quickly shook the offending thoughts away and hurried downstairs as fast as her sixty-year-old arthritic legs would carry her.
‘I simply cannot believe what you’re telling me, Libby,’ said her Mother. ‘My poor baby, what a terrible shock for you, why didn’t you ring me? I’d have come to the hospital to be with you.’
‘I didn’t want to frighten you. Besides, it was too late, there was nothing you could have done.’
‘I could have helped you shoulder the burden. My God, not David, he’d never been sick a day in his life as far as I’m aware. Had he been complaining of anything?’
‘Not that I know of.’ Racking her brains for a moment, Libby realized they’d never really talked much about the ordinary inconsequential things. Strange as it sounded, she probably wouldn’t have known if he’d been feeling unwell. Anyway, he was always so healthy that she’d have had no sympathy for him if he’d complained. He’d probably have gone straight to Mrs O’C., who’d have fussed over him for ages, or his frightful secretary, who’d have done exactly the same thing. She felt guilty but wasn’t sure why, because her role had always been to make him laugh and tell him the latest celebrity gossip, or drag him shopping or on holidays or out to play. Business discussions and pampering sessions weren’t her style.
Telling his parents was awful. Luckily, his father answered the phone. Libby didn’t think she would have found the courage to tell his mother that she’d lost her youngest child.
‘Hello Libby, nice to hear from you. How are you, my dear?’ Charles English boomed, sounding every bit as aristocratic as Libby knew him to be. ‘What’s the weather like in Dublin?’
‘Charles, I have the most dreadful news.’ Libby couldn’t control her tears and gave up trying. ‘It’s David.’
‘What’s wrong with him, Libby?’ That voice again, calm, questioning, concerned.
‘He had a heart attack last night. Oh Charles, I’d give anything not to be telling you this.’
‘How bad is it?’ She could feel the fear from the other side of the world.
‘I’m sorry, so very sorry, Charles.’
‘Please Libby, no.’
Her voice was almost a whisper but she had to get the words out fast, lest he think there was any hope.
‘He . . . he didn’t make it.’ She was almost uncontrollable now. ‘I want him back with me. I need him. I can’t go on without him.’ They both knew it might be true. David had been her protector, and all his cosseting would make it much harder now.
She told Charles everything she knew. She felt completely numb. Her mother came and put a cashmere shawl around her shaking shoulders.
‘Oh, dear God. How can I ever tell this terrible thing to Monica?’ Libby could hear the grief.
‘I don’t know. I just knew I had to get you so that you could break it to her gently. I haven’t told Robert or Trevor either.’
‘It’s all right, I’ll do it.’ His voice came down the line with a lead weight attached. ‘Have you someone with you?’
‘I came straight to Mum’s. I didn’t know where else to go. She’s here beside me.’
‘I can’t talk to her now, Libby. I need to get my head together before I face my wife. I’ll call you back in a couple of hours, if I may.’ Still as polite as ever.
‘Yes of course. I’m so very sorry, Charles, I know how much he loved you both.’ She was inconsolable now. They talked for a few minutes longer and agreed to speak again later in the morning.
With each phone call it became more real to Libby and she felt more and more out of control. She rang Alex O’Meara, the chief financial officer in David’s main company. He was devastated. John Simpson, his solicitor and childhood friend, was distraught.
Her old friend Carrie squealed when she heard Libby’s voice. ‘Did you get my message?’
‘No.’
‘I only found out after we spoke yesterday. Oh Libby, I’m pregnant, can you believe it! And, I know it’s too soon and all that and I’m dreading the terrible sickness I’ll have for the entire nine months but I really feel this time it might be a . . .’ Her voice trailed off. ‘Libby, are you there?’
‘Carrie, something terrible’s happened.’ It all came flooding out and in a warm country kitchen Carrie sat and cried with her friend and cursed her own stupidity and wished she wasn’t pregnant and miles away.
‘Oh Libby, I just don’t know what to say.’
‘I can’t go on without him, Carrie. He minded me.’
‘I know he did.’ She wasn’t the first that morning to wish he hadn’t shielded Libby quite so much.
* * *
It was all so unlikely: everyone was caught out, dumbfounded even, and no-one could find the right words to say to the broken-hearted woman left behind. Libby didn’t know what to do about her own work or how to handle the media interest. She decided to go straight to one of the heads of RTE, Ireland’s national broadcasting organization. She was, after all, a major star and he was an old friend.
Leo Morgan was gobsmacked. ‘Oh, Libby, Libby, I am so sorry. Is there anything I can do?’
She bit her lip; the sadness in his voice made her want to cry again. Funny how kindness has that effect. ‘I just didn’t know who to call. I can’t face everyone. Would you mind talking to the production company, please? And I suppose the Press Office will have to issue a statement of some sort. Just keep them away from me, Leo, I couldn’t face a photographer today.’
‘Of course. I’ll handle it all myself. Don’t give it another thought, please.’
‘Oh, and I’ve just realized one of my programmes is on transmission tonight. I don’t think it should go ahead. It wouldn’t be appropriate.’ In fact, it would freak her out, she knew, seeing herself happy in another lifetime.
‘No problem, Libby. I’ll keep in touch with you, if that’s OK.’
‘Just call me on the mobile from your mobile, that way your number will come up. And tell people not to ring me just yet.’
‘Don’t worry and please, call me if there’s anything else I can do.’
‘I will.’
‘And Libby . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘I cannot tell you how sorry I am. He was a fine man.’
‘I know.’ She was off again.
She made several more phone calls while Christina went downstairs to give Vera instructions just in case anyone tried to intrude on their grief. In between calls Libby simply sat and stared.
It was eerily calm for a while in the warm sanctuary of the bedroom. Surprisingly it was almost midday. She knew she needed to keep going but all at once a terrible tiredness enveloped her body, forcing her down on the bed. But stillness brought its own torment and the icy clutch that gripped her every time she paused for an instant now threatened to suck the air from her.
She paced up and down holding her stomach and as she passed the TV she flicked it on, unable to stand the silence any longer. The early lunchtime news was just ending and she stared unseeingly at another scene of carnage. The picture cut back to the newsreader, a cool brunette with a false smile whom Libby had never liked. She wasn’t smiling now. Libby heard the Dublin 4 clipped voice as
if from a great distance.
‘And finally news has just reached us that the well-known businessman David English has died suddenly in hospital in Dublin.’
Libby was unable to resist watching. The picture changed to one of David walking into Dublin Castle with a group of politicians. It had been filmed a few months previously and he looked fit and tanned and gorgeous.
‘Mr English, seen here on the right, was guest speaker at a major international conference held in Dublin last September and was highly regarded in business circles.’
It was seeing his smile that did it. Libby jumped up and ran to the screen, trying to erase the awful reality with some stupid remote control that wouldn’t work now. The voice droned on.
‘Mr English is survived by his wife, television presenter—’
She hit the off button just as everything turned white in front of her eyes. She fainted.
Chapter Nine
ANNIE HAD HAD a delicious morning. After she’d channel-hopped for an hour, she dressed quickly, took the phone off the hook in case they rang, then dashed to the local shop for a treat for a very late breakfast. The indulgence came in the form of a thick brown block. She spread it on the table, smoothing out the silver foil wrapper just as she had done many times as a child. Eventually it sat on a mirror and she snapped a few squares crisply and popped one into her mouth, revelling in the silky smoothness. No 70 per cent cocoa solids, no organic rubbish, just plain old Cadbury’s milk chocolate. She stretched out on the hard, lumpy couch and felt only feathers as she scoffed her luscious prize, each mouthful of velvet washed down with a gulp of hot tea.
Annie felt not a trace of guilt as she finished the entire bar and poured her third cuppa. She’d also allowed herself the glossiest magazine in the shop, not a difficult decision where she lived, as there were only about three on sale. Expensive titillation was not an everyday purchase for the customers of Lucky’s Newsagents, an unfortunate name given that the premises was nearly always boarded up after yet another attempted robbery. Still, she’d managed to find one with a limited number of thumbprints and settled down to read about the lives and loves of the rich and famous, imagining her own face in one of the photos some day. Annie Weller, newest star of the mega-successful Southside, seen at the première of Colin Farrell’s latest blockbuster, where it’s rumoured she spent several hours in the company of the rugged Irish heart-throb.
