Fragile Lies (20 page)

B
rahms Ward
, 7 p.m.

T
hey’ve removed
the screens from around your bed. Out of danger at last. We can breathe freely again. Did I tell you Meg is home? Your golden girl, back safe and sound from the Big Apple with a wardrobe of new hats and a weight gain of a stone which she finds most annoying. It suits her. I told her she looks wonderful. She said I was fourteen years too late relaying this information. She’ll be in to see you tomorrow. Don’t be frightened if she cries. You look a little different from the last time she saw you. So do we all, for that matter.

Now that you’re stronger, I’m going back there. Over the mountains down by the sea. Unfinished business. My mind buckles when I imagine her driving away. The image doesn’t fit. Every time I spoke your name, I watched her face, waited for that flicker of recognition, fear, evasion. All I saw was interest and a desire to know more about you.

The anger is gone, Killian. I gave it up in exchange for your life and now I’m adrift, unable to cling to anything. Shady always struck a hard bargain. I remember so little about her. Faint echoes of her voice, her tears, her perfume, a crumpled piece of tissue. I can’t even recall her loss. Just my overpowering love which she was never able to return. Perhaps that’s why I demanded so much from you and realised, too late, that love only has substance when it’s freely given.

She paints in a stable, Killian. Donkeys used to live there. Philosophical donkeys. Her house is ramshackle, tins of paint and planks of wood, slates crunching underfoot. She still has much to unpack and there are too many empty wine bottles for a woman who spends her time alone.

I pried, Killian. I wanted to see what lay beneath her professional smile and I found it in her drawings. Her sadness leapt from the pages. She was embarrassed to see herself so exposed before a stranger. Jean rang and told me you were slipping away. There was no time for confrontation. I left her standing in the rain.

R
aining pouring
… old man snoring … raining on the pier … cold … hide … run… rain … pouring …

T
he silence
in Virginia’s office on a Sunday afternoon was a relief from the usual clamour of phones and endless interruptions. With Adrian in Galway for the weekend, she had decided to spend the time catching up on a backlog of work. At noon she broke for coffee, sliced a fresh Danish she had purchased on the way into the office and ate it slowly, standing by the window. A young girl with black hair ran between cars. The same flyaway hair as Emily Strong and the same belief that fate, like traffic, should give way to her impetuous demands. As always, she was calling the shots.

No matter how much Virginia tried to deny it, the green-eyed monster was rearing its hooves whenever Adrian mentioned his daughter’s name – and mention it he did at every opportunity. Emily had taken up horse riding. Emily had an African Irish boyfriend. Emily needed coaxing, gentle handling, understanding. Emily had given birth to a calf, for Christ’s sake! He had laughed long and loudly when that particular text arrived.

Since they moved into the apartment, Emily had called only once, arriving one evening unannounced and accompanied by friends – two teenage trolls who were obviously delighted to be in the centre of a family drama. Virginia had offered to send out for pizzas or Chinese takeaways. The trolls declined her invitation. They intended eating in Thunder Road Café and made pizzas sound as appetising as the left-over contents of a dog’s feeding bowl. Emily, in the meantime, had observed the table set with candles and wineglasses, a dressed rocket salad and lamb brochettes. A look came over her face. Disgust, resentment, anger, shock – Virginia was unsure what emotion she could ascribe to the stare Emily fixed upon her father. Obviously, the intimacy of a table set for two infuriated her – but what did she think Adrian had been surviving on since she and her mother had moved to Trabawn? Heartache and repentance only? Since then all visits took place in Adrian’s father’s house or in McDonald’s on Grafton Street. He had phoned earlier to say he would be home around six in the evening.

Virginia returned to her computer and clicked into a press release written by Joanna, a key member of her staff. Dross. No impact. She had trained her staff in the language of communication and this inane missive was the result. Tomorrow morning, she would deal with Joanna, call her into the office for a broadside. Shape up or ship out.
Tap
,
tap
,
tap
. Her fingers flew across the keyboard. She read the new press release and frowned, returned it to its original dross. She switched off her computer, left her office and walked along College Green. An artist hunkered on the pavement, spraying paint on glass. With his mask and spray gun he reminded her of a nuclear survivor. The fumes dried in her throat. For an instant she was unable to swallow or catch her breath. She allowed her throat muscles to relax and continued on towards Grafton Street. As she entered Brown Thomas, she wondered if she would meet the barrister with the shoe fetish but the shoe department remained resolutely feminine.

Two hours later she emerged with her purchases and continued along the street, passing guitarists and traveller children playing mouth organs. A depressed-looking poet tried without success to sell her a paper-thin volume of his poems. As she cut through Johnson’s Court on her way to the Powerscourt Townhouse Centre, she stopped to admire the jewellery in Appleby’s windows. A Romanian man selling the
Big Issue
held the magazine towards her. Unable to ignore his heart-wrenching smile, she bought the magazine, determined to shove it into the next litter bin she saw. She looked beyond him to where the lane bent like an elbow and saw her husband striding towards her.

For an instant, she was convinced he was a figment of her imagination. She blinked hard to banish his image but there was no mistaking his swaying, confident stride, his “corner-boy walk”, as her father used to say. His trench coat belonged to a detective film – he always dressed too sharply for good taste – and the brim of his hat shaded his face. The wind gusted, flapping the carrier bags against her legs and causing him to hold on to his hat.

“Good afternoon, Virginia.” He stopped before her. “Alone on a Sunday afternoon? What a surprise.”

“It is indeed, Ralph.” Not even the twitch of an eyebrow would reveal her dismay. “What do I offer you? My hand or my cheek? My hand, perhaps? It might be difficult to resist my cheek.”

Ralph had no intention of rising to the bait. “Come now, Virginia, that’s not a nice way to greet a long-suffering husband.” He leaned forward and kissed her cheek. “There now, does that make it better?”

“What are you doing here?” she demanded. “I was under the impression you were in London weeping in my mother’s arms.”

“I was until Josephine told me a good soldier never looks behind.” He smiled, swayed towards her on the balls of his feet then settled firmly back on his heels. “You’re looking remarkably beautiful, my darling. Adultery obviously suits you.”

A woman entering the gates of Clarendon Street Church cast a started glance in their direction and lingered, hoping to overhear more.

“Love suits me, Ralph. There’s a subtle difference but I doubt if you’d appreciate it.” She gazed coldly at the woman who scurried out of sight into the portal of the church.

“No, I never did appreciate your ability to deceive. Isn’t that rather strange considering how well I know you?”

She was conscious of a stiffness in her neck and wondered what people saw when they glanced towards them. Protagonists linked in a deadly war – or a couple enjoying each other’s company on a late autumn evening? He carried newspapers. Four, if his reading habits had remained the same.

They used to spread the papers across the bed on a Sunday morning, the two of them drinking coffee, eating croissants, she reading the business and social pages to check if her clients were included then turning to the style magazines. Ralph read the business sections first, underlining information which he could later check out on the Internet. He never felt the cold, propped up against the pillows, turning pages, sometimes drawing her attention to a news item that might interest her.

Unbidden, the span of his bare shoulders, the fuzz of hair on his chest and tapering downwards came to mind. Outside the dignified entrance to Clarendon Street Church seemed a most inappropriate place to ponder such intimate details and Virginia instantly cast them from her.

“Excuse me, Ralph. I’d like to stay and catch up on old times but I’ve a busy evening ahead of me.”

“I believe congratulations are in order. Sheraton &
Strong
.” He detained her with a slight sideways movement. “Who’d have believed you’d convince Bill Sheraton to throw his money into a black hole. I’d always assumed him to be an astute businessman.”

“Have you finished?” She swept him coldly with her dark eyelashes.

“I love the way you do that, Virginia. It’s so daunting. And no, I haven’t finished. In fact, I haven’t even started. Don’t you want to know why I’m in Dublin?”

“Not particularly.”

“A very short-sighted approach, if I may say so.” He took out his wallet and handed her a business card. His name was heavily embossed in gold lettering against a black background. She noted the address and the name of the company before handing it back to him. “We had an agreement, Ralph. You made a decision to stay in London.”

“But I couldn’t bear the thought of being so far away from my wife and my very best friend.”

“This is direct competition.

“As direct as you can get, Virginia.”

“Indeed.” She shrugged, shaped her lips in a smile which, she knew, would not deceive him for an instant but appearances had never seemed so important. “Competition should keep us all on our toes. I wish you every success.”

“Well said, Virginia.” He slid the card back into his wallet and snapped it closed. “We both know how you really feel. You’ve every right to be frightened. I’m going to wipe him out.”

“You’re sick.”

“You’re my sickness, Virginia. A deep, septic and incurable infection.”

“Have you finished?”

“For the moment, yes. Who knows what the future holds.” He moved aside and allowed her to pass. “I’d better not detain you any longer. It’s getting late and Adrian never liked an empty bed.” He raised his hand in farewell and walked away.

Outside the Powerscourt Townhouse Centre a young busker danced a wooden puppet off the pavement. The puppet had an idiotic painted grin and blank eyes that stared at Virginia as she passed by. She watched the puppet high-kick then collapse by her feet in a deflated heap. It rose again, pulled on strings. The clicking sound of wooden limbs followed her along the street.

L
eaves began to fall
, crinkled edges fringed with gold. Autumn was almost over, the montbretia wilting on brown stalks, washed-up shoes and plastic bottles – the flotsam and jetsam of a discarded summer – floating in on the tide. Lorraine changed her denim jacket for an old sheepskin coat she had bought in a London flea market during her student days. In a press under the stairs she discovered a pair of furry moon boots that had once belonged to Celia. They were warm and comfortable, ideal for walking the beach.

“Just because we’re living through a nightmare doesn’t mean you have to dress like an orang-utan with bad taste in boots.” Emily shuddered dramatically and covered her eyes when she saw the bilious shade of orange. “Don’t you dare wear them to the art classes,” she warned. “I’d hate anyone to think I’m descended from a monkey.”

She left for Dublin at the end of the week. A weekend hill-walking trip was planned with her grandparents, the last one before winter set in. They had taken her on her first expedition when she was eight years old and she had regularly accompanied them since then.

After returning from the railway station Lorraine decided to walk the beach before commencing work in her studio. Despite not having made any efforts to publicise her whereabouts, she was beginning to receive commissions: one from a local county councillor and Celia’s nephew, Eugene Murphy, had sent photographs of his wife, whose birthday was coming up soon.

Hobbs refrained from barking as she passed the farmyard gate. Was she becoming an insider at last, she wondered, climbing the stile onto the beach. Away from the shelter of the fuchsia hedgerows, the wind slapped against her face. She shoved her hands deeper into her pockets. Apart from Con riding his horse in the shallows, the beach was deserted. She reached the half-moon curve and sat in the shelter of the rocks. Already, the old boathouse above her was lost in shadows. The path around the embankment upon which it had been built was a short cut back to the lane but the way was a tangle of heather and briar.

A figure approached, head bent against the wind. At first she thought it was Brendan or Frank, checking for cattle that occasionally strayed onto the beach. She recognised Michael Carmody when he drew nearer and she stood up, surprised that he had not rung in advance to arrange a meeting.

“I called to the house and the studio.” He raised his hand in greeting. “The woman in the farm told me I’d find you here. I wasn’t sure I’d make it past her dog.”

She smiled as they fell into step together and headed back up the beach. “Behind the bluster Hobbs is a shameless jelly.”

“I’ll take your word for it.” Sand whipped along the shore, gritty on their skin. The tide was coming in fast, white horses rearing towards shore.

“When you weren’t in touch I thought you’d changed your mind about the portrait.”

He shook his head, raised his voice against the roar of collapsing waves. “I’ve been tied up for the past few weeks. An emergency.”

“Had it to do with the phone call you received when you here?”

“Yes.” He bent into the wind, looking younger than she remembered. Perhaps it was his hair. The unruly tresses had been neatly cut and he jerked the collar of his leather jacket over his ears as if he had not yet grown accustomed to the chill on his neck.

“You seemed very upset. Is everything all right again?”

“As well as can be expected.” He made no further effort to explain the reason for his hasty departure and, as they walked in silence, she became increasingly conscious of her dishevelled appearance, the old sheepskin coat, the hairy orange boots that Emily so derided and which, suddenly, looked ridiculous as she padded along beside him.

“Excuse the boots.” She skipped one foot before her then lowered it back to the sand. “They remind my daughter of an orang-utan whose legs have been severed above the shins.” If he had laughed at her attempt at humour she would have relaxed but his disconcerting gaze never changed. He studied every move she made – as if each gesture must be observed then absorbed into his memory – yet he seemed detached from this scrutiny, as if his dark eyes viewed her from behind a wall of glass. Indigo clouds gathered above the sea. Kittiwakes screeched above them and the dull thud of hooves pounded against the hard-packed sand when Con galloped past.

“Would you consider having dinner with me later?” he asked. “I’m staying overnight in O’Callaghan’s Hotel.”

The directness of the invitation surprised her.

“No strings,” he said when she hesitated. “Just your company for a few hours. There’s something I’d like to discuss with you.”

“If it’s about cancelling Killian’s portrait it’s not necessary to offer dinner as an apology. Nor is it necessary if you’re commissioning me.”

“It’s nothing to do with his portrait. There’s something else I want to talk about. Would it suit you if I collected you at eight?”

“Eight o’clock sounds fine,” she replied. “I’ll be ready.”

Unable to decide what the occasion demanded, she finally settled on a dove-grey blouse and black evening trousers. Not quite sedate, not too dressy, business-like but softened by the sapphire pendant at her neck. Still no sign of her bracelet. She shrugged, closed the jewellery box, abruptly silencing the tinkling tune, and sat for a moment staring at her reflection. She tried to remember the last time a man had invited her out for a meal and was unable to see beyond Adrian’s shoulders, his slim, graceful shoulders that had carefully sheltered her from the truth, from what she had chosen not to see. The pendant, cold against her throat, glittered back at her like a hard unflinching eye. She traced her middle finger over the oval stone, felt the delicate lines of the engraved silver casing into which it had been set. The impulse to snap the chain from her neck was resisted. She watched the jewel rise and fall. Her breath was shallow, too rapid, carrying the voices on the exhalation, the mocking refrain that laid siege upon her whenever she relaxed her guard … all those years of deceit, laughing behind her back, exchanging knowing looks, making excuses, telling lies, seeking hidden places to be together, filling the time in between with longing and lust, all done under her nose, literally under her nose, every day, the four of them working beneath the one roof, sharing cups of coffee, sometimes a drink in the evening before going home, skiing for a week in winter, holidays in France, Italy, Spain, New York, the map of the world at their disposal, and God knows what happened during those weeks, what moments were stolen while she, unaware, accepted, without thought, everything they told her …

Hobbs began to bark. Soon, Michael’s car would enter the lane. The hawthorn, stripped bare of leaf and blossom, would lash his wing mirror and he would drive cautiously over the rutted ground, knowing how easily the tyres would puncture over the sharp, jutting stones. Today on the hard-packed sand he had stamped his footsteps next to her own, the double imprint creating an intimate pattern as it wove from the half-moon curve towards the stile. Soon they would sit opposite each other in O’Callaghan’s restaurant and exchange tit-bits of information, reveal tantalising aspects of their lives. They both had a history, she was sure of it. These days it was difficult to mark the end of one’s thirties without carrying some degree of baggage into the next decade. But maybe she was simply projecting her own misfortune onto him – Emily hurled the “projection” accusation at her often enough. Yet Michael Carmody carried grief like a scar in his eyes and she was curious to know why.

He braked his car outside. She sprayed perfume on her wrists and listened to the creak of the gate as it swung open. Once again she lifted the lid on the jewellery box. A mother-of-pearl bracelet that Donna had brought back as a holiday present from Italy lay among the chains and necklaces. She plucked it free and slipped it over her hand. The bell rang once. She turned from the mirror and walked to the front door. Night and the promise it contained settled stealthily around her.

“I’ve a vague recollection of coming here once with my aunt.” He pulled out her chair and eased it under her. “Church benches for chairs? Back breakers, if I remember rightly.”

“There used to be a fire burning over by that wine rack.” Lorraine pointed towards the well-stocked wine cellar. “The musicians sat in the area that’s now the kitchen.”

“You appear to have total recall.”

“Total. I loved Trabawn. I first began to paint here … and when I needed to begin my life again it offered me refuge.”

“Refuge.” He raised his eyebrows, regarded her, unsmiling. “What a strange word to use.”

“Solace, refuge, escape, take your choice.”

“Sounds like you were running away?”

“My mother called it the height of folly. My daughter still has to forgive me.”

He leaned his elbows on the table, rested his chin on his hands. “And your husband?”

“He has no say in any decision I make. We’re separated.”

“When did you split up?”

“A while ago. I’d rather not discuss him, if you don’t mind.”

Angie, arriving with the menu and wine list, cast a speculative glance at Michael, no doubt remembering how she had photographed the family gathering on Emily’s birthday night. Before taking their order she asked Lorraine’s advice about a difficulty she was experiencing with one of her illustrations. After discussing it for a few minutes, she headed towards the kitchen.

“You run art classes?” he asked.

She smiled back at him. “I’m not sure how that came about. Careful manipulation, I suspect, but yes, I do.”

His gaze rested on the pendant. “What an intricate design. Very beautiful.”

“Thank you. A friend made it. He’s a wonderful designer.”

“It’s an original piece then?”

“Yes. We were friends in college. There’s no way I could afford his jewellery now.”

She flinched when his fingers touched her throat, remembering how he had faced her in the lane, the wheel brace in his hand, her instinctive fear that he would harm her.

He rested the pendant in the palm of his hand and studied it. “Is it a companion piece for a bracelet?”

“It is, actually. Do you know Karl Hyland’s work?”

“I’ve heard about it.” He laid the pendant against her throat and sat back in his chair, his fingers braced against the edge of the table. A group of diners walked towards the table next to them, Sophie and her husband Joe among them. The Sudanese woman winked across at Lorraine, her shimmering yellow thoub attracting attention, as her vivid costumes always did, and Lorraine thought about the night in the slatted shed, the bellowing cow and how Sophie’s t-shirt rode high up her back as she wrested the calf from its mother’s heaving belly. She told him the story, laughing as she recalled Emily’s delight when the new-born calf was named after her, a decision that triggered another round of texts to her friends in Dublin, and how her role as Cow Tail Handler changed in the telling to that of Calving Jack Manager. He joined in her laughter, an unexpected sound, and his face relaxed for the first time since his appearance on the beach. Glancing over at Sophie he shook his head as he tried to juxtapose the glamorous woman reading the menu with Lorraine’s description of a farmer labouring to bring forth life in a cow shed.

Angie served their starters, smoked salmon for him, a fan of melon and avocado for Lorraine. He filled her glass again and ordered a second bottle. The rich red Chianti Classico reminded her of Tuscan holidays, vineyards on hillsides, avenues lined with statuesque cypress trees. She was aware that her cheeks were becoming hot from too much wine drunk too quickly yet she drained her glass, allowed him to fill it again.

When the plates had been removed, she rummaged under the chair for her shoulder bag, a shabby leather satchel, useful for carrying a myriad items. She removed a cardboard cylinder and handed it to him. “This is for you.”

He weighed it in his hand, his expression puzzled as he removed the lid and drew out a canvas. Unable to hide his surprise he spread it across the table and studied the painting.

“You left one of Killian’s photos behind,” she explained. “I know it’s not the portrait you want me to paint – he’s much too young in it. But it was such a dramatic scene, the ferry stealing away between the lighthouses and the little boy on the pier, I couldn’t resist painting him. Look upon it as a thank you for dinner.”

His face flushed so violently she thought he was going to refuse to accept the painting. As the canvas slowly coiled back in on itself, he made no attempt to open it again. She had stepped over something, an invisible line he had placed between them, and his expression was once again charged with tension. When he finally spoke she could barely hear him.

“He seems so utterly alone.”

She nodded in agreement. “I’m afraid it didn’t turn out the way I intended. Killian is happy in the photograph yet the mood of the painting developed a life of its own once I started working on it. It’s the first thing I’ve painted in a long time that gave me any satisfaction. I didn’t mean to offend you but that appears to be what I’ve done.”

He attempted to smile. The effort it took only increased her embarrassment.

“You surprised me, that’s all. I wasn’t expecting –” He rolled the painting up and pushed it back into the cylinder. “Thank you. It was a thoughtful gesture. Killian will appreciate it.” His words were mechanical. They gave her no pleasure. The cylinder lying between them on the table irritated her. She wanted to sweep it out of sight and he too seemed disturbed by its presence, his gaze constantly flicking towards it and away again.

“It’s a very assured painting,” he said. “You’re obviously familiar with the location.”

The main courses had arrived but Lorraine had no appetite for the pasta and chicken dish she had chosen. She twirled tagliatelle on her fork but made no attempt to eat it. “My daughter flew a kite there once. A dog savaged it when it landed. Such hysterics. Poor little Emily.”

“And afterwards?” He squeezed lemon over baked sole, twisted the sea-salt container until the particles fell like splinters of ice on his plate. “Did you ever go back?”