Fragile Lies (32 page)

In the past, she had always met Ralph after a press launch and relaxed down with a drink or a meal. He would listen to her rehash the evening, laughing at her anecdotes and the gossipy tit-bits she had picked up from journalists. The temptation to accept his invitation was fleeting. Beneath his affable smile, he was ruthless when crossed in business. She had no reason to believe he would behave differently when crossed in love, and he did still love her. She could see it glinting in his smile, his eyes, his speculative stare. But was he ready to forgive her? The answer, she suspected, was in the negative.

Adrian was sleeping when she returned to the apartment. He had started snoring, not an undignified, rampaging snore but a gentle, whistling whine through his nose that drove her from his side and into the chilly living-room where her computer flickered, beckoned.

Why, Ralph had asked, the last time they were together. Why him? Why take that one step too far? She had wanted to scream the answer back at him and was shocked by her desire to do so. The boy. It always came back to the boy. He had bound her in a sinister secret, forced her into hasty, unplanned decisions, sent her scurrying into a foxhole of an apartment which she hated and where her lover’s body – so fervently desired when it was unobtainable – now lay shivering in his own fear.

S
ent
: 14 March 1:45 a.m.

Subject: Loneliness

After I left you, I went to the Horseshoe Bar. Packed as always. The women were beautiful. But I drove home alone. There was only one woman I wanted in my bed. How many ways can a man love a woman – a woman love a man? Once upon a time we tried each one then started all over again. I keep thinking about what might have been – should have been. You and I were never meant to be sparring partners. Virginia, where did you go when I foolishly averted my gaze? I miss my vampire bitch.

Razor

T
he third envelope
arrived a week later. The sender had cut Virginia’s photograph from
Prestige
and placed it beside a silver car. The sea lapped against the wall of the pier.

An hour later Lorcan called into her office and asked if she knew where Adrian had gone. He was due to give a presentation in thirty minutes.

“Cancel it, Lorcan,” she said. “He won’t be back on time.”

When he left, she shredded the anonymous photograph. She tidied her desk, pens, staplers, paper clips and the letter opener shaped like a dagger. She carefully placed each item into its allotted space. A place for everything and everything in its place. When her office was in order she called in her staff for a brainstorming session on how to engineer publicity for a forthcoming award ceremony.

After the meeting ended, she entered Adrian’s office, unable to believe he was still missing. Lorcan was on the phone, his face in profile as he made excuses to an irate client. The insolence that had been so irritating in the early days had disappeared and he was beginning to acquire a confident business-like manner which reminded Virginia of his father – but without the abrasive edge.

“He’s still not back, Ms Blaide. I expect he was held up with a client.” His attempts to pacify her only increased her anger. It was becoming more difficult to smile. “I’m sure that’s true, Lorcan. When he does contact you, tell him I need to speak urgently to him.”

He removed a folder from a drawer in his desk and held it towards her. “I keep working on these ideas. Would you mind looking over them? I’d appreciate your opinion.”

“Of course I will, Lorcan. But this is Mr Strong’s area. Have you shown them to him?”

“He’s not remotely interested.” His reply was matter-of-fact. “But I’d respect your opinion.”

She opened the folder, glanced quickly through the contents, surprised to see how meticulously everything had been prepared. She examined the visuals he intended using to promote Sheraton Travel. Satellite pictures taken at night from outer space, pinpricks of global light linking continent after continent, the vast and the sparsely dotted regions – a filigree as delicate as early morning cobwebs on hedgerows, and in that instant, as she absorbed the image, she was running fleetly, barefooted, down a country lane and Lorraine was running with her, Old Red Eye panting between them, and the world was hazed with wonder. She shook her head, scattering dewdrops, and concentrated on how Lorcan Sheraton would link these visuals into the worldwide concept of his father’s travel agency. His ideas had a raw energy that excited her. With the right training he could be good. Ralph would have picked up on his talent immediately.

“I’m impressed, Lorcan.” She snapped the folder closed and handed it back to him.

“You don’t have to pretend.” He made no attempt to smile back at her. “I asked for an honest opinion. I want my father left out of this.”

“I’m being honest, Lorcan. Your ideas are good. They need refining but there’s no reason why they can’t translate into a viable advertising campaign. As a matter of fact, your father and I had quite an interesting conversation about you when we were in Madeira.”

“I can imagine.”

“Actually, he’s very proud of you. He mentioned a friend of yours who had an accident. The two of you were very close, I believe.”

His face flushed. For an instant she thought he was going to burst into tears. “Killian was my best mate.”

“I hope he recovers soon.”

“Thanks, Ms Blaide. I’ll tell Mr Strong you were looking for him.”

She wondered where anger lay. Throughout the day, as one phone call after another relayed the same message from Adrian’s answering service, it moved arbitrarily from one body zone to the next. It cramped her stomach, tightened her chest, clenched her teeth. It was after ten before he returned home.

“Where the hell were you?” she demanded. The walls of the apartment were thin. Often, they heard music at night, and raised voices, thudding footsteps, toilets flushing, the creak of beds. Tonight she no longer cared who overheard. She followed him into the bedroom where he dropped his shoes on the floor with an unnecessary clatter. He slowly wound one sock into the other and flung them towards the laundry basket. He missed the target and the bunched socks crouched like a baleful rodent on the wooden floorboards.

“I left about a dozen messages on your mobile. You must have realised I was frantic with worry but you never even
bothered
returning my calls.”

“I was at a meeting.”

“Don’t bullshit me, Adrian. What meeting?”

“A meeting with myself.”

“That must have been utterly fascinating.”

“Pathetic would be a better description. I went to Churchview Terrace, met some of the old neighbours. Mr Thomson, sad to say, is dead. Emily will be choked when she hears. She adored him. But I’m glad to say the rest are as fit as ever. A hardy bunch, those pensioners. The house looks the same but different, like it’s acquired another skin. They have a jeep parked outside, for Christ’s sake. Then I went to the warehouse where Lorraine had her first studio. There’s an office block in its place. Surprise, surprise. After that, where did I go? Oh yes, I had a drink in our
special
hotel. Under new management, would you believe? The staff actually noticed me. Wouldn’t be safe to go there any more – that’s if we needed to, but of course we don’t because we have this cosy little love nest all to ourselves.”

She picked up his socks, flung them out of sight into the laundry basket. “You’re hysterical. Hopefully, you’ll talk sense in the morning.”

“He stole Lorraine’s bracelet.”

“What?”

“It was in the glove box. Lorraine keeps demanding it back.”

“What bracelet?”

“The one I gave her … never mind what bracelet. She keeps phoning, insisting I have it. We should have stopped! I wanted to but you wouldn’t listen. You never listen. It always has to be your way.”

He began to sob, an ugly grating sound that repelled her. She knelt before him, forced him to look at her. “Are you telling me Lorraine has been sending us that shit?”

“I’m not telling you, I know it. You should have seen her face when she demanded her bracelet back.”

“When did you meet her?”

“A while ago. She kept harping on and on … She knew my car was going to be serviced when she was away. She’s figured it out, Virginia. All that publicity … it’s not surprising. And it’s only a matter of time before she goes to the police. That’s if she hasn’t gone already.”

“Listen to me, Adrian.” She knelt before him, forced him to hear her. “Lorraine is fucking with our minds. But you can lay bets she hasn’t gone anywhere. Emily will be her first priority. She won’t expose her to a scandal. But you must talk to her, find out exactly what her game is.”

“Jesus Christ! What am I supposed to say? We hit and we ran but please stop sending us those nasty letters in the post. I can’t face her. I
won’t
.”

“You must.”

“How come you’ve never once expressed guilt or remorse, Virginia?”

“I’m tired, Adrian. All I want to do is sleep.”

“Will anything have changed by morning?”

“Sleep in the other room tonight.”

“It will be my pleasure.”

S
ent
: 22 March 11.30 p.m.

Subject: Jake

Virginia – do you remember the night you told me about Jake? Your fingers on my spine. Remember how I danced you around our bedroom and told you I would treasure our child forever. You said I didn’t know the meaning of love. Only the grit and hatred I spewed from a stage. But we removed the masks that night – what a night. And you lay beside me content. I know you did, even though you say differently now. If you had told me about him I would have let you go. I had no desire to love a captive bird. But you never mentioned his name, not by the flick of an eyelid or the tremor in your voice. Why was that, Virginia?

I remember being washed in your tears when our child died. How you cried and clung to me. I kissed your tears and shed my own in private. I rested my head on your soft empty belly and said, “I will fill you with life again.” You never allowed me to keep my promise. Why was that, Virginia? Running away from the past was never the answer.

Razor

M
arch had been a boisterous month
, clouds as skittish as new-born lambs. The wind buffeted the trees and flattened the early daffodils. Swallows dived like bombers, foraging for twigs and straw, busily nest-building in the eaves above her studio. So much energy and activity. The need to paint, a nervous, creative excitement filled Lorraine, exhilarated her. Yet she was also frightened by the energy coursing through her. It reminded her of the last time, the dream paintings, the trip to Venice when the rapturous singing of a mad woman had awoken her from a long sleep. The woman was probably dead by now or locked up in some safe asylum, her songs of praise silenced – but her voice was a loud exhortation every time Lorraine’s energy flagged.

She moved from one surface to the next, her mind clear, her strokes decisive. Three paintings linked by a single thread. Each time she approached the triptych, she was filled with the challenge of filling such a large space. She allowed her instincts to guide her. Sometimes she brushed out what she had done the previous day and began again. This lack of progress did not disturb her. She was prepared to allow the paintings to grow at their own pace. When she finished each session, she locked the triptych in the darkroom, out of sight of her daughter’s curious gaze.

“Is this another dream painting?” Emily came into the studio one afternoon when she was working on the painting of the boy.

“No. It’s about a life.”

“It’s more like a fairy story. All those briars. Who’s going to awaken him?”

“Faith, I expect.”

“Are the shadows meant to be birds or people?”

“They’re whatever you want them to be.”

“I hate it when you go on with all that abstract stuff. What’s
The Cat in the Hat
doing there?”

“It’s a voice in the boy’s head.”

“Who’s the subject?”

“Just a boy.”

“Are you going to work through the night again?”

“Yes.”

“You’re painting some very weird stuff. You’re not doing drugs, are you?”

“I promise you’ll be the first to know if I start.”

With each stroke she willed him back to his family. At night she lay in bed and thought how he too was lying with his face turned to the ceiling, breathing in a floating space between thought and dreams. The volcanic force of his desire to communicate – his eyelids fluttering, the clench of his fingers, his grunts and jerking movements – she imagined his mind as a chaotic galaxy, hurtling furiously through a solid veil of stillness. Sometimes, she seemed to breathe in harmony with him and she would sink into a heavy dreamless sleep which only lasted a few hours. Then she arose refreshed, her energy driving her from her bed to the studio where she would paint until the dawn spread silver shale across the sky.

B
rahms Ward
, 10 p.m.

L
ook at me
, Killian. I could dance a jig, a highland fling, the samba and the tango. I might even take up trekking – who knows what the future holds? Harriet says it holds her garden. She wants to plant flowers and doze in the sun. Claims her trekking days are done. Too old for such adventures. I don’t believe a word of it. Her book will be a success, she’ll do some interviews, chat shows, she might even pull a few weeds, and then she’ll spin the globe and be off again. You once called her a stick insect in mountain boots. Remember? Tears ran down her cheeks she laughed so much.

She’s the reason I wasn’t in yesterday. I drove her back to the cottage. She has a month to finish her next book, no title as yet, and needs peace. On the drive down we talked about Shady and childhood and her parents and Mayo and men who wanted to marry her but she’d lost her wedding-ring finger, on purpose I’d swear. Her first book was called
Giving My Finger to the World.
She always had a weird sense of humour. I told her everything, Killian. It didn’t help. She called me a fool, and not for the first time, but she was my lifeline after Shady died and one doesn’t let lifelines slide too easily away. I told her about the crooked road that led me to Trabawn and how it quickly became a road going nowhere. “I’ve walked many crooked roads in my day,” she said. “Bush, forests, mountains, deserts. Sooner or later, they always arrived at a destination.”

When you’re better I’ll bring you to the cottage. I should have done it before, given you a feel of your own roots, but Jean would have … Oh, what does that matter now? It’s where I lived after Shady died. Harriet believed I’d be safe under the shadow of Croagh Patrick and she was right. When we go there we’ll fish the lakes and climb the mountain. No problem to me when I was a boy, agile as a mountain goat, I was, and barefoot too.

After I left her I stopped off at the cemetery. I can’t remember the last time I was there. Cowslips and buttercups are blooming on her grave, stars in the long grass. There were horses in a nearby field, their coats as sleek as melting chocolate, and they ran together when they heard my car, tossing their heads, their manes, their hooves dancing; and the rooks gathered on the branches above them, chattering like old women in black shawls. It’s a good place for Shady to rest. I left flowers on the headstone. I asked her for nothing except your life. Everything else, passion, desire, love, yearning, is immaterial. I will survive anything except losing you.

See you tomorrow, Killian. It’s been a long night and we have done much talking.

I
hear you
… see you … smell you … touch you … taste you … need you …