Reluctantly Charmed (15 page)

I laughed a little too heartily, considering the look of disapproval Maura gave me.

“Kate, you need to understand the importance of the position you’re in. The fairies need you. You must believe in them for them to accomplish their plan.”

“Their plan?”

She nodded calmly. “There’s a plan. There’s always a plan.”

“Always?”

“Kate, you’re not their first. They’ve been around longer than us.” She held her gloved hands together in a prayer-like pose and pursed her lips again, pausing for a moment, thinking. “I can help you, Kate. I understand the fairies.”

Why would she possibly want to help me? What’s in it for her?
I wondered.

She smiled an elastic-band smile, and an icy chill raced up my spine. “There are many important people interested in your succeeding at your task, Kate.”

Like Liam and Brick? Gangsters and murderers?
Something about her left me in no doubt she was somehow connected.

“It’s in all our interests that the fairies’ needs are met.”

Was this a threat? It felt like a threat. It wasn’t so much what she said but how she said it. There was a warning tone in her voice, even as she delivered her message with a smile.

Distracted by the wails at the window, I moved across the room to let Mister Snoop Doggy Dogg in. With just an inch or so of the window pulled open, he pounced and hissed his way to Maura’s feet. His shoulders jutted forward, his tail pointed to the ceiling, and every hair on his body stood at high alert. A low growl that I could feel in the pit of my stomach erupted from him.

Maura was paralyzed in fear. Her hands gripped the side of the sofa and she squeezed her eyes shut. She was whispering something in Irish over and over again.

“Snoop!” I screamed, clapping my hands for attention. Crossing the room, I scooped him up and waited for my familiar touch to calm his body, which was rigid and ready to attack. I marched him into the kitchen and, despite his whining protests, shut the door.

“I’m so sorry. He’s normally really well behaved.”

“I didn’t know you had an animal.” Maura ran her gloved hands up and down her legs. “I’m not good with them.”

I passed her the untouched wineglass. “He’s normally a real pet. I don’t know what got into him. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” I noticed that beads of perspiration had appeared on her top lip. Her cool demeanor had been rattled.

“I should leave. I have encroached enough on your hospitality.” She grabbed her coat and swung it majestically around her shoulders.

“You’re welcome. Thanks for all the information.” I started to walk her to the door.

“And Kate.” She twirled back. “You can trust me.”

Maura’s conversation had unhinged me slightly. Who were these important people? Why did they care about the Steps? She definitely seemed to have a lot of knowledge about the fairies, but, in spite of her request, I didn’t know if I could trust her. Was she one of the good guys? I couldn’t tell.

Nevertheless, I slept soundly and peacefully that night and had the most wonderful dream about a beautiful village full of laughter and joy, surrounded by green hills and patchwork fields. Maura must have planted it in my head when she was talking about Knocknamee.

Considering all the wine I’d drunk, I didn’t feel one bit hungover when I woke on Saturday morning. Like a cat in the sun, I stretched out, long and lazy, thinking about my day ahead. No plans, nothing. I had a glorious day of lounging and faffing, with the hope of some Gruyère cheese on pepper crackers along the way.

Spurred on by a rumble in my belly, I picked yesterday’s jeans off the floor and threw on a hoodie, wishing I could disguise the deep-conditioning treatment I still hadn’t washed out of my hair and thinking, not for the first time, what a shame it was that Western women hadn’t embraced the burqa. Hood up, head
down, I grabbed my bike and cycled the two-minute downhill slide to Kumar’s, my corner shop.

There are a good few Indians like Kumar in Dublin now. They arrived a few years ago, opening petrol stations and corner shops. Their heavy singsong tones are now laced with soft consonants and a lilting brogue. Kumar was staring goggle-eyed at
Sky News
, muttering to himself about “this country.” He always had a lot to say about “this country.” Taxes, crime, poverty—you go in for a Lucozade Sport and you come out with a manifesto.

I was going to get some really bad food—maybe some nachos and a pizza and even some chocolate ice cream—and I wasn’t going to feel one bit guilty about it. I got lost in the multicolored aisles, and soon my arms were weighed down with bad food choices.

“Hey, Kate. You are celebrity now, no?” Kumar’s thick Indian accent peppered with brogue fell heavily on the floor. The tips of his fingers were gently rubbing an angry-looking cold sore on his bottom lip.

“What?” I tottered up to the cash register and laid out my fat feast in front of Kumar’s excited face.

“Yes, look. You are celebrity.”

He flicked through the pages of
Heat
magazine and landed on the “Spotted” section, where readers sent in photos or info on mundane celebrity sightings: “Cliff Richard spotted buying three oranges in Marks & Spencer’s.” And there I was, next to an ad for ringtones. It was a photo of me freewheeling through the streets on my bike, looking like I hadn’t a care in the world: “Spiritual guru Kate McDaid spotted cycling through Dublin.”

I grabbed the magazine off Kumar and quickly closed it.

“Why you celebrity? You do
Big Brother
?”

“No. It’s a mistake.”

“No, no mistake. It’s you. Look.” He grabbed the magazine back from me and thumbed through the pages, only to leave fingerprints all over my face.

“Okay, not a mistake. A misunderstanding. How much?”

“You celebrity.” He smiled proudly. “You celebrity in my shop. I put your picture here.” He pointed to a spot just over the Marlboro Lights.

“I’d say about twenty euros, would you?”

“No, it’s twenty-two fifty-four.”

“You did that without a cash register!” I said, more shocked by Kumar’s adding-up skills than by seeing my picture in
Heat
.

“Ha, ha. You tell your celebrity friends.”

I handed over the money, laughing, and left the shop with my two bags of saturated fats.

My bike was gone. I’d left it resting against the shopwindow. I hadn’t locked it because I was only going to be two minutes. I
was
only two minutes.

I raced back inside. “Kumar! My bike’s been nicked!”

“From my shop? No, it’s impossible.” Kumar shook his head in disbelief.

“It’s not. It’s gone.”

“This country.”

“Well, yes, this country. But my bike! What’ll I do?” Unfamiliar with crime etiquette, I was feeling flustered.

“We’ll call the guards. This is a celebrity crime.”

The guards are the Irish police. “An Garda Síochána” is their full Irish title, meaning “guardians of the peace.”

“Don’t mention the celebrity.”

“Privacy. I understand.” He narrowed his eyes and picked up the phone.

Two cups of tea later a burly guard clutching a notebook in his
sausage fingers and wearing a serious face inched into Kumar’s shop. His ruddy cheeks, duck-footed gait, and wide-eyed stare betrayed his county of origin, even before he lost his vowels to the back of his throat. He was from Cavan, a landlocked county renowned for its squat natives with tight Achilles tendons and high-color complexions. I tugged on my hood, hoping that every bit of my deeply, deeply conditioned hair was hidden.

“So, you say your bike was stolen?”

“It was stolen.”

“Where was the vehicle parked?” He rocked back and forth on his heels.

“Outside.” I pointed to the window.

“Locked?” He raised his eyebrow and looked at me from under his guard eyelashes.

“Well, not actually locked . . .”

He snapped his notebook shut. “What did you expect?” he said with a sigh.

I shrugged, defeated.

“She’s a celebrity,” Kumar piped up, pointing a finger at me accusingly.

“Really?” The Cavan guard’s eyes lit up.

“Yes, look.” Once again Kumar produced
Heat
magazine and pointed to my photo.

“Hey, you’re that New Age witch or something, aren’t you?”

“No,” I said, tired.

“Yeah, you are. Kate McDaid!”

I closed my eyes. “I am Kate McDaid.”

Kumar was jumping up and down with excitement.

“I’ve heard of you. Yeah, yeah.” The guard’s cheeks were flushed. He turned to Kumar. “Could you excuse us for a minute? Police business.”

Kumar backed away deferentially and busied himself in the frozen foods section.

The Cavan guard leaned into me. I could smell coffee on his breath. “Do you do healing?”

I shook my head and said I didn’t do anything. He continued as if he hadn’t heard me. “It’s just, I have a problem, you know . . . down there.” He looked at his crotch and, just in case I hadn’t fully understood him, pointed his notebook in the direction of “down there.”

“I don’t, em . . . No, I don’t.” I was embarrassed for him.

“I can help you with the bike if you can help me.”

“It’s your job to help me with the bike.”

“Ah, you know what I mean.” He looked at me, exasperated. “It might be these new uniforms, they’re awful tight, and some funny material—they irritate the area. Even in my normal clothes now . . . I’m hoping it’s not permanent.”

“Forget the bike.” I grabbed my shopping, thanked Kumar, and left.

A Cavan accent called after me as I trudged down the path. “Does this mean I can’t be cured? What’ll I do?”

I looked back over my shoulder at his worried face.

“Go see a doctor.”

“Thank you, thank you. I will. That’s exactly what I’ll do,” came his jubilant response.

I headed for home, his cries of gratitude fading into the background.

12

I
t was lunchtime on Monday and I felt like a drink—a giant glass of chilled Chardonnay would have gone down a treat. But I wasn’t meeting the girls until seven that night, so it was going to be a long afternoon. The third Step was due to be published the next day, and I felt edgy about it. But it was too early in the day, and the week, and not appropriate to drink in the office. So I decided to settle for a cup of coffee instead, and maybe I’d crack into a Starshoot.

Our communal kitchen—one sink, draining board, kettle, mini fridge, microwave, and permanent note from reception about tidying up your
own
mess—was busy with the lunchtime kerfuffle. I hung back until everyone had cleared out, then set to work on the business of making coffee. Then in he came, filling the room, a room which I would have thought clients weren’t supposed to enter.

“Kate.” He looked shocked to see me.

“Hi, Hugh.” We locked eyes before I quickly looked away. “You’re in the office a lot these days?”

“I know.” He threw his eyes up to heaven. “As if I haven’t better things to be doing. Marjorie keeps getting me in to review, review, review. Twice a week it is now.”

“I guess they want to make sure they get it right for your first campaign with the agency.” I stirred the milk into my coffee. “I’ll be out of your way in one second. Is Setanta not with you today?”

“No, my brother’s visiting. I thought Setanta could keep him company.” He hung his head. “I miss him, though.”

I smiled. “He’s too big not to miss.” I stirred my coffee some more. “Would you like a cup?”

“Oh, no, thanks. I’m a tea man, myself.” He grinned. “Coffee’s a bit city for me. I’m from the west.” As if I wouldn’t have guessed by the jumps and lilts of his accent. “I’m all out of sorts in a big city.”

I rolled my eyes at him, laughing. “Dublin’s hardly a big city.”

“It is for me.” He scrunched his face up. “I can’t stand the cars, or the noise. Can’t wait to get back to the wide-open spaces.” A dreamy look washed across his face, peaceful, and then he snapped back into action. “Could I ask you something?”

I swallowed hard, nervous.
What could he possibly want to ask me?
I nodded.

“What do you make of these?” Out of the back pocket of his jeans he produced some pages and laid them out on the draining board. He rubbed his fingers over the paper creases, smoothing them out.

I stepped forward, aware that his arm was millimeters away from grazing mine, and focused hard on the pages in front of me, trying to keep my breathing regular and quiet.

Logos, pages of different-colored logos.

“They’re for the site. I don’t know which one I should pick.”

“Do you like any of them?”

“I think they all look the same.”

I looked up at him and laughed. “Seriously?” The pages were covered in shapes and colors as different as fire and ice.

“I don’t understand this stuff. Colin and Marjorie like this one.” He pointed to an orange and blue combination that fuzzed on the outline. “But I don’t know.” His hands were dirty, and, seeing that I noticed, he self-consciously thrust them into his jeans pockets.

“Well,” I said, more serious now, recognizing that he genuinely didn’t know what to do. “A logo represents your brand, and what your company is.”
Porn, porn, porn
flashed through my head; I shook it. “Your logo will be the most visible part of your organization, more so than a TV ad or a press campaign. The logo is an instant identifier for your customer, so you need to choose something clear and identifiable.”