That Gallagher Girl (26 page)

‘You're the daughter of the house?'

‘No. I'm the daughter of my dad. Let us through, mook.'

‘I'm not sure I like your attitude, Miss. May I ask you for your ID?'

‘Don't be ridiculous,' said Cat, who had just caught sight of her father through the open front door of the house. ‘I don't need ID to get into my family home.' She opened the door and made for the front steps. ‘Hey – Hugo!' she yelled. ‘Call off your guard dog and let me in.'

‘Miss . . . Miss!' shouted the mook.

‘It's cool.' Hugo emerged from the house and addressed the security man. ‘This is my girl. How are you, Catkin?' He put an arm around her shoulders, and Cat saw that there was paint on his hands. She breathed in the familiar scent of Windsor & Newton as he stooped to kiss her, and knew all was well in Hugo's world now that he was painting again. ‘Don't tell me Ophelia relented and invited you to her birthday party after all?' he asked.

‘It's Oaf 's birthday? Well, knock me sideways with a shuttle cock. I'd never have guessed she had so many friends.'

‘Try and be mindful of your manners, Caitlín. What brings you home, then, if you haven't come to help us celebrate?'

‘I'm here to cause trouble.'

Hugo smiled down at her approvingly. ‘Of course you are. How did you get here?'

‘Keeley Considine drove me.'

‘Keeley Considine? Why does that name sound familiar?'

‘You met her when she came to interview Oaf for the
Sunday Insignia
. There she is, in that green car. Can you help her find a parking space? I told her to go on round to the stable block, but that ape won't let her pass.'

Hugo glanced down at Keeley, whose progress was still being blocked by security. ‘It'd be easier if she backed down the drive. The stable block's been converted into party central. I'll take care of her.'

Cat watched as Hugo descended the steps, then slipped into the house and went straight up the two bockety staircases that led to Hugo's studio.

The moment the door closed behind her, she was a child again, assailed by the scents and the sounds and the colours that meant her father was at work and at peace. Linseed oil and French cigarette smoke. Stan Getz on the sound system. The colours he'd taught her, that she could chant off by heart like a mantra. Monestial Blue, Yellow Ochre, Raw Sienna. Chinese White, Burnt Umber, Rose Madder. Crimson Lake, Red Vermilion, Permanent Magenta. Hugo's paintings were stacked around the room, glowing with all those shades, and myriad more.

Walking the length of the room, Cat felt as though she were moving through a wash of colour, and memories came back in a rush. Her father, cigarette between his lips, hog-hair brush between his fingers, squinting at a canvas. Her mother, wineglass in hand, laughing with her head thrown back. Both of them, wrapped in each other's arms, slow-dancing to Ella Fitzgerald, moonlight streaming in through the studio skylight above.

Those were the happy days, the state-of-grace days, the halcyon days before alcohol had claimed her father and disillusion, her mother. Those were the days when to live in the Crooked House had been a wondrous thing, when her father had helped her paint pictures and her mother had told her endless stories, and both of them had delighted in their only daughter, who was the most beautiful, talented, intelligent, imaginative, intrepid girl on the face of the planet. And then, of course, shortly after Hugo had made his first major sale, the accident had happened that had put Cat in hospital, and everything had changed.

Hugo had blamed himself, but it hadn't really been his fault. It had been Cat's curiosity on a day when, bored by grown-up conversation over endless bottles of wine at a lunch party given by an artist friend of her parents, she had gone to explore the studio at the bottom of the garden. The artist was experimenting with etching, a discipline unknown to Cat, who thought all art was processed through the medium of paint. She wasn't to know that etching was a rather more complicated business involving nitric acid. Her screams had brought Hugo and Paloma running, and after that she remembered very little – just the pain and the sensation of being scooped up and hearing voices shouting and sirens wailing and then the hospital smells and the pain and the needles and the darkness and the pain that lasted on and off for a year until new corneas were grafted over the scar tissue. And the stories, of course. She remembered the stories very well.

On the far wall of the studio, a familiar portrait hung. It showed Cat and her father and mother and half-brother together, regarding the viewer dispassionately. Paloma was wearing a yellow dress that Cat remembered so well she could almost smell the perfume that clung to it, the chypre and jasmine and oakmoss that compounded Mitsouko. Raoul wore a T-shirt with ‘Fuck Art – Let's Dance!' em blazoned on it, Hugo a faded indigo blue French work-man's shirt, and Cat duckling-patterned dungarees and a cardigan her grandmother had knitted for her from leaf-green cotton bouclé. Hugo had nicknamed the painting ‘The Smugs', because they were, after all, the happiest family that ever were. Happy Families. She remembered a rhyme Raoul had made up one Christmas, to make her laugh:
Mr Chip the Carpenter, Mr Pipe the Plumber; happy families do not last, life really is a bummer.

Cat wondered if her new sibling would be a boy or a girl. Would Ophelia produce another half-brother for Cat, or a new half-sister – another Gallagher girl? Whichever, she wished the infant well. She had no axe to grind with Ophelia's sprog. In her present serene mood, she even bore Oaf herself no ill will. But – and now Cat screwed her resolution to the sticking place –
her stepmother
would not steal her stories
, and it was time to tell her so.

Taking one last look at the portrait, Cat turned on the heel of her black Doc Marten boot, and set off to find the party.

Chapter Twenty-One

‘Keeley! So glad you could make it! I wasn't sure whether or not you were still contactable at your
Insignia
email address.'

Keeley had to presume that she'd been sent an invitation to Ophelia's party: she hadn't been able to access her email lately on account of her dodgy broadband connection; she was also fearful of finding mail there from Leo scheduling a pay rise for her if she stayed on with the
Insignia
. She'd had a couple of phone calls from him, hinting that a pay hike could be in the offing (this when virtually everyone else she knew was taking pay cuts!) and during which he'd tried to initiate phone sex. He had been hard to resist. Leo was
very
good at phone sex.

‘Thanks, Ophelia,' she told her hostess. ‘You're looking great.'

It was true. Ophelia had about her that bloom that so many attribute to pregnant women, and which so few pregnant women are actually ever blessed with, since most are perpetually knackered.

‘Your
Insignia
piece was lovely. Thank you,' said Ophelia.

‘You're welcome.' Keeley privately thought that the piece was a rather anodyne puff, and not her best effort. In retrospect, she wished she'd come down harder on her interviewee.

‘It's just a shame they ran with it so early. The book won't hit the shelves until next month. Would you care for an advance copy?'

‘I'd love one,' said Keeley, feeling a twinge of
Schadenfreude
. She knew damn well that the book wouldn't be hitting the shelves next month, but she wasn't about to let Ophelia know that her career as a children's author was about to crash and burn before it had even been launched. She wondered where Cat the avenging angel had got to. Keeley hadn't seen her since she had joined the party half an hour ago. Nor was there any sign of Hugo.

A marquee had been set up to house Ophelia's birthday celebrations in the stableyard to the rear of the Crooked House. It was heaving with the kind of names seen in the more upmarket periodicals: movers and shakers from the legal world, a couple of well-known actors, a boy band member, a television presenter, a government minister (who really shouldn't be using a state car to attend a private function, Keeley observed) and a fashion designer. Keeley had interviewed several of those present for her ‘Epiphany' column, and those she hadn't were trying to catch her eye, clearly intent on fishing for an ‘Epiphany' of their own. Over by the drinks table, a famous artist was deep in discussion with an even more famous poet; over by the canapés, a celebrity chef was deep in discussion with a renowned restaura teur; and over by the stage a journalist colleague of Keeley's was observing the goings-on with a view to a kill.

‘Allow me to introduce you to my editor,' said Ophelia, steering Keeley in the direction of a formidable-looking woman who reminded Keeley of Meryl Streep in
The Devil Wears Prada
. She looked as if she should be editing Salman Rushdie as opposed to an ex-actress purveyor of children's fiction. But if Keeley had learned anything in her career, it was never to judge a book by its cover. Speaking of which, Keeley had spotted an actress famous for her audio book recordings some minutes earlier, perusing a copy of Ophelia's book with its cutesy cover image of Pussy Willow, and Cat's voice had come back to her, dripping with disgust as it had the other day in the A&E department of Galway University Hospital:
Catgirl doesn't look remotely like that
. . . The book's jacket also had the title emblazoned upon it in a bubblegum-pink font: ‘Pussy Willow and the Pleasure Palace of Peachy Stuff'. It was a pretty execrable title, thought Keeley. Kind of Harry Potter meets Barbie.

As she exchanged small talk with Ophelia's editor, Keeley felt the stirrings of excitement in the pit of her belly; she badly wanted to make a pre-emptive strike. Instead of ‘How was your journey over from London?' she wanted to be able to say: ‘I've got a potential publishing coup for you!' Instead of ‘The Dordogne? How lovely!' she wanted to be able to say: ‘I've got a marketing sensation on my hands!' Instead of ‘The Frankfurt Book Fair?', she wanted to be able to say: ‘We're going to head for the top of the bestseller list faster than you can say Exocet missile!'

But her cue to initiate dialogue had not yet come. She could look forward to having that particular conversation on a more appropriate occasion. In the meantime, it was Cat Gallagher's prerogative to shout ‘Action!', and call some shots.

She made her entrance in unobtrusive fashion. Well, as unobtrusive as a stunning girl dressed in a Harajuku frock, black bandana and Doc Martens can get. The boy band member performed a classic double take, as did the famous artist, and the fashion designer looked as if she wanted to start stealing some style. But Ophelia didn't notice Cat. She was on her way up to the stage where the band had launched into ‘Happy Birthday to You', graciously accepting compliments and bestowing smiles as she went.

‘Hello, everyone, and welcome to my birthday party,' she said, when the band finally finished telling her what a jolly good fellow she was. ‘I won't make a long speech because I have no talent as a speech maker. I'm glad to say though, that I've discovered I do have talent as a storyteller. And today I got the best birthday present imaginable – advance copies of my first book. Look! Isn't it pretty!' Ophelia raised aloft the copy she was holding, so that her audience could admire it. And admire it they did. There were cheers and wolf whistles, and another round of ‘For She's a Jolly Good Fellow', and then someone called out: ‘Treat us to an extract!' and someone else said ‘Yes! Do! Tell us a story!' and suddenly the entire company was exhorting Ophelia to read to them from her book.

Ophelia demurred beautifully, lowering her eyes and blushing becomingly before acceding to the demands of her public, and as she began, Keeley knew with the certainty of a soothsayer what was coming next.

‘Once upon a time . . .' said Ophelia, ‘in a faraway place and a faraway era—'

‘There was a girl who was more of a cat than a child.' By the entrance to the marquee, Cat took up the story in a high, clear voice. ‘She didn't have a name because she had no parents to give her one. No parents that she knew of, at any rate. So everyone just called her Catgirl.'

The crowd parted as Cat peeled herself away from the doorway and proceeded to saunter towards her stepmother on the stage. Keeley found herself smiling at the expressions on the faces of the assembled party guests, who clearly assumed that this was some kind of charming familial double act.

‘Catgirl was clever,' continued Cat. ‘She was so clever that the learned philosopher Voltaire used to ask her for advice. And that was how she ended up living in the fabulous palace that belonged to a great king, the palace called Sans Souci, where painted cherubs came to life and parrots strutted their stuff among the cherry trees.'

On the stage, Ophelia stiffened. Keeley could tell from the look in her eyes that she knew she'd been hoist on her own petard. But Ophelia was nothing if not resilient. She stapled a smile onto her face and said, ‘My stepdaughter just loves to make mischief! Don't you, Caitlín?'

‘Shakespeare calls it “michin malecho”.'

‘You're an authority on Shakespeare, are you?' asked Ophelia, sweetly.

‘I'm not an authority on anything. As you know, I can't even read. But I have a facility for learning by rote, the old-fashioned way. My dad used to read me Shakespeare. And Yeats. And Heaney. All the greats. And my mama used to read me stories that she made up herself. They were beautiful stories. But you know that, don't you?'

‘I haven't a clue what you're talking about.'

‘I'm talking about my legacy. You have no right to do what you're doing.'

‘What am I doing? Having a little fun is all, spreading a little happiness. That's what Pussy Willow's all about.'

‘Pussy Willow doesn't exist.'

‘Oh, lighten up why don't you, sweetie?'

‘You know what I mean, Oaf.'

Ophelia suddenly broke out of character. ‘Don't call me that!' she snapped, as Cat stepped on to the stage. ‘Anyway, what do you think
you're
doing? Come to scrounge off your daddy again? You're not welcome here.'

‘I bet I'm not.'

‘I think you should make yourself scarce, Caitlín.'

‘I bet you do,' said Cat, advancing on her stepmother.

‘So, get your ass out of my party.'

‘Not before I claim what's rightfully mine,' returned Cat.

‘What are you on about?'

‘I'm here to reclaim Catgirl,' said Cat, taking the book from Ophelia.

‘What on earth makes you think—'

‘This is my story. It's mine.'

‘You're talking crap.'

‘You may be fluent,' said Cat, calmly, ‘but crap ain't a lingo I'm familiar with.'

‘Give that back!' Ophelia lunged for the book, but Cat took evasive action. ‘What the fuck do you think you're doing, Caitlín? You're mad. You're stark, staring mad!'

‘Yes,' agreed Cat. ‘I am mad. I am mad as hell.'

And then she descended from the stage, and left the marquee.

As she wove her way through the crowd, Ophelia's editor said ‘Excuse me! Is this some kind of prank?' and one of the actors said ‘Hey! It's an installation, man!' and the other actor said ‘Right!', starting to applaud, and people began taking photographs, while the journalist took a notepad from her handbag and began scribbling.

‘Too late,' Keeley told her colleague with a smile. ‘I've got the insider gen.'

‘No shit! Share!'

‘Not a chance,' said Keeley. ‘It's gonna be one hell of a scoop. You could call it a
coup de grâce.
'

She watched as Cat crossed the stable yard to the back door of the Crooked House and went inside. In the marquee the furore began to subside, but before it died down completely, something even more theatrical happened. On the stage, Ophelia clutched her belly, doubled over, and gave an anguished cry.

Alarmed, the band leader rushed forward. ‘Is there a doctor in the house?' he shouted.

‘Yes, I'm a doctor! What is it?' A party guest, a distinguished surgeon who had clearly been waiting all his life to be asked that particular question, leapt onto the stage.

‘The baby!' whimpered a white-faced Ophelia. ‘The baby's coming! Call an ambulance! Get me out of here now!'

Keeley sensed that Cat would want to be left alone for a while. So before she set out to find her, she took the opportunity to approach the Prada-clad she-devil, who was looking uncharacteristically unnerved.

‘As Ophelia's editor, I think you ought to know what's going on,' said Keeley, segueing into confidante mode.

‘That would be a help. Can you enlighten me?'

‘Yes. But now is not the time. Do you have a card?'

A classy, gold embossed card was produced from a Birkin bag, which also contained, Keeley deduced from a glimpse of lurid pink, a copy of
Pussy Willow and the Pleasure Palace
of Peachy Stuff
. The legend read: ‘Camilla Featherstonehaugh. Commissioning Editor, Pandora Publications.'

Featherstonehaugh! Keeley was glad that she knew that the surname was pronounced ‘Fanshaw' by posh people, just as Cholmondely was pronounced ‘Chumly'. ‘When will you be back in London, Camilla?' she asked.

‘I'm flying back tomorrow. But I shan't be in the office for quite some time. We're off to the Dordogne . . .'

Keeley didn't think so!

‘. . . but if you can throw some light on all this, I'd certainly appreciate it. Perhaps you could contact me on my BlackBerry?'

‘I'll do that,' said Keeley. ‘I'll call you tomorrow.'

‘And you are . . .?'

‘Keeley Considine.'

The woman's rather arrogant demeanour changed abruptly. ‘Oh! Keeley Considine! I'm very pleased to meet you. You wrote that marvellous piece on Ophelia, didn't you?'

‘Yes. That's actually one of the last pieces I'll be writing. I'm changing career.'

‘Oh? Into what area are you thinking of moving?'

‘I've been doing some homework on becoming a literary agent.'

‘Really? Well, if I can be of any help I'd be delighted.' Camilla didn't look delighted. She was probably sick to death of literary agents pimping their clients to her.

‘Thank you.'

‘Do you know who that girl was?' asked Camilla, clearly anxious to return to the subject with which she was currently principally concerned. ‘That extraordinary-looking girl who caused all the fracas?'

‘Yes. I do.'

‘What's her name?'

‘Her name,' said Keeley, ‘is Cat Gallagher.' And it's one you won't be likely to forget, she wanted to add, but didn't.

‘Cat Gallagher. Is she anything to Hugo?'

Keeley hesitated. She remembered what Cat had said to her in A&E that time, about how she'd kept her identity to herself because she wanted to be successful in her own right, not on account of who her father was. And then she realised that there was no point in keeping it a secret any longer, because the events that had unfurled here today at Ophelia's birthday party would soon be making headlines all over the world, thanks to Twitter.

‘Yes. She's Hugo's daughter.'

‘Oh. Her mother died, didn't she?'

‘Yes. When Cat was just fourteen.'

‘Tragic.'

‘Yes. It was tragic.'

And Keeley wondered just how gutted Camilla would feel when she learned that the bubblegum-pink book cocooned in her Birkin bag had not, in fact, been penned by the fragrant Ophelia Gallagher, but by a woman who had been dead for over five years.

Later that evening, Keeley poured herself a glass of wine, and went into the garden to replay the events of the day, fast-forwarding the boring bits (although now she thought about it, there hadn't been any boring bits), and pressing ‘pause' on any she wanted to dwell on.