That Gallagher Girl (5 page)

Keeley wished she could remember the price a Gallagher painting would have fetched back then. Ha'penny place in comparison to today's reckoning, she suspected, because by the end of that evening's feeding frenzy, every single canvas on the pristine gallery walls had been sold. Thereafter Hugo Gallagher had been able to double, treble, quadruple and, finally, simply name his price. Was he still coining it in? Keeley was curious as to how the artist's career had fared in the intervening decade. She'd read somewhere that Paloma had left him several years ago, making way for the current Mrs Gallagher.

Returning her attention to the screen, Keeley studied the photograph that accompanied the blurb. Ophelia was a beautiful woman – petite and peachy-skinned, with huge, limpid, indigo blue eyes and an irresistible smile. She was dressed down in dungarees and bare feet, lustrous hair tumbling artlessly around her shoulders; she had a tiny tattoo of a daisy in the hollow of her collarbone and a fetching gap between her front teeth. She came across as fun, youthful, and with a sense of mischief – yet there was something of the earth mother about her too. Had she used the little Gallagher girl – her stepdaughter – as a sounding board for her book, Keeley wondered. But rudimentary arithmetic told her that Caitlín would have been way too old for children's stories by the time Ophelia and Hugo finally got married.

Google beckoned.

Wikipedia told her nothing she didn't already know about Hugo Gallagher's early life. The poverty, the drinking, the acquisition of the famous Crooked House (which he claimed to have won in an all-night poker game), the failed marriages to his first wife and subsequently to Paloma. Also listed were the offspring of those marriages: the son Raoul, an architect; the daughter Caitlín. Documented, too, was the meteoric rise to fame that followed that sell-out exhibition in the Demeter Gallery, and the stupendous prices his work had fetched in the rampant Celtic Tiger era. Lately, however, information pertaining to the Great Artist seemed a little more hazy. There had been no output for the past couple of years, although he was rumoured to be working on an import ant new series. Reading between the lines, it wasn't difficult to deduce that drink was to blame. Hugo Gallagher was following in the footsteps of those legendary wild men of art – Pollock, Rothko, Basquiat – destined to burn out and leave a priceless legacy behind him. The problem was that once he died, although his paintings would soar in value, it would be of no benefit to his family because – unless he really was working on a new series – all his paintings had already been sold and were now hanging in public and private collections all over the world.

The Wikipedia link to Gallagher's current wife – former actress Ophelia Spence – told Keeley that she had appeared in major theatre venues all over the world. Roles undertaken included the maid in Chekhov's
Three Sisters
, the maid in
Phaedra
and the maid in
Private Lives
. Three little maids in a row hardly constituted an illustrious stage career, concluded Keeley. Ophelia, she learned, had met Hugo Gallagher at a charity fundraiser in Dublin at the height of his fame, and assumed the mantle of his muse and mistress within a month. They had no children.
Pussy Willow and the Pleasure Palace of Peachy Stuff
was her first book.

Oh, yawn! Keeley had heard, seen and read it all before. The shelves of her local charity shop were groaning with unread copies (many of them hardbacks intended for review and donated by Keeley) of novels, cookbooks and memoirs by former actresses, models, columnists and TV personalities, all desperate to take advantage of their waning celebrity status and make a few bucks before they sank without trace beneath the public radar. Once they dipped below number ten in the search engine's ranking, they were bollixed. Something told Keeley that, since Ophelia Gallagher's main claim to fame was her illustrious surname, the former actress's season in the Google sun was a particularly limited one. Why bother extending the poor creature's shelf life by wasting a precious ‘Epiphany' on her and her children's book, when there were hundreds of more worthy wannabes queuing up to be interviewed?

And yet, and yet . . . something about Ophelia Gallagher intrigued Keeley. Why had she written a children's book when she had no children? Why hadn't she written a novel or a cookbook or an autobiography? Why hadn't she divorced the drunken husband and penned a kiss-and-tell, warts-and-all memoir? Why hadn't she designed a clothing line, or launched a signature scent?

Keeley picked up her phone and dialled the publishing house. Within minutes she had been put through to the publicity department, and secured an ‘at home' interview with Ms Gallagher, which she arranged to dovetail neatly into her westward itinerary. The Crooked House was just off the N6, on the way to Lissamore.

‘Wouldn't it be more convenient for you to meet in a hotel?' the publicist had asked. ‘No,' said Keeley. ‘It's always more interesting to talk to someone on their home ground.'

It was true. Interviewees were always more relaxed in their home surroundings. A relaxed Ophelia would be an Ophelia with her defences down. And that was just how Keeley wanted her.

Chapter Four

Cat sat bolt upright. Since the night of the fire on the houseboat, she had trained herself to be vigilant against the tiniest sound. The brush of a moth's wing against glass, the plash of an otter in the bay below, the scarcely audible whine of a mosquito was sufficient to wake her now.

Someone was in the house. Staring into the darkness, Cat tried to locate where, exactly. Downstairs. Footsteps were crossing the cavernous expanse of the hall. She listened harder, alert as a leopardess. The creak of that unoiled hinge told her the intruder was in the kitchen; the echoing drumbeat of her heart was signalling fight or flight. Sliding herself from the cocoon of her sleeping bag, Cat reached for her sarong and wound it tightly around her. Then she moved on silent feet to the top of the stairs. A light moved in the darkness below . . . a torch? No. By the greenish tinge to the illumination, Cat could tell that it belonged to a mobile phone.

‘Dad?' said a male voice. ‘About fucking time. I've been trying to get through for ages. Yeah . . . I'm in Lissamore. No – it was too late to call in on her. I'm in Coral Mansion. I can't tell . . . there's no electricity: I'll have to wait until morning to do a recce. But I've a feeling you've had visitors. Squatters . . . yeah.'

On the landing, Cat froze. Then she lightly retraced her steps back to the room in which she had set up camp and reached for the Swiss Army penknife that she always kept by her while she slept, cursing her stupidity when she realised she'd left it below in the kitchen. Grabbing her phone instead – her lifeline to Raoul – she moved out onto the balcony. A flight of steps took her down to the garden. Here, by the disused pool on the patio, she hunkered behind an overgrown shrub, and sucked in a couple of deep breaths.

Stupid, stupid Cat! Why hadn't she had her things packed and ready for a quick getaway, the way she usually did? Why had she left her laundry strung up on towel rails in the bathroom? She was normally so careful about being on the ball. Now here she was in a garden at midnight, half dressed and horribly vulnerable. And Cat
hated
feeling vulnerable! She wished she hadn't left her Swiss Army knife in the kitchen. Her Swiss Army knife felt good in her hand: even if she had no intention of using it, it lent her an air of bravado she did not necessarily feel.

Through the big picture window overlooking the patio, she saw that the trespasser had moved into the sitting room, and was starting to light candles. He must have found the supply she'd left in the kitchen. The kitchen and the room where she slept were the only rooms in the house in which Cat ever lit candles, since those windows could not be seen from the road. She'd learned to negotiate her way through the house in the dark, like a feral creature. The sitting room, however, was her daytime lair: she used it as a studio, and the paintings she'd made were taped to the walls.

Cat watched as the figure moved around the room, planting candles on mantelpiece and window ledges. She was freezing now: the wind was up, and it had started to rain. Perhaps she could slip back to the bedroom, quickly help herself to some clothes and her sleeping bag and leg it out of there? But leg it where, exactly? To Raoul's place in Galway? To the Crooked House? To that hellish gaff she'd spent a night in last week – the one with the junkyard out back, and the rats?

She would feel at home in none of these places: there was nowhere in the world that was home for Cat. She felt a rush of helpless rage as she stood there in the chill night air, watching through a window as this . . . this
interloper
took possession of her space.

But hey! There was something familiar about the inter-loper, now that she saw him by the light of half-a-dozen candles. The last time she'd seen him, hadn't he been all bathed in the golden glimmer of candlelight? It had been at the wrap party of that film she'd worked on –
The O'Hara Affair
. He'd had a gig as a stunt double and, that night at the party, Cat had decided on the spur of the moment that she'd wanted to get to know him. His name was Finn, she remembered. They'd shared a dance or two, then a bottle of wine and a laugh and a drunken snog. Later, they'd swapped phone numbers . . . and had never seen each other again because the number Cat had given him was bogus. Cat was careful about letting
anyone
have her number.

And yet, and yet . . . he was cool, Finn Byrne, wasn't he? He'd be cool about the fact that she'd been squatting in his house – she knew he would. He was a scuba diver, and divers were laidback individuals. Maybe he'd even allow her to stay on until she got herself sorted with money and somewhere else to live? What the hell – she hadn't much choice. She had
no
choice. She looked at the phone in her hand, then scrolled through the menu until she found Finn's number. Clicking on the cursor in the text message box, she thought for a moment or two, then smiled. Help! she entered in the blank space.

Beyond the glass, she saw Finn take his phone from his pocket, and consult the screen with a perplexed expression. Seconds later, she received the following message.

Who is dis?

I am an orfan of da storm i need ur help luk oot ur windo.

It took ages for her to compose the text, but it was worth the effort. If Cat hadn't been so cold, the look on Finn's face might have made her laugh. Approaching the big window that overlooked the bay, he placed the palms of his hands against it and squinted through cautiously.

Rong window
,
texted Cat. Try da other 1.

He turned and looked over his shoulder, out over the black expanse of the patio and the derelict swimming pool.

Ur gettin warmer but im not its freezin out here.

Finn looked really spooked now. Feeling sorry for him, Cat pressed ‘Call'.

‘Who the hell is this?' he said, picking up.

‘I am the Cat who walks by herself,' Cat told him in her growliest voice, ‘and I wish to come into your house.'

‘Look, I don't know what you're playing at, but—'

‘Oh, Finn! Let me in!' she wailed. ‘It's me – it's Catty! I've come ho-ome. Please let me in.'

‘You are fucking barking, whoever you are.'

‘No, no – I'm mewling, piteously. Come . . . come to the window.' She watched as Finn moved slowly in the direction of the window through which she was spying on him. ‘That's right. See? Here I am!' Cat emerged from the overgrown rose bush behind which she'd been concealing herself, stretched out her arms to him and smiled.

Lunging backwards, Finn let out a yell, and this time she did laugh. ‘Who the fuck are you?' he demanded.

‘I told you. It's Cat. Cat Gallagher. Remember me? We met at
The O'Hara Affair
wrap party. Won't you please let me come in? I'm awful cold.'

‘What are you doing out there?'

Moving right up against the plate glass, Cat pressed her face against it. ‘Let me in, and I'll tell you,' she said.

Finn gave her a wary look, hesitated, then tugged at the handle. ‘I can't open it. It's locked. Come round the front, and I'll let you in there.'

‘No. I can find my own way. Give me a moment.'

Pressing ‘End Call', Cat danced away from the window, and back up the balcony steps. In the bedroom, she grabbed her sleeping bag, unzipped it, and wrapped it around herself, shawl-fashion. Then she pattered down the staircase, through the massive entrance hall and into the sitting room. Finn had moved into the centre of the floor, and was standing lobbing his phone from hand to hand, looking rattled.

‘How did you manage that?'

Cat gave him a Giaconda smile. ‘I flew in through my bedroom window.'

‘Sorry . . .
your
bedroom window?'

‘Yes. I'm squatting here.'

‘You . . . but this is my dad's house!'

‘Maybe. But it's been lying empty for far too long, and it suits me perfectly.'

‘Is that right? Well, good for you, Catgirl, but your time as house sitter's up. You can get lost now.'

‘Finn! Don't be so heartless. You should be glad that it's me and not some skanky gang of vagrants that's been living here.' She pulled her sleeping bag tighter around herself and gave him a look of appraisal. ‘So. Your dad must be the Mystery Buyer?'

‘What?'

‘Word in the village is that this place has been bought by a Mystery Buyer.'

‘A Mystery Buyer?'

‘Yes.'

Finn laughed. ‘That's a bit cloak and dagger, ain't it? There's no mystery about it, really. Dad just wanted to keep it quiet.'

‘Why?'

‘Ever heard of press intrusion? My dad likes to keep his private life exactly that – private. And anyway, what are you doing sticking your nose in? It's none of your damn business.'

Cat shrugged. ‘Well, it kinda is my business, since I've laid claim to the joint.'

‘Don't be so stupid,' scoffed Finn. ‘You can't lay claim to a house just because you've been living in it.'

‘All property is theft, squatters have rights, and possession is nine-tenths of the law.'

‘That's crap. Now go away. I've just flown in from LA and I'm jetlagged and not in the mood for Marxist trivia.'

Cat gave him an aggrieved look. ‘You should be grateful to me for taking care of the joint. It badly needed TLC.'

‘And what kind of TLC have you been giving it?'

‘Um . . . I've sprayed it with Febreze. Smell!'

Finn sniffed the air tentatively, and Cat laughed. ‘It's roses. Wild roses.'

‘Febreze wild roses?'

‘No. Real roses. I brought masses of them in – they're growing like crazy in the garden. You really think I'm the kind of gal who'd go around polluting the atmosphere with air freshener?'

‘I don't know what you're capable of. I hardly know you.'

She slanted him a smile. ‘But I intrigue you, don't I?'

‘It would be hard not to be intrigued by a girl who arrives out of the blue in the middle of the night wearing nothing but a sarong and a sleeping bag.' Finn started lobbing his phone from hand to hand again. ‘You could be like something out of
Wallander
. For all I know you're planning to slit my throat. That Swiss Army knife I saw in the kitchen
is
yours, isn't it? Not some nefarious accomplice's?'

‘Yes, it's mine.' Cat looked towards the door. ‘Can I have something to eat? I saw your boxes in the hall, all piled with grub.'

There was a beat, then Finn gave a nod of assent. ‘Sure,' he said.

‘Thanks. I'm starving. The kitchen's this way.'

‘I know where the kitchen is. I've been here before. How long have you been living here?'

‘A week,' she threw back at him. ‘You're very welcome to my abode. It beats the hell out of the last joint I broke into. That was a tip. This is like the Ritz Carlton in comparison.'

Following her through into the hall, Finn paused to pick up one of the boxes, then moved into the kitchen where more candles were burning. ‘How have you managed without electricity?'

‘I have a Primus.'

‘What about water?'

‘I'm a hardy creature. As long as I'm connected to a supply, it doesn't matter if it's hot or cold.'

‘You wouldn't be so complacent if it was winter,' he remarked, setting the box on a countertop.

Cat shrugged. ‘I managed to get through last winter on a houseboat.'

‘No shit.' Finn gave her an admiring look.

‘It was no big deal,' she told him, carelessly.

‘So you really are a vagabond?'

‘Yeah.'

‘Cool!'

Cat's nonchalance was entirely affected. Privately, she rather liked the idea of Finn thinking she was a vagabond. There was something boho and romantic about it. He didn't need to know that the houseboat had all mod cons, and that the only reason she was living rough now was because her next house-sitting gig had fallen through. He didn't need to know that she was, in effect, a Trustafarian, living on an allowance from her daddy. Well,
waiting
for an allowance from her daddy. Until that came through, she guessed she really
was
a vagabond.

Humming a little tune, she set about ransacking the box of groceries. ‘Let's see what you've got here. Bread, cheese, salami, tomatoes. Wine! Excellent. A very acceptable Bordeaux. You have good taste.'

‘You know about wine?'

‘I'm spoofing,' she lied. He didn't need to know that she knew the difference between Bordeaux and Burgundy. He didn't need to know anything about her. She could be an enigma! An enigmatic vagabond. She liked the idea of that. Passing him her Swiss Army knife, she watched as he started to uncork the bottle. ‘Tell me about you. What are you doing here?'

‘I've come to kick this house into shape.'

‘That'll take some doing. Bits of it are falling down. What made your dad buy a crumbling mansion like this?'

‘He can afford it. What made you decide to break in?'

‘I was looking for somewhere to live –' Cat broke off a hunk of bread and helped herself to salami ‘– and I found out about this place from the barman in O'Toole's. Barmen are the most clued-in blokes in the world. They know everything there is to know about everything.'

Finn leaned up against the counter and gave her a look of assessment. ‘So what did you find out?'

‘I found that it was built by a millionaire who went bust, and that you'd once dated the millionaire's daughter. I found out that you and the daughter were planning to run a scuba-dive outfit here, before the recession happened and things went pear-shaped. I found out that it used to be called “The Villa Felicity” after the millionaire's ex-wife, but that everybody around here calls it “Coral Mansion”. So . . . I'm guessing that your dad bought it so you can go ahead and set up your dive business?'

Finn's face closed over. ‘I dunno why he bought it.'