That Gallagher Girl (6 page)

‘Yes you do. Tell me.'

‘You're awful nosy, Cat Gallagher.'

She spread her hands. ‘I'm just curious. And being curious hasn't killed me.'

‘Yet.' Finn returned his attention to the wine bottle, and drew out the cork. He was clearly not going to be forthcoming. ‘Are there glasses?' he asked.

‘Yes.' Cat moved to a cupboard and fetched a couple of glasses from the shelf. There was one more thing she wanted to know. Turning back to him, she said, ‘What happened to the millionaire's daughter?'

‘Last time I checked she was living in Dubai.'

‘With her millionaire daddy?'

‘Yes.'

‘What's her name?'

‘Izzy.'

‘Izzy. Were you in love with her?'

That closed look came over Finn's face again. ‘What's with the third degree, Cat?'

Cat set down the glasses and hopped up on a high stool. ‘Sorry. I find it hard to shut up once I get started. You should take it as a compliment. I don't talk much to people I don't like.'

‘I remember that from working on the film with you. You used to prefer talking to horses.'

‘Horses talk more sense than most people I've met.'

Picking up one of the wineglasses, Finn squinted at the ostentatious logo before pouring the wine. ‘Designer glasses! Holy shit. I knew this house was sold fully furnished, but I wonder why they left stuff like this behind?'

‘What else would they do with it? I guess Izzy and her daddy have all the designer crystal they need in Dubai.' Cat took the glass from Finn and sipped. ‘There's designer stuff all over the gaff – Philippe Starck fittings in the bathrooms and all. Don't worry, I've taken good care of it. It's been like playing house living here. I'll give you a guided tour if you like, once I've had something to eat. Cheers.'

‘Cheers.' They chinked glasses, and then Cat broke off another hunk of bread, prised out the blade from her penknife and cut into the cheese. ‘I guess I'll have to find somewhere else to live, now that the Mystery Buyer's son's showed up.'

‘I guess you will.'

‘Let's hope I can find somewhere locally. I like Lissamore.' She let a silence fall, and looked at him expectantly. Stupid Finn! He wasn't picking up on his cues. ‘When's your dad due?'

‘Once I've got the place up and running. It could take a while. He wants me to fix the pool, paint and decorate – that sort of thing. I'm going to need to hire some help.'

‘I could help you. I wield a mean paintbrush. I used to be a scenic artist, remember?'

‘I remember. But are you any good? Someone told me you got kicked off that film.'

Cat gave him an indignant look. ‘I got kicked off for not being legit, not for being crap at my job. They got all po-faced when they found out I'd no social insurance number.'

‘You really are a floater, then?'

Cat nodded. ‘Will work for food.'

‘And bed?'

‘That depends on where the bed is. As I said, I like Lissamore.'

They looked at each other warily. Then Finn said: ‘All right. You can stay on here.'

‘Thank you. That's very decent of you.'

‘Just till my dad rolls up. How did you get in, by the way?'

Cat tapped a finger to her nose. ‘Not telling. I can get into most places, if I want to. Did you never read the
Just So Stories
?'

‘No. What are they?'

‘They're meant for little children, but they've become cult classics. My mother used to read them to me. The one about the cat was the one I loved most. Once a cat decides she wants to come into your house, you can't keep her out, you know.'

‘I'd noticed.' He smiled, then turned and went out into the hall.

Cat narrowed her eyes at his retreating back. He had a great smile, she decided, once he let his guard down. She remembered the night at the wrap party, and the kiss they'd shared. How many girls had he kissed since then? Plenty, probably. Plenty of lovely LA girls with lissom golden limbs and luscious golden hair, and pearly American teeth. She must be a complete culture shock after what he was used to. Like something out of
Wallander
, he'd said. Hell – at least she'd washed today. Her biodegradable travel soap may not have had the sweetest scent in the world, but she guessed that was compensated for by the wild-rose-smelling house.

Back Finn came, lugging another box. He dumped it on the counter, and together they pulled out more provender. Coco Pops, chocolate HobNobs, apples. A bumper pack of popcorn, a six-pack of beer, a copy of
Empire
magazine, an iPod with a docking station.

‘Oh, look – you have music!' she said, biting into her bread and cheese and taking a swig from her wineglass. ‘Put something on, and let me show you around.'

‘Any requests?'

‘Surprise me.' Sliding down from her high stool, Cat helped herself to an apple. Her sleeping bag was starting to come adrift from around her shoulders, so she looped it over her forearms and let the ends trail behind her as she moved towards the door. ‘Will you bring a candle?'

‘I have a torch in here somewhere. You should be careful – you're a walking fire hazard in that sleeping bag.'

Cat froze, and the sleeping bag slid to the floor as the first strains of Springsteen's
Born to Run
oozed through the speakers.

‘What's up?' asked Finn.

‘Just what you said. About being a . . . a fire hazard. It gave me the shivers. That's why I had to leave the houseboat, you see. It was . . . someone tried to burn it down.' She gave a shaky laugh, retrieved the sleeping bag and reinstated it around her shoulders. ‘Sounds stupid, doesn't it? Imagine trying to set fire to a house built on water. Anyway, I shouldn't worry about this sleeping bag. It's Millets' finest fireproof stock.'

‘Shit.' Even by the light of the candles, Cat could make out the concerned furrow between Finn's brows. ‘You mean, someone tried to burn you out?'

She nodded.

‘What did the Guards have to say?'

‘They said,' she told him, ‘that I should have been more security conscious.'

‘Did they find out who did it?'

‘No. But I know who did it.'

‘Who?'

‘A bloke who thought I was up for it, and who got cross when he realised I wasn't.'

‘Did you report him?'

‘No.'

‘Why not?'

‘He was a Guard.'

‘Bastard! It must have been terrifying.'

‘Yes, it was. I don't scare easily, but that fire was no foolin' around. I was out of there like a cat out of hell.'

‘Did you lose a lot of stuff?'

‘I don't really do “stuff”. I grabbed my backpack in time, and my paintbox. I'd have been fit to be tied if my paintbox had gone up in smoke. It'd cost a fortune to replace.'

‘I saw paintings, hanging on the wall in the sitting room. Are they yours?'

‘Yes.'

‘Mind if I take a look?'

‘Sure.'

Finn had fished a torch from the box. ‘Didn't it freak you out, having to light candles here?'

‘I didn't have any choice. Candles was all they had in the local store.'

‘I'll get the electricity reconnected tomorrow. And we'll take a drive into Galway – stock up on essentials. How do you manage for transport?'

‘I had a bicycle, when I was living on the houseboat. But it's handy enough to walk into Lissamore from here.'

‘Was the bicycle banjaxed in the fire?'

‘No. Some gobshite threw it in the canal. Probably the same dickhead who was responsible for burning me out.'

‘I guess you can claim everything back on insurance.'

‘Nothing belonging to me was insured. The people who owned the houseboat will put in a hefty claim, but I won't get anything. I think they're kind of relieved that the place is gone, if truth were told. Too much responsibility.'

‘It wasn't yours?'

‘No. I was houseboat-sitting.'

‘Of course. I forgot you held Marxist beliefs about property ownership.' Finn aimed the beam of his torch at the kitchen door. ‘After you,' he said.

In the sitting room, dustsheets still shrouded most of the furniture, giving the place a funereal appearance. ‘What's underneath all that?' Finn asked.

‘Furniture. Very Terence Conran. Not my style at all.'

‘What is your style?'

‘I'm not sure I have one.' Cat bit into her apple. ‘I've never cared enough about keeping up appearances to develop a sense of style. My stepmother deplored my lack of interest in fashion.'

‘You have a stepmother?'

‘Yes. A wicked one. She's tried to poison my father's mind against me.'

‘Has she really?'

‘Well, it was already pretty poisoned with hooch.'

‘You mean he's an alcoholic?'

‘Yep. That's why I ran away from home. I could write a misery memoir, except I can't truthfully say I've ever been that miserable.'

‘How do you get by?'

‘Moneywise?'

‘Yes.'

‘I sell my paintings,' lied Cat. ‘Wanna buy one?'

Finn turned his attention to the paintings that Cat had fixed to the wall with masking tape. They looked better by candlelight, Cat decided. You couldn't see the mistakes. The disadvantage of working in acrylic was that it dried faster than oil paint, so mistakes were harder to put right. But because acrylics were so much cheaper than oils, using them made sense to Cat.

‘Wow!' said Finn, aiming the beam of his torch at the wall. ‘These are great! These are really fine. I mean, I don't know much about art, but I can see that you genuinely have talent. Where did you train?'

‘I didn't. My dad wanted me to go to the Slade, in London, but the last thing I wanted was to go back to school.'

‘I wouldn't have thought that art college was much like school. I'd have thought art college might be quite a blast.'

Cat shrugged. ‘I don't like being taught things. I'd rather learn from my own mistakes. The only good teacher I ever had was my brother.'

‘Yeah? What did you learn from him?'

‘How to skip stones.'

‘Good skill to have.' Finn resumed his scrutiny of Cat's paintings. ‘How much do you ask for them?'

‘Five hundred euros each.' What!? Where had
that
come from?

‘That's a lot. My ma gets about two fifty a pop.'

‘Your ma's an artist?'

‘An amateur. But she sells quite well during the tourist season. Her stuff's on display in Fleur's boutique in the village.'

‘Fleurissima? I wouldn't dare go into that shop! How does she get away with charging those kind of prices?'

He shrugged ‘Women are stupid when it comes to clothes. Izzy used to spend a fortune in there.'

Izzy.
Izzy!
Why did Cat hate her so? ‘It's the kind of place my stepmother would love, too,' she remarked.

Finn returned his attention to Cat's artwork. ‘Five hundred euros a pop? Seriously?'

‘Three to you. Special price.'

‘Nice try, but no cigar. How much do you charge for your house-painting skills?'

‘I told you – will work for food.'

‘You mean it?'

Cat nodded. She'd be glad to work in return for a roof over her head. Tomorrow she'd put in a call to her father, and see about getting some money from him. She wondered what she'd need to set up the poste restante thingy Raoul had talked about. She reckoned some form of ID would be required, and she doubted that her fake student card would cut any dice. Shit. Maybe she'd have to go legit and get herself a passport, after all. Oh! Just the thought of filling in the forms made her feel dizzy.

‘Tomorrow we'll head in to Galway and pay a visit to B&Q,' said Finn. ‘Stock up on DIY stuff. Anywhere else you need to go?'

‘Um. I wouldn't mind getting to the art suppliers. I'd love to be able to start painting on canvas again.'

‘Is that what you usually paint on?'

‘Yes. But if I can't get my hands on canvas, I'll paint on anything. I found a roll of wallpaper in a cupboard here – hope you don't mind. I even took to painting on old shards of slate once, when I ran out of funds. Most of my money goes on art supplies.'

‘Most of mine goes on dive gear.' Finn moved toward the window, and turned off the torch. In the plate glass, Cat could see candles reflected and, beyond the glass, the dark hump of Inishclare island. ‘There was a dive outfit on that island once,' he remarked. ‘That's where I cut my teeth.'

‘What age were you when you started?'

‘Twelve.'

‘So it's your lifelong passion?'

‘Yeah.'

‘What about your plans to turn this place into a dive outfit?'

His smile was a little rueful. ‘Setting up a dive school here would mean infringing on Ma's orchard.'

‘The orchard at the bottom of the garden belongs to your ma, does it?'

‘Yeah.' He smiled down at her. ‘She has no Marxist scruples about owning property. Those two acres are her pride and joy.'

Cat remembered the three women earlier that day who had enjoyed a
fête champêtre
in the orchard, and how carefree they'd seemed. It was an eye-opener for Cat to see women revelling in each other's company: her mother had been the only woman she had ever trusted. And hadn't she every reason to be mistrustful of her own sex? She'd been bullied at boarding school, set upon (on more than one occasion) by gangs of girl thugs (the ones who wore pink were the worst), and cold-shouldered by her stepmother.

Her stepmother. She hoped to God that Ophelia didn't pick up the phone tomorrow when she called the Crooked House to petition her father for cash. Even the sound of Oaf's voice over the telephone line had the power to make Cat want to puke. That sick-making, saccharine, actorish voice that Oaf put on was worse than listening to Burt Bacharach. How had her dad fallen for it? Why had he betrayed the memory of perfect Paloma by marrying that gold-digging has-been?