The Hollow Heart (The Heartfelt Series) (19 page)

Back on the mainland, Paul
Osborne and Larry Leeson watched the report with more than cursory interest.

“Well, that’s my long lost friend found!” Paul sipped his
tea and turned to Larry. “What about yours?”

“Intriguing,” said the New Yorker. “If he’s not in front of
the camera, he’s usually behind it.”

Paul passed Larry a huge slice of Joyce MacReady’s porter
cake. They made a pact to leave together for the island as soon as the
emergency services would allow. The next day dawned altogether calmer.

Innishmahon was battered
and bruised from the worst storm it had seen in living memory, yet the next day
belied the turmoil, as the sun rose, spreading a golden glow over the eastern
cliffs. The Atlantic swirled easily below the headland; the air moist and
gentle on the skin. The breeze ruffled Monty’s fringe as he snuffled seaweed
strewn in the corners of the cottage garden. Marianne stood at the half door,
sipping coffee, staring blankly ahead. She could hardly believe she had only
been here a week, with the dramatic events of the past few days, she felt as if
she had been on the island for months.

He marched through the gap where the gate had stood before
the storm swept it away. Monty looked up, swishing his tail in delight.
Marianne groaned, pushing her hand through cockatiel bed hair. A confrontation
with ‘Superman’ was the very last thing her strained nerves could stand this
morning. He stood before her, smiling crookedly and, taking his hand from
behind his back with a flourish, presented her with a seriously ‘past its sell
by date’ cauliflower.

 “The only flower I could find.” He gave her his very best
beam. “Improvisation. A handy skill for an actor.”

She unlatched the bottom half of the door, busily avoiding
the smile.

“Come in, boy,” she called to Monty. Ryan also accepted the
invitation. He seemed to fill the small kitchen. Marianne was irritated and
annoyed with herself for still being angry with him. He was an actor after all,
an ego the size of an elephant was his stock in trade, the fact that he made
stupid assumptions about people was infuriating but he was only an actor,
hardly the sharpest knife in the drawer.

The other thing that really irritated her, was whenever she
was in close proximity with this man, she experienced a strange mixture of
anxiety and excitement and, without even trying, he seemed to entice and
exasperate her at the same time. She had come to dread meeting him, yet lit up
when he smiled at her. Did she like him or loathe him? She really could not
decide which.

She flicked on the kettle. Then changed her mind and took
the remaining half litre of whiskey off the dresser, placing it before him. She
put the glasses down with a thud. He raised an eyebrow. It was nine thirty,
Monday morning.

“Truth juice,” she said, placing her jogging-bottomed bum in
the chair opposite. “We’ll finish this, or it’ll finish us, as my Auntie Peggy
used to say.” She poured two hefty measures, took a swig and sat back, arms
folded. “Let’s talk.”

And so they talked, starting with the night of the ‘Power 2
The People Awards’, the night they had met and the world had been blown apart.
Marianne told Ryan how she had nursed Paul back to health and very nearly made
two major life-changing decisions she now knew would have been disastrous; the
first, accepting promotion at the Chronicle and the second, taking Paul as her
lover. Thank goodness, she had taken a step back on both counts. Even as she
spoke, hearing her own words, she was amazed at how frank she was.

Equally honest, Ryan explained that the ‘Power 2 The People’
bombing had made him reconsider his life too. He had been moderately successful
as an actor, was well connected, had a good lifestyle, but something was
missing. He had been horrified when his girlfriend, Angelique, had been seriously
injured in the attack, and was pleased to help nurse her back to full recovery,
but the whole thing had made him question their relationship. Angelique had
always been considered a ‘wild one’ yet after the bomb blast she had wanted
more from the relationship, and Ryan had felt the opposite. He had felt less
ready to commit, less sure of his feelings.

“Although I think the world of Angelique, she’s a lot
younger than me, and what she wants is not necessarily what I want,” he said.

“Does she want marriage? A family?” Marianne asked
tentatively.

“She says she does, but I’m not so sure she could hack it.
Anyway, I have a son, and although Mike was the result of an affair when I was
very young, and I wasn’t around, we’ve grown close over the years. We’re good
friends. I’m getting a bit long in the tooth for babies.”

They laughed. Marianne reckoned Ryan was about the same age
as George, old enough to know better, young enough to give it a go anyway.

“It was a bit like that with me and Paul. I felt as if I’d
be choosing him at the right time but for the wrong reasons.”

“Exactly,” Ryan agreed. “And being honest, my career is in
the doldrums. I’ve been doing these TV mini-series for over ten years now.
Don’t get me wrong, the money’s good and the work is regular. But you know,
sometimes I catch sight of myself on a late night channel, dressed in a
ridiculous outfit, usually a surgeon or a barrister - the roles are
interchangeable - spouting some rubbishy script and I think, do you know what
Ryan, you look a fucking eejit, sound like one too. I don’t want to feel like
that about my work anymore, do you get that?” His voice caught in his throat.

“I so do.” She squeezed his hand on the table.

He coughed. “Then after the bombing, people kept asking me
to write the ‘inside story’ on the attack that night. Not interested, I said,
much to the chagrin of my agent. I mean, there was enough to deal with, without
trying to make a fast buck out of all that misery. Did you think that?”

She nodded again.

“They’ve no idea.” He shrugged and drained his glass. “You
ever been married, or always the career girl?” he asked, as she refilled their
glasses.

Marianne took a deep breath.

“Thought I was going to marry someone once, I was very
young. It would have been a big mistake.” She bit her lip. “I had my career, so
it wasn’t as if I was hanging around, desperate for a relationship, and then
George appeared, out of the blue, just like that and I thought, why not? He was
the nicest person ever to come into my life, and he loved me so much, it was
just easy to love him right back.”

“You’re so right, why do all the good ones go first?”

When she looked up from gazing into her glass, she was taken
aback to see his face wet with tears.

“So we’re here for the same reason?” She drained the last of
the bottle into the glasses.

“Yes and no. You see I’m here to write a screenplay, time
for a change of direction, time to try and save my arse, I’ve been living
beyond my means for years.”

She laughed out loud. She liked this under-achieving,
never-quite-made-it, ‘don’t believe the press release’ side of him.

“Tell me more.” She smiled.

He flung his jacket to the floor and, as he started to tell
her the storyline of the script he was writing, he looked, just briefly, less
like the world-weary, jaded TV actor she had first met, despite the tan, bright
blue-grey eyes and white movie-star teeth.

“It’s my take on the movie business. Our hero is an actor, a
good actor but he’s trapped in a going-nowhere career – he sold out in the
early days, always going for the big bucks and regrets never taking roles that
would show him for the actor he is. It’s a comedy but it has pathos. The story
is where he hits crisis point, he is starring in the most dreadful dross known
to man and he can’t see a way out. His agent, an ageing alcoholic, has totally
lost the plot, so he’s getting no help there, when a cranky female photographer
– she thinks she should be working for an international fashion magazine, he
thinks she’s a lesbian – comes on the scene to do a piece. Despite them hating
each other at first sight, they eventually fall in love, and realise that
that’s what’s been missing from their lives all along.”

“I love it. So what’s wrong?”

“The scenes of the film he’s starring in, it’s a
swash-buckling pirate adventure, and although it is a bit tongue-in-cheek, my
dialogue sounds dreadful, too trite to be believable. It needs to be a bit
naff, but I can’t seem to make it real.”

“Tricky,” she said, taking a pencil from behind her ear.
“Printed it out?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact.”

“Lead me to it – I’m the best editor on the planet – well
the island, anyway.”

“Honestly? I love you, adore you, I worship the ground you
walk on.”

She looked him up and down.

“Trite isn’t the word.” She grinned at him.

Oonagh Quinn was sitting
menus in little silver holders, ready for lunch. Sean Grogan who, immediately
after making it known the bridge to the mainland had been destroyed, spent the
whole of the storm holed up in his fisherman’s cottage on the other side of the
bay, was at the bar complaining as usual.

“Where’s Padar?” Sean did not like women behind the bar;
their place was in the kitchen or serving food.

“Above, helping Phileas sort out his cellar, they were lucky
they got most of the contents of the chemist’s upstairs.”

“Ah, he does too much. He won’t be thanked for it. That
Phileas Porter’s a tightwad.”

Oonagh carried on with her work.

“I believe there’ll be terrible trouble trying to get
compensation off the insurance companies for flood damage. There’s people in
England were flooded years ago and are still in mobile homes over there. It’s a
right rip-off.”

Oonagh sighed.

“Sure, you’d know all about it, Sean?”

“Not at all, never paid a penny insurance in me life. I’m no
eejit. And look at poor Mrs Molloy, sure she can’t come back, she’s homeless.
She’ll get nothing off no-one, God help her.”

“She’ll not be homeless while there is a community here,”
Father Gregory called, as he closed the door behind him. “And how are you,
Sean? Nice and safe and dry up in your cottage?”

“Indeed, Father,” Sean touched his cap at the priest.

“Good man, that’s the way.” Replied Gregory.
Oonagh passed the priest a bottle of his usual tipple.

“We’re starting a community restoration fund, Sean. You’ll
be involved, no doubt.”

“Ah, I will Father,” Sean grunted, “but I think the
Government should pay for a new bridge.”

“They didn’t pay for it in the first place.” Kathleen
MacReady swept in. She was referring to the EU funding which had paid for most
of the improvements in the area over the past ten years. Sean pursed his lips
and averted his gaze. Today’s ensemble was a full length gown in peach crushed
velvet. She had draped a man’s pinstriped jacket over her shoulders. A lace
handkerchief flounced out of the breast pocket. Her hair was piled high under a
pearl and crystal tiara. She hurried to the bar, hauling herself up onto her
usual stool.

“A stout is it?” asked Oonagh.

“Not at all,” snapped Miss MacReady. “Tequila Sunrise. I
always have cocktails on Mondays, Oonagh, you know that.”

Oonagh sighed again, making a complete hash of the orange
juice, grenadine and tequila mix. Kathleen MacReady failed to notice as she
reached for the glass and drank it greedily back, slave bangles clinking on
scrawny arms.

“Well,” she announced, when she had finished wiping her
mouth with the lace handkerchief, which was in fact, a doily. “The ferry’s back
on, Tuesdays and Thursdays to begin with, passengers only. No vehicles or
livestock, till they reinstate the jetty.”

“That’ll cost a bit. And what about my sheep for market?”
asked Sean.

Miss MacReady sipped her second cocktail.

“There’s an emergency fund for the jetty. And Sean, I can’t
remember the last time you sold a sheep; sure them yokes of yours are only ole
pets.”

Sean sniffed indignantly.

“There’s many would say the bridge would be better left
down.”

“Ah, good man, Sean.” Padar had arrived back. “Always the
one flying the flag for progress, moving with the times, keeping up with the
rest of the world.”

“I’ve satellite TV, I’ll have you know.” Sean was put out.

“Yes, and I’ve a business to run.” Padar pushed by down to
the cellar. He touched Oonagh on the shoulder as he passed. She patted his hand
but kept her gaze lowered. Miss MacReady did not miss much.

“Well I think the Quinns here, deserve a medal. No-one would
have survived a minute of the damn storm, beg your pardon, Father, without the
pair of them. Here’s to you.” She lifted her glass and beamed.

Oonagh called to Padar to take over, and left the bar
quietly. There did not seem much call for lunch today.

Marianne and Monty followed Ryan back
to April Cottage after they had finished the whiskey, shaking hands
good-naturedly and agreeing they had cleared the air. She sat at the table,
reading the script, punctuated with Ryan’s embellished set descriptions and
occasional enactments, as he made coffee and cooked bacon and eggs. When they
had eaten, he flung the plates in the sink, and deciding a breath of fresh air
was called for, they headed out to the beach.

The couple on the sand with the little white dog were
laughing and animated. Ryan was totally immersed in his storytelling,
describing the climax of the tale and the ramifications it had on the main
characters. His plot-telling was highly animated, particularly the action scenes
of his hero’s dreadful movie; a combination of
Pirates of the Caribbean
and
Shrek
.

He was sure that once it made it onto the silver screen it
would be a smash hit, he only seemed concerned that he might not be able to
finish it before he was called back to the day job, and if he dropped it now,
would it ever be made? Would he always be chained to his role as a jobbing
actor and never make the transition to screenwriter, the career he felt he was
destined for? When Marianne confirmed her offer of help, he jumped at it.