The Hollow Heart (The Heartfelt Series) (20 page)

 “Come on then, I’ll buy you a pint in Maguire’s and we’ll
seal the deal.”

“One pint.” She wagged a finger at him. “And then we start
work.”

“Okay, okay.” He shrugged, and he and Monty ran ahead of her
the rest of the way back.

The atmosphere in Maguire’s was a strange mixture of relief
and despair. Relief that the worst of the storm had passed, and regret at the
devastation it had wreaked. The debate whether the resurrection of the bridge
was a good or bad thing was to rage far longer than the storm itself, and
probably cause as much damage to relationships as the storm had to properties.

Father Gregory was drawing up a plan for the Community
Fundraising Initiative on the back of one of the many envelopes Miss MacReady
kept about her person.

“We’ll need a committee,” she informed Marianne and Ryan as
they approached.

“Sorry, but we’re not here for very long,” Marianne replied,
referring to herself and Monty. Miss MacReady raised an eyebrow, taking in the
threesome. She was pleased the humans seemed to have settled their differences,
as she fussed Monty in greeting.

“That’s a shame, we could do with a couple like you around
here, a bit of gumption goes a long way, and we’re going to need shedloads of
it.” She gave Marianne one of her burning ‘do you think you could change your
mind?’ looks.

“Anything I can do to help while I’m here, count me in,”
said Ryan, immediately taking a seat in the midst of things.

“Oonagh?” Marianne asked. Padar indicated upwards. She told
Monty to stay, and left to find the landlady sitting at a window, gazing down
at the pub car park, filled with boats of all shapes and sizes, now aground on
the shale.

Marianne sat softly beside her.

“How are things?”

“Ah, alright, you know, not too bad.”

“Everyone’s saying it could have been worse. Don’t think it
could have for you. You never said anything.”

“Ah, it was very early.” Oonagh wiped her eyes with the back
of her hand.

“Not the first time, though? You seemed to know the signs.”

“No, the third. I just don’t think I can hold onto a baby,
Marie. And it’s my fault, I’ve left it too late.” She was referring to age,
having ran off to Dublin, as she put it, when Padar proposed to her as a
teenager, only to return nearly twenty years later to find him unmarried, still
waiting.

“I’ve been so selfish. It’s not fair on him, on either of
us. I don’t think I can bear to try again.”

Marianne put her arms around her and hugged her tightly.

“You will. You will try again and it’ll be fine, you’ll see.
It wasn’t right that time, you’ll get another chance.”

Voices were raised below in the bar.

“It’ll be that Sean Grogan giving out again. He’s never
happy unless he’s moaning.”

“Come down and have a drink with myself and Ryan. Just one,
then we’re off to do some work together this afternoon.”

“Is that what they call it now?” teased Oonagh, pushing
Marianne ahead of her down the stairs.

Now flooded with sunshine,
April Cottage was an absolute tip. Ryan had obviously been holed up like a
hermit since his arrival on the island three weeks ago. Empty beer cans,
whiskey bottles and dirty crockery littered every surface, a mismatch of shirts
and jeans draped across chairs and hung from banisters. A table by the window
was strewn with paper, the waste basket overflowing with screwed up pages of rejected
script. A laptop lay abandoned on a fireside chair, a glass on top of it. He
made no excuse for the mess. He put the bottle of whiskey he had purchased from
Maguire’s on the mantelpiece, found a couple of relatively clean receptacles,
poured them both a drink, and launched straight in.

“Right, the next scene is actually on the set of the movie
he’s making, Christophe the Highwayman knows he will be hanged, he has to
escape the dungeon of Lord Rothermere, of course he’s in love with Rothermere’s
daughter. This is where Fliss the photographer starts taking photos and notices
Rory, my hero, has his lines written all over the place as a prompt. She starts
taking photos of that. Can you see if you can get that thing working? I think
it’s faulty.” Marianne found the charger for the laptop and the machine bleeped
to life.

“First things first, you light the fire, I’ll clear a space
and see where we are up to. Are you putting this on a memory stick?” she said.

“What’s a memory stick?”

Marianne gave him a considered look; she had her work cut
out. She pushed her spectacles further up her nose and began.

They worked like Trojans straight through the afternoon and
evening, writing and rewriting, acting out dialogue, cutting scenes and editing
others. They teamed effortlessly, Ryan toasted sandwiches for supper, Marianne
made tea and Monty tried to catch the balls of screwed up paper as they were
tossed at regular intervals into the basket by the fire.

They started work on the battle scene, which turns into a
blazing row between Rory and Fliss.

Monty was fed a tin of tuna, but could hardly eat, he was so
distracted by Ryan’s dramatic leaps from stairs to sofa.

Dawn broke as they were reading the final act.

 “Mean it, for god sake!” Ryan implored.

Marianne repeated the lines, overacting dreadfully.

“Okay, the movie is finished,” he said “and it really is the
most dreadful load of old tosh. Rory is ready to give it all up and disappear
into a bottle of bourbon. He watches the unedited film through his fingers, his
hand clamped over his eyes, squirming with embarrassment. The camera cuts to
Fliss on set, who is watching Rory and his leading lady in the final scene.
She’s transfixed. He moves in for the kiss and unconsciously she lifts her
mouth to be kissed too. He looks from the screen to the real Fliss, sitting in
the movie theatre also watching the unedited film. He knows he wants to kiss
her too. The penny drops, she is his leading lady and they have fallen head
over heels in love. Realising this is a chance he cannot miss, he sees an
embarrassed Fliss making for the exit, and hurdles the seats, flying down the
stairs to stop her at the fire exit. Or should it be in front of the screen, so
they kiss at the same time as the hero and heroine in the film?”

“God, I hope he gets the girl in the end.” Marianne sat down
on the floor beside Monty who curled up on her lap, exhausted.

“Who?”

“Rory, obviously, but we need another love interest for
Fliss, someone she nearly goes for.”

“You’re right, we need a twist. It can’t be same old, same
old.”

“That’s what the public wants, boys meets girl, boy nearly
loses girl, boy gets girl in the end, although we do appeal to everyone with
Christophe’s handsome sidekick and aide de camp, being precisely that!” She
closed the laptop.

“Indeed, nice touch, Miss Coltrane. Let’s sleep on it then
and see what we come up with later.”

Ryan was too late with his final direction. Marianne had
left the desk and she and Monty were snuggled together, out for the count in
front of the fire’s dying embers. He pulled the throw from the sofa and draped
it over them, then turning to head upstairs to bed, changed his mind and joined
the bundle on the rug. Nestled together in front of the fire, he too was asleep
in a second.

Marianne thought she was dreaming, having a nightmare, or
both. She opened one eye slowly, there was a commotion; the room was full of
people. She could see a smallish man with glasses, in a tweed coat, severely
belted around the middle, and a tall, sandy-haired chap in a leather gilet and faded
denims. Where was she, in a film? Then, as her eyes focused, she recognised
Padar, in his sailing jacket, coughing loudly, as he closed the hall door
behind him. She shook her head and attempted to sit up but she was pinned to
the floor by a large, hairy arm and the entire body of a white, furry beast
still asleep in her left armpit.

“You have visitors,” called Padar, through the letterbox as
he left.

“Who would call at such an ungodly hour?” asked Ryan
tetchily, in her right ear.

“Only your agent.” The accent shot through the smoky
atmosphere like a laser.

“Heaven help us, is that who I think it is? It can’t be; he
gets neuralgia, hypothermia and claustrophobia if he takes one step outside his
office.” Ryan stirred, propping himself up on his elbows.

“And I’m…remember me?” Larry’s companion shoved a hand at
them. “Paul Osborne. The night of the bombing. I was on your table. Zara’s
brother.”

Ryan used Paul’s extended hand as a hoist.

“Of course, Paul, and you’re with Larry. Strange
bedfellows?”

“I could say the same.”

Ryan ignored Paul’s observation.

“What brings you guys to this little island off the coast of
nowhere, which has been pretty much inaccessible for days?” He scowled at
Larry, who was already clearing plates and opening windows.

“Go ahead, guess,” Larry called from the kitchen. Ryan
hauled Marianne to her feet. Monty, dismayed that guests had arrived without
his usual announcement, gave Paul a brief welcome and retreated under an
armchair, abashed.

Marianne, regaining her focus, started bombarding Paul with
questions, convinced there was a very serious reason he had come all this way
to find her.

“What’s wrong? Why are you here? Are you okay? Is it Jack?
What is it?”

Paul looked vague and seemed more intrigued as to not where
he had found her, but with whom.

Larry returned with a tray, having unleashed himself from
the constraints of the tweed. He had rolled up his shirt sleeves and perched
his spectacles on his head. He pulled a tea towel out from under a cushion with
a disgusted flourish as he busily collected abandoned crockery and glassware.

“Okay, spill the beans, big boy.” Ryan was nonplussed. Larry
ignored him.

“And you are?” He turned a beaming smile on Marianne.

 “Forgive me. Marianne Coltrane, my co-writer, editor, known
each other forever,” Ryan interjected. Larry arched an eyebrow.

“How nice to meet you, Mari-anne.” He stretched her name
out. “Surprised we haven’t met before? Now you, I could fall in love with!”
Larry directed this comment at Monty, who tentatively poked his nose out from
under the chair. “It might take a little time, but I’m worth the effort,
believe me,” he told the canine, who at that particular point, remained
unconvinced, “Do you have a shower?”

Ryan nodded.

“Then please use it. You two have obviously been working
extremely hard but there’s no excuse for poor hygiene, surely?” He bustled
away. “We need to talk Ryan”.

“So do we, Marianne,” Paul said quietly.

“Well,” said Larry, returning with the vacuum, “let’s do
supper in the pub later. That charming man said it’s only half an inch from the
cottage, and we can all catch up properly.” And then he somehow managed to
scoop up Paul, Marianne and Monty and deposit them outside in the porch.
Marianne wrapped her jacket around herself against the wind, nodding goodbye to
Ryan, who just shrugged and rolled his eyes. Paul slung his bag over his
shoulder as Monty bowled on towards Weathervane.

“Staying long?” Marianne ventured.

“That’s entirely up to you.”

The life-changing announcement that
Ryan O’Gorman had landed one of the most iconic roles in movie history was
initially greeted with stunned silence. Followed by a sharp intake of breath as
Larry, incongruous in striped apron and yellow marigolds, had chosen to impart
the news at the precise upsweep of his client’s razor.

“Are you serious?” Ryan studied him through the mirror.

“That’s why I’m here. Contracts need signing, schedules
planning and the press conference, well it’s all gotta start rolling, and
soon.”

Ryan emerged from the steam, wiping soap from his throat
with the tea towel Larry was holding.

“Are you sure? No bullshit now, Larry. This isn’t a ploy to
get me to toe the line, go back to the States and find myself playing an ageing
Lothario in one of Lena’s God-awful mini-series, is it?” He sat down on the
bed, the beginning of a paunch just evident.

“No way, this is the real deal, and as you can

imagine, Lena... er, I mean, we’ve, been going crazy trying
to get hold of you. No-one knew where you were, what you were doing. I mean,
you’ve taken off before but never for this long or this far. No message, no
nothing.”

“I dropped the cell phone in the sea.”

“Good work.”

“No signal here, anyway. I wrote though.”

“Is that the envelope addressed to me sitting on the table
under a pile of newspapers in the hallway?” Larry sighed. “Funny, never
received it.”

“You knew why I had to get away.”

“Maybe, but this soul-searching ain’t good for a man of your
age, it’s time to get back on track.” Larry gave Ryan’s torso a cursory nod.
“And you’re drinking again.”

“Hardly.”

Larry started picking clothes off the floor.

“You’re an actor, not a writer. Come back with me and be
mind-blowingly brilliant at the one thing we know you’re good at. Be a writer
when we’ve all made so much money, we won’t give a shit what you do!”

“Thanks.”

“Don’t you dare mess this up, you Irish halfwit. This is
what we’ve all been working towards all these years. Everything’s riding on
this.”

“No pressure then.” Ryan started to dress. “How did you find
me?”

“Lena got a private eye on the job, didn’t take long to find
out you took a flight from Dublin to Knock. Of course I made the Innishmahon
connection; you always called it ‘your spiritual home.’”

“I always told you too much!” Ryan said grumpily.

“Jeez, I hoped you’d be pleased. The package is amazing. The
part’s global. A minimum three-movie-deal with options, the film will be
translated into a zillion languages – it will take you the best part of a year
to do the pre-movie and post-movie promotional tour. There won’t be any city in
any country on the planet where you won’t be recognised.”