The Hollow Heart (The Heartfelt Series) (22 page)

“I’ll call you,” said Ryan. “We’ll meet up, get the script
finished, we can do that, can’t we?”

“Of course, love to. Now go, before Larry gives himself a
hernia and has to be airlifted to hospital.”

“Goodbye, fair maid, until we meet again.” He put his fist
to his heart, in salute, and strode dramatically away.

“Er, Ryan?” She called after him. He turned. She was
pointing at his head.

“Looks like it’s starting to go already,” she said, patting
her crown. His hand flew to his hair.

“Feck!” he said, running towards the car, “no time to lose
then. I would have liked longer,” he called back, heading towards what looked
like a demented dancing earwig in the distance.

“Me too,” she shouted, but the wind took her words away.

Monty sat down at her feet and watched him go; Ryan waving
through an open window as the car sped away. He busied himself with some
seaweed and, finding a stick of driftwood, took it to his mistress for a game
of throw and fetch. She lobbed it half-heartedly into the water. He lunged in
to fetch it and charged back to her, tail wagging, but she had turned away and
was making for home. He dropped the stick and, giving himself a good shake,
headed after her. The wind had quickly turned quite bitter.

The period following the storm was a
strange time to be cast adrift on the island with its inhabitants. Although
still an outsider, Marianne felt her survival of the disaster and the role she
played in the rescue operation, had given her some standing in the community.
She and Monty were a regular sighting on the beach, in the village, in the pub,
and popular with everyone. Well, nearly everyone.

Marianne embraced this new sense of belonging, it filled a
hollow, a dull emptiness she had been vaguely aware of since George had died
and, was even more acute, since Ryan had left the island. She joined teams of
residents helping to dry out the cottages of those less fortunate; she took her
rota as one of the Handy Hot Meal Crew, Oonagh’s brigade of cooks, preparing
wholesome meals for those without a kitchen. She also found herself behind the
bar, doing regular afternoon shifts while Padar took a nap and Oonagh prepped
the evening menu.

Padar had assumed a daily check-run of all the elderly in
the village who had been able to return to their homes. With power still
intermittent, he made sure they had paraffin for heaters or peat for the fire
to boil a kettle. A few were in a sorry state, but would not hear of taking up
residence in the community hall with those whose homes had been destroyed,
terrified that if they left again they would never return. Marianne thrived on
the busyness, filling every minute of the day supporting the community, then
falling each night into an exhausted dreamless sleep with Monty snuggled at her
feet.

Padar was unpacking boxes of peanuts when Marianne arrived
in for a pint and a chat, having enjoyed a long walk with Monty.

“Peanuts? We haven’t had those for a while,” she said.

“Thank God supplies are beginning to filter through, but
it’s a slow business. Small wonder though, with the storm hitting a thirty mile
stretch of coastline and so many other towns and villages ravaged, a little
community like ours can’t be considered a priority,” Padar mused. “I don’t know
how we’re going to survive without the bridge.”

“I know how we’re going to survive. We’re going to rebuild
that bridge,” cried Miss MacReady, as she sailed through the door. “We need
publicity to get things done. Sure we’d be easily forgotten, flung all the way
out here in the sea.”

Miss MacReady and Father Gregory had already had an in-depth
discussion about people’s pensions. Many of the elderly honoured the age-old
Irish tradition of stashing money under the mattress and, with mattresses and
slush funds literally washed away, pecuniary considerations were a further
worry for his flock.

 “You’re dead right, Miss MacReady. Sure, our lives have
been transformed over the past decade by the new bridge and the upsurge in the
tourist trade, we should not be prepared to accept any inertia; we’ve already
managed to attract the attention of national telly, we need to keep the
pressure on.” Father Gregory was eyeing a clipboard. It all looked very
official. Padar and Marianne were intrigued.

Immediately after the storm, their efforts to keep the media
interested in the island, paid dividends. Marianne had given a follow-up report
via the video-link, ingeniously hooked up by Miss MacReady, and once the danger
had subsided, a reporter and cameraman arrived by boat to carry out a series of
interviews. With Marianne as acting editor, they made sure the news team
focused on areas where the community needed urgent action and, between them,
managed to keep the national spotlight well and truly on the villagers’ plight.

 That very day, the full power supply to Innishmahon was
reinstated. The whole town breathed a huge sigh of relief, things were slowly
returning to normal. There literally was light at the end of the tunnel. The
return of electricity though, only ignited the debate surrounding the
reinstatement of the bridge to the mainland.

Unconfirmed estimates for the repair of the damage, ranged
from ten million to twenty-five million euro. Innishmahon’s local councillor,
Bryan Crosbie, who had been at his holiday home in the Canaries throughout most
of the crisis, realised this was a vote-winning scenario and busied himself
with public meetings and local consultations. Miss MacReady was unimpressed,
whether he was for or against the rebuilding of the bridge, depended on who he
had been speaking to immediately prior to his opinion being sought.

“We need a committee, a campaign,” Miss MacReady said to
Father Gregory, who was already writing a list of names on his clipboard.
Marianne and Monty finished their drinks and slipped quietly away.

“What do you think, Marianne,
as an outsider?” Oonagh asked her friend, as she watched her pack her bags to
leave the following day. “Bridge or no bridge?” Marianne was shocked by the
comment, she did not feel like an outsider, her six week stay had been so full
of drama, and she had become so close to people in such a short time, that she
felt she belonged.

“I don’t think the bridge made Innishmahon any less charming
or desirable a place to visit. The twenty-first century will find you anywhere,
there’s no point in doing a King Canute. Though I can understand people wanting
any funding to be spent on other things they consider more important. The storm
was a disaster on a grand scale, Oonagh. The sums required are colossal. No
Government will have that sort of revenue in reserve, it will have to be
borrowed and essentials paid for first. It could take years to re-establish the
bridge, even if it were decided that’s what’s to be done. You might get used to
not having it, mightn’t want it back.”

She watched Oonagh thinking this through.

“No, we’d be too dependent on the weather for the ferries
bringing visitors and supplies. If the sea is rough, they don’t come. We’re too
used to having things handy. Mine and Padar’s fathers fought long and hard to
get that bridge built.”

Marianne remembered the picture of the men in their Sunday
best, laying the ceremonial foundation stone. It hung in pride of place, over
the bar.

“We need the bridge back for business. Padar says the
romantic notion of the island community unconnected to the mainland is a load
of ole bollocks.”

Marianne smiled. Padar had a point, he was at the sharp end
and, in today’s economic climate, how could Innishmahon survive if it were not
a thriving, tourist destination?

“Talking of romance,” Oonagh patted the bed beside her for
Marianne to sit.

“Any word of himself at all?”

“Who?”

“Ah go and shite, who? You know who. The film star, that’s
who.”

“No.” Marianne ignored the offer of a seat and busied
herself in the bathroom, throwing creams and lotions into her toilet bag.
“Didn’t expect to. Don’t expect to.”

“Really?” Oonagh was incredulous, “Miss him though, don’t
you?”

No response.

“Sure that’s why you’ve been running around like a thing
possessed helping everyone, and doing masses to keep your mind off him and fill
the hole he left in your heart.”

The chestnut head popped back into the bedroom, she flashed
her friend a look.

“Is it? Is that what I’ve been doing?”

“Isn’t it?” Oonagh’s eyes met Marianne’s full on.

They say fortune favours
the brave and this was certainly true for Paul Osborne, aspiring biographer. It
was Mary, from the local supermarket, who spotted the story in the English
Sunday newspaper first, and mentioned it to Miss MacReady, who had called in
for a tin of tobacco and some ‘skins’, as she called cigarette paper. Miss
MacReady swung by the pub, to be nodded on to Weathervane, by Padar.

Monty greeted her enthusiastically. Miss MacReady was always
a heady concoction for the canine’s sensitive nose. She picked him up, rubbing
her chin between his ears as she carried him upstairs, following voices coming
from the bedroom.

“Your friend didn’t waste much time,” she announced,
dropping the Sunday Globe on the bed beside Oonagh, “the real life drama of an
all-action hero, I ask you?”

Marianne picked the newspaper up, a huge photograph of Ryan
covered nearly half the page. He was resplendent in a white tuxedo, perfectly
styled hair, lightly tanned skin, slightly arrogant chin tilted at the camera,
his super-sleuth scowl captured perfectly, glinting out from the page, revolver
in hand, aiming straight at her. The article, a mere couple of paragraphs,
announced the Irish actor’s new role as the leading man in one of the world’s
most popular film series. He was to step into the shoes of a huge star, who had
bowed out gracefully after making the role his own over many years. Ryan had
beaten off tough competition for the part and was preparing to start filming at
an undisclosed Indian Ocean location that month.

Miss MacReady pointed further down the page, “Read that bit.
Not a mention of that while he was here.”

Marianne read out loud, “Ryan’s long-time girlfriend,
American actress, Angelique de Marcos, had an announcement of her own this
week; she is pregnant with the actor’s second child. Ryan, who has a grown-up
son from a previous relationship said: “It certainly has been an amazing year
so far. This latest news has made everything just perfect.” Ryan and Angelique
were survivors of the ‘Power 2 The People’ bombing attack in London last year.”
Her voice trailed off to a whisper, she gave the paper to Oonagh, letting her
hands fall to her lap.

“And then it advertises Paul Osborne’s series of articles,
starting next week. Excerpts from his, no doubt, hastily completed book,” said
Oonagh, reading on. “I hope he’s cleared it with Ryan’s agent, the Larry fella,
or there’ll be hell to pay.”

“You’re very up on all this Hollywood stuff, Oonagh,”
Marianne said quietly, picking at a fingernail.

“Huge fan. Addicted, Padar says. All the mags, online stuff,
love it. Sure anyone’d need an escape from this place.”

“Wasn’t Paul what’s-his-name at the Awards with ye all too?”
asked Miss MacReady.

“Yes, Paul and I took Larry’s place at the table. We were
all together.” Marianne sounded distracted.

“Paul’s sister is married to Ryan’s son. That’s the
connection,” Oonagh confirmed.

“So, he’ll have insider knowledge then, having the family
connection, know all about it, so,” said Miss MacReady.

“Not necessarily.” Oonagh was authoritative. “Ryan was only
twenty when Mike was born. Mike was brought up by his mother, an American, in
the theatre. He and Ryan only met up again about ten years ago. But that
Angelique one, she’s a real piece of work, I’m led to believe. Still, the book
will be a bestseller no doubt and rattle a few cages, official or no. Don’t you
think, Marie?”

“And how do you know so much about it all?” asked Miss
MacReady, expertly rolling them each a cigarette, whether they smoked or not.

“Research,” said Oonagh emphatically. The others were
intrigued. “You know I take
all
the celebrity magazines every week –
never miss an issue. Then there’s all the online stuff, blogs and things.”

“Pure tosh, Oonagh Quinn,” barked Miss MacReady as she lit
up.

“What do you think, Marie? Are you disappointed?” Oonagh
looked into Marianne’s face.

“Not really. Paul told me he’d written the articles and was
turning them into a book. I suppose running into Larry, and what with Ryan’s
new role, it would make sense to publish now.”

“She didn’t mean about the book,” Miss MacReady inhaled
languidly.

“Miss MacReady, you’re as bad as Oonagh. There’s nothing
between Ryan and me. I’m delighted for him, all of them. Perfect timing, I’d
say.”

“Good timing for all concerned.” Oonagh was re-reading the
article. “Especially for Angelique, put her right back in the spotlight, hasn’t
it?”

“And a baby, sure a baby changes everything,” Miss MacReady
was wistful, blowing smoke rings over the bed.

“If it’s his.” Oonagh waved the smoke away. “The
Angelique-one is a bit of a girl, so they say.”

“Were you close?” Miss MacReady asked gently.

“Yes, we were,” Marianne answered, not really sure who she
was talking about. Then she grabbed her bag and started downstairs, Monty hot
on her heels.

“Come on. It’s my last day let’s have a drink together at
least.”

The two women jostled at the doorway.

“Age before beauty,” Miss MacReady pushed ahead, puffing
like a train down the stairwell.

“You shouldn’t smoke in the holiday cottages, Miss MacReady.
What about the visitors?” Oonagh coughed.