The Hollow Heart (The Heartfelt Series) (25 page)

“You’re the most beautiful woman I have ever seen,” he
whispered, and she responded, taking him in her hands and stroking him until he
was hard. He made love to her again, softly, smoothly, and with such
tenderness, she was moved near to tears. They clung to each other under the
water until it ran cool and then he wrapped her in white fluffy towels and
carried her to the bed, placing her between clean linen sheets.

“I bet you’re tired my darling,” he said, smiling down at
her, “tired but happy?”

“Happy, yes, but a little bit sleepy too.” She smiled back
at him.

“Okay, I’ll make a start on the script, you doze awhile. See
you later.” He kissed her forehead and then, dimming the lights, padded out of
the room to begin work on the final scene of the screenplay. She drifted off
into slumber, too happy to care if she were dreaming, to dreamy to care if she
should wake.

Marianne was up and
dressed in suede jeans and Ryan’s evening shirt when room service came to clear
away the evidence of last night’s passion. The butler brought coffee,
croissant, scrambled egg and smoked salmon. Ryan grinned at her as she entered
the room.

“Good morning, Muse. Hair of the dog?” He poured Bucks Fizz,
skilfully ensuring the fresh orange juice did not cause the champagne to
overspill.

“Don’t really need one, but that looks delicious.”

“Talking of dogs, how is the little fella?”

“Staying with my ex-boss and his wife, but in fine form.
What about Larry?”

“In fine form also. Delighted with the film deal, he and
Lena will do well out of it – it’s all good.”

“And Innishmahon, heard from anyone there?” She took the
irons to poke the fire.

“Gregory, the priest emails from time to time and, Miss
MacReady, she keeps me up to speed.”

“Me too. And Oonagh from the pub, I’m very fond of her and
Padar.”

“Everything happened so quickly, I didn’t have time to...”

She shrugged. He took her by the shoulders, turning her
towards him.

“Because I left in such a hurry I asked Lisa to track you
down. Miss MacReady came up trumps. I’m sorry.”

“What for?”

“Abandoning you, rushing off, full of big plans. Not letting
you know how I felt…how I hoped you might want me to feel.”

“It’s not up to me to dictate how you feel. But I’m not a
home-wrecker – I know what that feels like. It’s not surprising I don’t want a
relationship with a man who already has a partner.” She sipped her drink. “So,
truthfully now, how is Angelique?”

“Over. Definitely over, but like these things often are,
messy. Well, the thing is…” He looked away, the atmosphere shifted.

She put her hands to his face, bringing him back,

 “Hey, it’s okay. Come on, let’s get to work, looks like
you’ve written loads.”

He smiled, relieved.

“There’s a lot of waiting between takes.”

“A lot of waiting when you’re out of work, too.”

“Really?”

She ignored the question, taking spectacles out of her bag
and arranging the pile of paper in order.

“Missed you.” He kissed her on the top of her head as she
bowed over her work. She started to make notes. He joined her at the desk. They
did not look up until the butler returned to re-lay the fire and enquire if
they wished to make a reservation for dinner in the restaurant.

“Have you boots?” he asked her. “We need some air.”

The sun was gold and
glorious against the ivory of the winter sky, trees turned black against the
backdrop of early evening iridescence. They walked hand in hand, silent
footprints of powder soft snow in their wake.

“And what of Paul Osborne’s book? The series of articles?
How does that sit with you?” He gave her a sidelong glance.

“For goodness sake, Ryan, I’m not an undercover agent, any
more than you are. Trust me, I mean it. I’m not party to his work, or secretly
researching you on his behalf, or indeed, anyone else’s.”

They walked on in silence for a while.

“There’s been a bit of a family rift to say the least,” he
said.

She nodded, encouragingly.

“Paul is persona non grata as far as Zara and Mike are
concerned, you can imagine. Although Lena likes the added value the frisson
brings to the whole scenario, she thinks the publicity can only help the movie.
Me? I’m disappointed he’s written such rubbish about me. Seems I rescued all
the survivors of the terrorist attack single-handed, and the sequel is me
salvaging Innishmahon after the storm. He’s the one over-playing this
All-Action Hero stuff. It’s all unauthorised and every now and then my PR has
to issue a statement refuting the more ridiculous claims, but beyond that I am
not too worried, just disappointed.”

“More sales when you get round to writing the authorised
version though.”

He frowned.

“There is that. Don’t turn into a Lena on me now.”

“Just an observation, I’m opting out of the world of
commerce and journalism – for a while anyway.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Not sure. I still feel strongly about the stolen babies’
story. I’m sure there are lots of mothers and children who would love to be
reunited, if not reunited, just told what happened, told the truth. Every woman
I interviewed said something was wrong. They knew deep down their babies had
not died. It feels unfinished to me, maybe this is the space and time I need to
finish it, do something positive. I don’t know yet, and won’t make a decision
until I have to.”

“That’s admirable, and I understand what you mean about
unfinished business and not making decisions until you have to. But what about
me? Have you decided about me?” He gave her that look again.

“What’s to decide? Film star, fantastic lover, gifted
writer, excellent company. You tick all my boxes.”

“But do you like me, Marie? Are we friends?” He stopped, his
eyes burning into her. She blushed.

“Ah, come on.” She laughed. “That’s going a bit too far
now.”

They kept to the roadway until they found a stile. He
brushed the snow off, helping her over.

“Race yer,” he called, and was away, taking off as fast as
he could up the hill. She followed, failing hopelessly to make any ground. He
reached the top of the hillock and started sparring Rocky-style. Marianne tried
to run, breathless and laughing, but her feet could not take hold in the new
snow. He held out his arms and then, as if in slow motion, her foot caught a
rock and she fell, head first, arms flailing, to glide gracefully down the
slope on her front, her chin leaving a small trench in the snow as she went.

Ryan headed after her, but he too lost his footing and ended
up on his bottom, sliding at speed towards her splayed figure, now stuck in its
own little snow drift. She was just setting herself right when he ploughed into
her. Throwing her back to the ground, he seized the opportunity to pin her down
with a full body dive, pushing her hair off her face, to kiss her passionately
in an old-fashioned teenage snog. Eventually gasping for breath, she wriggled
free, laughing.

 “Stop it, I can’t breathe, nutcase.”

“I can’t help it. You really turn me on. I feel like a kid
with a crush, I’m mad about you, can’t stop thinking about you. It’s driving me
crazy.”

“Now that sounded like a script.”

He pulled his mouth down, like a clown. Marianne kicked at
the snow as he made snowballs and, within minutes, a battle ensued ending when
Ryan, with an overzealous throw, slipped again and Marianne took the
opportunity to climb onto his chest pinning him down to claim victory.

“Call yourself an All-Action Hero?” She laughed, helping him
to his feet.

“It’s only acting.” His eyes grew dark.

“I know that.” She took his hand. They walked on for a while
in silence.

“Do you fancy the restaurant tonight? What about roast
pheasant and a nice bottle of Bordeaux in front of the fire. That final scene
needs some more work, doesn’t it?”

“Are you on the menu for dessert?”

“Could be,” he teased.

“That’s a yes then. Ryan O’Gorman, you’re such an easy lay.”

“I’m not really.” He was serious.

“Yeah, right.” She reached up and bit his earlobe.

“Ouch!”

“Race you back.”

Marianne packed quietly
the next morning and then stood at the foot of the bed watching him as he
slept. The long eyelashes on his still boyish face, the curve of his chin,
straight nose, plump bottom lip. His arms were spread across the sheets, dark
brown nipples like velvet against the light brown skin of his torso, a stretch
of gold against the stark white linen. He looked like a god. She closed her
eyes to hold the image, a picture of perfection. He stirred, searching for her
in the bed.

“Marie?”

She bent to kiss him.

“I have to go. Snow’s nearly melted and the roads are clear.
Isabelle and Jack are leaving for Scotland this evening, I need to collect
Monty.”

“What time is it?”

“Eleven.”

“What day is it?”

“Monday.”

“Shit!” He leapt out of bed. “I’ve three interviews today.
Lisa should be here, I should be ready.”

“She is here. She called the room, your mobile is switched
off. I answered, she thought I was Angelique.”

He stepped back out of the bathroom.

“No way.” He took her hands. “That’s over. We’ve separated.
Seriously, Lisa made a mistake, that’s all.”

“And the baby? I’ve heard Angelique’s pregnant?” Marianne
did not want this conversation now, he had not mentioned it all weekend, she
wished she could keep her tirelessly investigative mouth shut.

“I’m not sure about that. She’s said she’s pregnant, she’s
said it’s mine but she won’t even talk to me. So I don’t know what to think,
and now the gossip columns are speculating and Angelique’s PR machine is in
full flow. You know what it’s like.”

“Sure I do.” She started towards the door.

“It is over, Marie, believe me please, and I don’t know
about this, us, but it feels pretty special to me.” He was standing before her.
He took her hands in his.

“Ryan, it’s okay.
Really.
I had the most lovely time,
thank you.”

“Oh, so did I, the best of times.”

She half-smiled.

“We have each other’s personal numbers, we’ll stay in touch,
see each other again, I do so want to see you again. I’ll call, I promise. I
know the coming months are going to be busy…”

“I can imagine.” She tried not to sound cynical.

“Don’t, Marie. This was special. You’re special.” He held
her shoulders, searching her face.

“And so are you.
Very,”
she told him.

They kissed and she left.

He moved to the window where he had waited for her to arrive
and watched her go.

She started the car, and looked up. She could just make out
his silhouette. She willed coldness into her heart as she gripped the steering
wheel. She would not miss him, it was just an affair, a glorious brief
encounter, but only that. She would never have her heart broken again. He
raised his hand. She turned the wheel; the car park had turned to slush as she
drove cautiously away.

Jack Buchanan never returned to
England. He was taken ill shortly after he and Isabelle had arrived at their
holiday home near Kelso and, following a brief stay in Borders General
Hospital, died peacefully in his sleep in the croft Isabelle had lovingly
restored ahead of his retirement.

Isabelle was stoical as ever when she spoke with Marianne on
the telephone; she was having a private burial for Jack and hoped Marianne
would stay in touch.

After their conversation, Marianne sat down at George’s old
desk and wrote out her resignation, in long hand, using her fountain pen. She
was not even going to go and clear her desk. She took her laptop, mobile phone,
and the letter to the Post Office and mailed the whole lot back to the
newspaper’s new managing director. She signed the docket for the recorded
delivery with a flourish.

A terse finale to her years at the Chronicle, she mused, but
the empire she had hoped to one day rule was no more. The ambition which had
driven her on had been driven away, and Jack’s demise felt like the final nail
in the coffin of her own career. She felt no loyalty to Global Communications
Inc. Most of her colleagues had left, and when she heard that Paul Osborne had
been made editorial director, it came as no surprise at all. Even with the news
of Jack’s death, a couple of paragraphs on page nine and then a brief,
humourless obituary the following day, Paul did not contact her. There had been
no communication between them at all and, in spite of everything, this saddened
her.

Oonagh, on the other hand, liked to keep in touch with
everyone, constantly, and it was while listlessly re-filing her emails on her
new laptop, that Marianne received a message from her favourite Irish landlady.
She was thrilled to read Oonagh cautiously announce that she had fallen
pregnant. This was one conversation Marianne did not want to have via email, she
wanted to hear the joy in Oonagh’s voice and share in the excitement. The news
touched her deeply, she was near to tears as she telephoned her long-distance
friend.

Within minutes, Marianne was assuring her everything would
work out this time, lecturing her about looking after herself and taking things
easy. Oonagh took it in good part; with Padar’s help they were going to do
everything they could to ensure this pregnancy had a happy outcome; they were
both nervously yet deliriously delighted. Then, having discussed the well-being
of their mutual acquaintances, Oonagh launched into her unofficial ‘Ryan
O’Gorman’ fan club update: the sets; the stars; the locations; she had all the
latest gossip, until finally stopping to draw breath, she said: