The Hollow Heart (The Heartfelt Series) (21 page)

“Exactly!” Ryan combed his hair; he had become accustomed to
the greying temples. “How long before I have to make a decision?”

“What’s to decide?” Larry was beside himself.

Ryan flashed him a look.

“Okay, okay, I’ll see what I can do time-wise, but I have to
tell you there’s an awful lot of pressure out there and Lena’s got her finger
in the dam right now. It could blow any minute.”

Ryan started gathering sheets of script from around the room,
pointedly placing them in a neat pile by the bed.

“Enough! Let’s go eat,” Larry acquiesced, pulling off the
marigolds.

The atmosphere, not five
minutes away in Weathervane, was equally tense. Paul was using a game of tug of
war with Monty as an excuse to avoid eye contact with Marianne.

Marianne was hoping that her all-engrossing tea-making might
give Paul enough time to decide which words to use and in which order to use
them. She gave up.

“How did you know where I was?” she asked.

“I remembered your Aunt and Uncle in Dublin. I rang them,
they said Innishmahon.”

“You could just have phoned, no need to come all this way.”
She indicated the ancient telephone on the table in the hallway.

“I needed to see you.”

“Obviously.”

Silence.

Marianne was saddened. When had things become so strained
between them? They took their tea out to the garden. Marianne perched on what
was left of the wall. An old pallet stood where the gate had been, to prevent
Monty from wandering. Paul surveyed the devastation.

“Of course,” he said, “the storm. Wow! Amazing. You were
lucky. Everyone was, really.”

She looked at him over her cup, raising her eyebrows.

“Well, the thing is, I’m getting married.”

“Congratulations, again.”

“No, no, that’s not what I meant. I meant, well, it changes
things.”

“Of course.” She nodded, encouragingly.

“Well, you know, the wedding, honeymoon, deposit for a
house, that kind of thing.”

“Paul, what is it? Do you need money? What?”

“No. Well, yes. Well, anyway, I’ve written a book. It’s a
series of articles, really, and I’ve sold it. Well, I’m about to sell it.”

“You want me to edit it, is that it?”

“Yes. Well, no, not now. But I wanted you to know.” He was
turning a box of matches, repeatedly, between finger and thumb, the rattle of
the wooden sticks inside the cardboard driving her to distraction.

“What’s it about, the book? These articles?”

He pushed the innards of the box too far and the matches
spilled over the ground.

“The ‘Power 2 The People’ Awards, the terrorist attack, the
escape, rebuilding lives, you know, that sort of thing.”

“Interesting. Well, I suppose your account would be as
credible as anyone else’s.” She folded her arms. “There’s been some rubbish
written, over-dramatised, sentimental tripe, a lot of it. What perspective?”

“Just personal, my own account.”

“I get a mention?”

“Of course, but not much, not lots of detail about you, you
wouldn’t want that.”

“And Ryan, he gets a mention?”

“Well, yes, sort of. Again, not loads.”

“Fair enough, is that it then?”

He avoided eye contact. Marianne took the cups into the
kitchen.

“I need to shower before we go and eat.”

He stood in the doorway.

“Not quite it,” he said. “I’ve been offered a new job. Your
job, really.”

“Really? Jack never…”

“Jack’s off the scene. Sick leave. The new boys have moved
in on the top floor. Big changes. I’ve a letter for you. I believe they’ve put
you on garden leave.”

She ignored the pale blue envelope he put on the table.

“You
believe
? And the series of articles about the
bombing? Is that part of your promotion package?”

“Sort of.”

“They didn’t waste any time.”

“The newspaper’s losing a lot of money. They’re
restructuring.”

Marianne turned to look at him; she considered aliens had
taken over her former colleague.

“Like I said, I need a shower.” She left him retrieving the
now-useless matches from the sodden grass.

Oonagh had rallied,
resplendent in a frilly yellow blouse and peacock blue eye shadow. She was
almost as technicolour as Miss MacReady, who wore a scarlet and purple gown;
layers of tulle swirling around her knees, and American tan tights, teamed with
a sensible pair of brogues, it was a wet old night, after all. The Donegal
tweed cap, slapped on the back of her head, matched Larry Leeson’s coat,
perfectly.

“Perhaps you’d like to make me an offer?” Miss MacReady asked
clipping and unclipping huge hoop earrings to her lobe, flirtatiously.

“One you can’t refuse?” joked Larry.

“God, who could refuse that accent?” She pushed her empty
glass into his hand, as she swished off to the ladies.

The pub was fairly full and there was a buzz to it. Quite a
few people had taken the first ferry back to the island that morning to seek
out relatives and friends, and to gauge the impact of the storm on the small
community. There was a general sense of relief, things could have been a lot
worse and, at times, the mood was bordering on celebratory, especially as no
loss of human life had been recorded. And yet a tangible air of gloom seemed to
hang over one particular table.

“Alright here, are we?” Oonagh could see this was far from
the case. Miss MacReady had given Oonagh every detail of the telephone
conversation with her sister earlier that day, the sister who owned the bed and
breakfast on the mainland and who had in turn recounted Larry and Paul’s
sojourn at her guesthouse. Oonagh was intrigued. Marianne did the
introductions.

“Isn’t it great that you all found one another?” said
Oonagh. “I mean, you coming all the way from England and America, looking for
the other two.” She indicated Ryan and Marianne. “And you two here, and didn’t
know each other were here at all. Even though you knew each other, if you see
what I mean?” She served grilled fish and fresh salad. The ferry had brought
supplies and the fish had been caught that morning. “Imagine that. What a
coincidence?”

“Sure is,” Larry agreed, “small world.”

“And it’s about to get even smaller,” Ryan mumbled under his
breath.

Marianne surmised his news had been as disturbing as hers.

The conversation during the meal started off innocuously
enough. Marianne assured Larry she and Ryan had not planned to meet up on the
island, despite how it looked. Ryan quizzed Paul about his book, until he asked
why he had come all the way to Innishmahon to effectively tell his boss he was
taking her job. Paul was put out.

“Well, that’s what it sounds like to me.” Ryan had barely
touched his food, and was on his fourth glass of wine.

“It’s not really Marianne’s job,” said Paul, “the column
needs more of a high profile, celebrity focus. With Jack retired and Marianne
on unauthorised sabbatical, the new directors had no choice.”

“I think you’ll find Jack authorised my sabbatical,”
Marianne said quietly.

“No Jack, no authority.” Paul looked at the table.

“What will you do?” Ryan asked Marianne.

“Not sure. It’s probably time for a change anyway.” She had
not eaten very much either.

“Well, be cautious, Paul, if you have decided to take on the
mantle of a celebrity-gossip column reporter, any I have ever known – and I’ve
known a few – were both reviled and adored at the same time,” warned Larry,
busily piling Ryan’s abandoned potatoes onto his plate.

“That’s good advice, Paul. You’d have few friends and many
enemies.” Ryan looked him in the eye.

“But plenty of money,” Paul tried to make a joke of it, “I
have a supermodel fiancé, who is – how do you say? High maintenance.”

Marianne put her glass down. “Not the nurse?”

“Times change,” Paul offered.

“Ah, why didn’t you say? I know what that’s like.” Ryan
sounded bitter.

“And what of you, and the new role? Fantastic news! You’ll
be an instant superstar!” said Paul. Larry beamed with pride.

“Yeah, just when I thought I’d missed the boat.” Ryan was
unenthusiastic.

“I don’t know, you rescue us from a bomb attack, save this
island from disaster and now you’re off to be a superhero – life imitating
fiction!”

Ryan leaned across the table and gripped Paul’s hand as it
held his fork.

“That’s all absolute bullshit and you know it. If I ever
discover you’ve written anything so crass, I will find you and rip your heart
out, Zara’s brother, or not.” And releasing his hand, he gave Paul his most
dazzling smile. “It’s people like you, who make people like me, want to go and
live down a hole or, sometimes, even blow our brains out.”

Paul was ashen. Marianne squeezed Ryan’s hand. She knew he
was referring to one of his oldest friends, an acclaimed Shakespearean actor,
who, in the 1980s, following a scandal revealing his, up to then, secret
homosexuality, had shot himself.

“Hey, don’t tar us all with the same brush,” Paul said
weakly.

Ryan blinked, remembering where he was. He gave the lopsided
grin he saved for apologies.

“I think we could all do with an early night,” announced
Larry.

“Why? When have we got to go back?” Ryan asked.

“First thing in the morning, the sooner we get this show on
the road, the better.”

“Oh.” Marianne and Ryan said together.

The couple on the beach
with the white dog matched each other stride for stride as they strolled along
the shoreline. The waves, the final breath of breakers out to sea, merely
shushed towards their feet. Monty trotted in the wet sand beside them, nose in
the air, studiously ignoring the playful call of the ripples at his paws. He
sniffed upwards. The wind was changing.

She viewed Ryan, sideways, the bluish grey of the sea
reflected in his eyes, as the breeze lifted the hair from his brow. He was
frowning, he was also clean-shaven, freshly showered and smartly turned out.
Casually elegant, she would have said, if she were writing a piece. Designer
jeans, classic deck shoes, mushroom-coloured nubuck jacket, pale blue chambray
shirt, ready for the city, but still a little at sea.

 His mouth let him down, the lips pulled taut in a thin,
purple line, no movie star smile today. He shoved his hands deeper into his
pockets. She nudged him hard, knocking him off balance. The purple line
collapsed and a smile broke free.

“God, it can’t be that bad. It’s amazing news really. It
means everything, surely?” She poked him. “I’m thrilled for you, I really am,
you deserve this success and you’ll be great in the role.”

He smiled and gave a little shrug.

“It’s been one hell of a long apprenticeship and, don’t get
me wrong, I know I’ll probably never win an
Oscar
, and besides...” he
bent down and pointed at the top of his head, “how long do you think I’m going
to hold onto my hair?”

She started to laugh. He pointed at his scalp again.

“Come on, how long? Serious question,” he was smiling, not a
serious question at all.

“I don’t know. But can’t they do weaves and transplants and
all sorts of things these days?”

“They can, but that’s just so much bullshit. I hate that
about this business, a hairpiece here, a tuck there, and then a complete new
body and your own mother wouldn’t recognise you.”

“Surely you exaggerate?”

“No way, that’s why I’ve agreed a three-year deal, and I’m
out. I’ll do something else, something where I can be me, just me, how and with
whom I want.” He stepped forward and wrapped her in his arms. “With the woman
of my dreams. The love of my life.” He gave her a sideways look.

Marianne turned away, embarrassed. He released her.

 “What utter bollocks!” She laughed, the wind whipping her
hair and making her jacket flap. She skipped ahead of him. Monty took her cue
and joined in the jig. Ryan strolled on.

“It’s not the end, you know, the end of our screenplay. In
fact, it’s even better if I am a world famous movie star, because they’ll make
the film of my script even if it’s shite.”

She stopped and faced him.

“You wouldn’t want them to make shite. Not with your name on
it. It’s not shite anyway. I’ll make sure of that.”

He was laughing now, hands on hips, the surf rising as he
laughed out to sea.

“We’ll see,” he told the ocean.

They walked on towards the opening in the cliff that led to
the cove. He put his hand out to shake hers and, as she took it, she leaned
forward to kiss him goodbye. She somehow missed his cheek and caught his nose
with her front teeth. He jumped back. She dropped his hand. Monty leapt up to
lick his fingers. Ryan tried to pat him down with the other hand, caught it in
the hood of Marianne’s sailing jacket and, tripping over a rock, took them all
with him as he fell, hitting the sand with a thud, writhing on the beach, in a
pile of smart clothing, old sailing gear and white dog hair.

That weird crowd carrying on again, Sean Grogan thought to
himself, from his usual vantage point.

Ryan clambered free and pulled her upright.

“For god’s sake woman, there is always some sort of disaster
underway when you are around.” They brushed sand off each other. “Larry will
kill me if I get messed up. The image, you know, smooth and sophisticated from
now on.”

“I know.” She smoothed his hair back. “It is only an image
though, remember? Keep it like that, and you’ll be fine.”

He caught her hand and kissed her wrist.

 “Thank you,” he said into her skin.

Pat MacReady’s taxi pulled into the lay-by above them on the
road. The ferry was waiting to leave. The horn sounded and Larry appeared,
making hurry-up gestures with his arms. Paul was already in the taxi, he had
spent the night in the pub, managing to avoid Marianne, completely.