Just Between Us (59 page)

‘Come on, Stella,’ said Nick when they were finished eating. ‘Let’s pay the bill.’

They strolled happily down the street again, and Stella
laughed when Nick kept asking her if she was tired or if she needed a rest. ‘I’m pregnant, not sick,’ she teased.

‘I know,’ he said, ‘but I want to take care of you.’

‘You will,’ she joked. ‘I’m going to be a tyrant when I get bigger. Although, on second thoughts, maybe I do need to rest now. You can be my slave and carry me.’

‘No problem. Will a fireman’s lift do?’ Nick supported Stella with one strong arm.

They were still laughing when they arrived where they’d met; outside Austyn’s jewellers.

Nick gently steered Stella towards the window she’d been standing at when he’d arrived.

‘Which one do you like?’ he asked softly.

Stella turned round and stared at him.

‘They make maternity wedding dresses, or so I believe,’ Nick went on. ‘Or we could wait till afterwards if you think your Aunt Adele might collapse with the shock of her niece walking down the aisle nine months pregnant.’

The image of Aunt Adele’s face was so delicious that Stella exploded with laughter.

‘Is that a no?’ he asked, grinning.

‘No, it’s a yes,’ she replied.

Holding hands, they walked into the shop.

An assistant shot out from behind the counter.

‘Sir, madam, may I help?’

‘We want to look at your engagement rings,’ announced Nick with pride in his voice.

‘Cushion number one,’ added Stella.

The salesman smiled. God, he loved his job.

Mike Hammond’s house sat in a small hollow in thirty acres of rolling hills. The house itself was a sprawling ranch-style building, and behind it were staff quarters, a stable block, a separate gym and garages for his collection of vintage cars. Tara knew this because the house and Mike’s second wife, a limpid-eyed Portuguese model, had been featured in a magazine recently. At the front of the house were two huge
paddocks and a couple of glossy-flanked chestnut horses grazed in one of them, raising their elegant heads to look inquisitively at Tara’s car as she drove past.

This was real money, Tara thought ruefully, aware that she’d blown her chance to ever touch such real money. Working on Mike’s friend’s script had been her chance to shine and because of everything that had been going on, Tara had found it to be one of the hardest jobs she’d ever worked on. The words that usually streamed from her brain in a seamless rush didn’t come. Instead, every rewrite was a painstaking effort with the result that Tara thought it was the worst work she’d ever done. Every line reminded her of the pain of Finn’s drinking and the stupidity of her fling with Scott Irving. If they ever did make the script into a film, which she thought was highly unlikely, Tara knew she’d never be able to bear looking at it without remembering this awful time in her life.

Mike’s assistant, Steve, took her through the house to a first-floor office with panoramic views of the countryside. With its rosewood furniture, exquisite Aubusson carpet and oil paintings on the walls, it wasn’t the sort of office she was used to. But then, Mike was a big name in Hollywood. He would probably be stunned to know that Tara worked on a laptop that sat on a hideous and cheap computer desk by her living room window.

‘Thanks for coming, Tara.’ Mike came in. He looked more casual than he normally did, dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt, as if he’d just been in the stables with his beloved horses. The Old Testament prophet image was less strong when he was out of his normal LA black ensembles.

He shook her hand. ‘Would you like something to drink?’

‘No.’ Tara herself was surprised at how vehement she sounded. ‘Sorry,’ she added. ‘Water would be lovely.’

‘For me too,’ he said to Steve.

‘You’ve a beautiful house,’ Tara said, recovering.

He grinned. ‘Not bad for a country boy from Galway,’ he said.

Tara grinned back. ‘You could say that.’

He motioned to her to sit and they faced each other from two vast cream sofas.

‘About the script,’ Mike began.

‘I’m really sorry,’ interrupted Tara. ‘I blew it, I know. This was a huge chance and I blew it. There’s been so much going on…’

‘What I was about to say was that I loved what you’ve done with the script,’ Mike commented.

Tara gazed at him. ‘You couldn’t, it was terrible. The characterisation was weak and I couldn’t manage to get it right.’

The door opened and Steve appeared silently. He laid a glass of water in front of each of them and went out again.

The nerves she’d managed to suppress up to now emerged and Tara took her glass and gulped back some water.

‘The original script was a crock of shit,’ Mike said. ‘Unsal-vageable, I’d have said, yet you managed to breathe real life into it. Yeah, sure there were places where it was flat but there were plenty of touches of sheer genius. You did that and I’m impressed.’

She gulped more water down.

‘That’s partly why I asked you here today. Some things have got to be done in person. Aaron tells me you’ve been having problems.’

‘Aaron?’ Tara felt as if her synapses were fried. What had Aaron to do with this?

Mike shrugged. ‘We go way back. We worked together in New York years ago.’

So that was how Aaron had known she was working with Mike Hammond.

‘I have a proposition for you but I need to know if you can take it on. I want you to come and work for me in LA.’

The only way Tara managed not to drop her glass was because she was holding it in a tight grip.

‘But if you’re having personal problems, you might not want to. I need to know and fast.’

‘To work on what?’

‘A movie script. It’s historical, which may turn you off because you like working on modern stuff but…’

‘No, I’d love it,’ said Tara. She could barely believe this. It was all she’d ever dreamed of: being offered a chance to go to LA and become a screen writer. Yeah, she knew that writers could be the lowest creature on the totem pole, but she didn’t care. This was the stuff of fairy tales.

‘That’s good but I need to know that you can handle it, that you’re not still going through this bad time you mentioned,’ Mike continued.

Tara wondered whether Aaron had a better idea of what was going on in her life than he pretended. He was astute enough to find out about the Scott Irving debacle; perhaps he knew about Finn too and had told Mike. Either way, she had to come clean.

‘My husband and I have split up.’ Saying it made her want to cry. Finn had disappeared, that was splitting up in every sense. She’d heard nothing from him for three weeks now.

‘So a change of scene would be good, right?’

Tara nodded. ‘A change of scene would be just what I need.’ If Finn wasn’t coming back, she might as well leave the country. Perhaps if she wasn’t constantly reminded of him, she’d begin to mend her shattered heart.

‘Congratulations.’ Mike held his glass up. ‘They say it’s bad luck to toast with water but I don’t drink, so what the hell.’

Tara held her glass up too and clinked it gently with Mike’s. ‘I don’t drink either,’ she said.

Tara stood at the door of the apartment complex and watched the storage lorry trundle off down the road. Her life was now boxed up and on its way to an anonymous lock-up somewhere until such time as Tara needed it again. She’d sent two big boxes off to Los Angeles and Mike promised that his people would make sure it all arrived in the condo they’d rented for her.

It still hadn’t quite sunk in that she was leaving Ireland.
There was a definite feeling of unreality to the whole experience, even though she’d gone through all the fond farewell palaver. She’d been to the riotous leaving party with her
National Hospital
colleagues and had been deeply relieved when Scott Irving hadn’t turned up. She’d driven out to Four Winds with the few remaining bits and bobs of Finn’s that he hadn’t taken that night when he left her.

Gloria had been noticeably absent, to Tara’s relief. Even though her animosity towards her mother-in-law had shifted down a few gears to pity, it didn’t mean that Tara actually wanted to meet her. Desmond had hugged her tightly and said he loved her, which made Tara feel worse than ever and she’d cried all the way home.

All that was left was the family get-together the following night in Kinvarra, and Tara hoped that she might feel excited about the trip by then. Rose was planning a beautiful dinner for the extended family, but Stella was worried that the celebration, complete with Tom and Nick, would upset Tara. ‘Are you up to it? Tom will be there and Nick, so just tell me if you’d prefer if they weren’t.’

‘I can’t mourn forever,’ Tara replied. ‘And I’d be one hell of a bitch if I was upset that my sisters had found love just because I haven’t.’

‘Oh, you know what I mean,’ said Stella. ‘You might prefer it to be just us.’

‘No, the more the merrier.’

Tara hadn’t been lying. She wasn’t upset by the fact that she’d be alone at her special dinner. Finn’s absence was something she had to get used to. After all, it was her fault. She deserved the penance.

She shut the door of the flat and looked around. It looked strangely empty without all the books, papers, CDs and assorted other junk. The rental company people were coming first thing in the morning to get the keys from Tara and they had prospective clients due in the afternoon. Renting the flat out was the only possible course of action because without Finn, she couldn’t sell it.

She clicked the kettle on to boil, made herself some tea and sat on the couch flicking through the TV channels. She was idly watching a rival soap when she heard a noise in the hall. She froze with terror, casting round frantically for a weapon; something to use against the intruders. They were in the hall, coming into the living room…

Suddenly Finn was at the door, wearing his battered old jeans and an unsure expression. They both stared at each other wordlessly.

‘Hi, Tara,’ said Finn.

She couldn’t move, she just kept staring at him, drinking him in after all this time. His hair was shorter and spikier and his face was thinner, like he’d been training too hard in the gym. And his eyes…she tried to work out what the look in his eyes said. Was he coming to collect the rest of his stuff and give her his lawyer’s name? Or, dare she hope, was it something else?

‘Say something,’ he muttered,’ don’t keep looking at me like that.’

‘Hello.’ Tara got up from the couch but felt too unsure to move towards him. What if she went to hug him and he shoved her away? She couldn’t bear that. A lone tear swelled up in one eye and she jabbed at it impatiently.

Finn stared around the room, taking in the bare shelves, the lack of photos and everyday detritus. ‘What’s happened to all the stuff?’

‘I’m moving out,’ Tara said, watching him carefully. ‘I’ve arranged to have it rented out. I didn’t know what else to do.’

Finn slumped against the wall. ‘Moving out, huh? To live with him?’

Confusion reigned in Tara’s mind. To live with whom? Mike Hammond? ‘Don’t be silly, he asked me to work on a script…’ she began before suddenly she understood what Finn was asking. Was she moving out to live with whoever she’d slept with. Was she moving out to live with Scott Irving. It was so laughable, so utterly ridiculous, that Tara
burst into laughter, a sort of high-pitched giggle that sounded odd even to her ears. ‘No, don’t be silly.’

‘What’s silly about thinking that?’ he asked quietly.

Tara decided that one of them had to take the initiative. She moved closer to him, and leaned on the edge of the couch, just two feet away from where he stood.

‘It’s silly because that was a huge mistake when I was distraught about what was happening to us. I love you, Finn, there’s never been anyone else for me, but I made a mistake. I’m moving out because I got a job offer abroad. I didn’t know what else to do because I’m…I’m…’ The words just wouldn’t come. Tara wanted to tell Finn that there was nobody else and that she loved him with all her heart but it had happened again. Just when she needed to be able to pick the perfect words to tell him how she felt, her mind seized up and she felt tongue tied. Ironic for a woman who worked with words. ‘Heartbroken,’ she tried, hating saying it because it sounded like such a cliché. Yet clichés worked, if they were true. ‘I’m heartbroken because you left me and I can’t stop thinking about you and how we could do it differently if you came back.’ She ran out of steam and words.

Finn was still watching her, his face unreadable, his eyes opaque.

‘You talked to Fay,’ he said.

She nodded.

‘She said that you still loved me even though you told her about my alcoholism.’

Tara’s breath stilled. Finn had never used that word before.

He smiled, a weak little smile. ‘Yes, I said it. Alcoholism. I am an alcoholic.’ His eyes were no longer opaque: blue and anxious, they found hers, spearing into her soul. ‘Do you still love me?’

For her answer, Tara lunged at him, wrapped her arms round his body and clung on. ‘Oh, Tara,’ he cried, his face buried in her hair, then his lips were on hers and they were
kissing wet kisses as tears ran down Tara’s face. ‘I love you.’

‘I love you too,’ she sobbed, ‘but never, never leave me again.’

When their tears were spent, they sat hand in hand on the couch and Finn told her where he’d been. It wasn’t a rehab clinic in the strictest sense of the word but a slightly New Age place run by a recovered alcoholic who wanted to give something back. You paid to stay in one of his rooms, you worked on the small organic farm he ran, and you went to AA meetings every day. Nobody was ever allowed to stay twice. It was a one-off deal. You cured yourself and there were no second chances.

When Finn had stormed off, he’d thought of going there but had been too angry. Only after a two-day bender, had he made the decision. ‘I couldn’t call you, I needed to see if I could stop,’ he said, ‘or it would have been wrong to come back. I couldn’t ruin your life too.’

‘You could have told me you were all right,’ Tara said, remembering the pain of wondering where he was. ‘I thought you were dead in a ditch somewhere.’