Reluctantly Charmed (38 page)

I had to look away: there was Anita, who’d clearly blossomed since third year, naked except for a strategically positioned Spanish book. “God!” I sat down. “Never thought I’d see that. What else is there?”

“Another article by your friend.” Matthew pointed at an
Irish Times
article by Maura Ni Ghaora.

“Eugh.” I sighed. “I don’t think I could bring myself to read that one. She was here, you know.”

Matthew raised an eyebrow.

“Doing research on the Red Hag, creeping around, asking questions. She didn’t seem to get very far with the locals, so I’m pretty sure she’s gone back to Dublin now.”

Matthew handed me another newspaper. “This paper is doing a cartoon series of you. Cute pictures.”

And they were, although I felt my hair was not as frizzy in real life as they’d drawn it.

“Sooo . . .” Matthew tugged awkwardly on his nose. “I kissed someone.”

I perked up. “Someone? Off the Internet?”

He shook his head.

“A stranger?”

Another headshake.

I slapped my thighs in delight. “It’s someone we know, isn’t it?”

He nodded, blushing.

“Brilliant. Oh my God, is it work?”

Another nod.

“This is great! Lots of people meet their partners at work.”

And so began a name-guessing game that could only lead to Rumpelstiltskin as I listed off all likely contenders to much headshaking.

“This is ridiculous,” I said after the three-hundredth name. “I’ve gone through everyone in the building who I know, and I know everyone you know. Who is it?”

He took a deep breath. “Don’t judge, but I like her. Marjorie.”

“Nooooooooooooooooooo! But she’s
Marjorie
.”

“I know. We had a few drinks after the shoot—after her crazy episode.”

Memories of Marjorie flailing around on the ground, trying to conjure up a spell and screaming “abracadabra” suddenly sprang to mind.

“We just ended up kissing.”

“Ahhh! You were drunk!”

“Maybe the first time. But not the second, third, or fourth time.”

“She’s your girlfriend.”

“We’re drifting that way, yeah.”

Somewhere between looking sheepish and embarrassed, there was a flicker of delight in Matthew’s eyes. I suppose Marjorie was a bit of a catch, if you could forget the fact that she was also a bit of a pain. I was still sore at her for having deliberately misled me about Hugh. What was it with my friends and their unlikely romances?

“She’s not as bad as you think she is. She’s actually really sweet.” He grinned, looking happy.

“Okay, great.” I didn’t really know what to say, but I knew enough to stay quiet and never judge a friend’s romantic choice. Matthew looked happy, which was all that really mattered.

That afternoon Matthew, Fiona, Lily, and I took off on a hike. We were a happy little troupe. Dressed in my disguise, which now included a huge pair of Jackie Onassis sunglasses for good measure, we ducked and dived to avoid the Anoraks, despite Fiona’s protests. I really enjoyed getting out into the countryside, breathing in the fresh air, feeling the soft ground beneath my feet, and letting the wind ruddy up my cheeks. It felt invigorating.

We spotted a handwritten sign flapping in the breeze for “The Magic Well” and went along to see it in action for ourselves. Instantly, I could see the appeal: perched on top of the hill, the well looked like something from a nursery rhyme, with circular
gray stone walls and a little roof. I could imagine Jack and Jill playfully dipping their pail in and out.

We stood about halfway up and watched as an orderly queue of people silently shuffled up the hillside toward it. Maura was there—so she wasn’t in Dublin after all. She was weaving in and out of everyone, trying to strike up conversation—fishing at the well. When people reached the well, they opened their mouths, shut their eyes, and crossed their hands in front of them as though they were about to receive holy communion. Then Vinny the van driver, with an air of reverence and caution never seen in his van driving, used a large silver spoon to drop a few drops of water into their mouths.

A few other enterprising individuals had set up stalls selling bottles of “Magic Well Water.” They were charging six euros for a tiny tumbler of the stuff—who knew whether they contained water that actually came out of the well or water from a kitchen tap.

I can’t say I was shocked when I spotted Garda Fitzgerald in the queue. Nothing surprised me these days. He seemed very serious. His look was one of intense concentration. He was out of uniform, but his wide-eyed Cavan stare was unmistakable. I wondered whether he had any news on my bike.

Garda Fitzgerald was not alone: he was chaperoning a group of five men, all with a similar look of serious concentration. Occasionally one would lower his hands to his crotch protectively. Garda Fitzgerald must have shared the spell with them.

Matthew nudged me. “Look at the crotch grabbers.”

Lily giggled and we watched as the people in front of and behind them inched farther away. It looked as if, having been cured of their problem “down there,” they were being extra protective and careful with the crown jewels for fear of running into any more difficulties. I could only guess they’d come to the magic
well to say thanks to the fairies for keeping everything in working order.

“Oh, it’s too funny.” I thought I might collapse with laughter.

Fiona pointed at a dark figure in the distance, loitering near the top of the hill. “Is that a priest?”

I strained my eyes to see. It was Father O’Brien, dressed all in black with his white collar peeping through. He appeared to be shaking his head and muttering something to himself.

He must hate this
, I thought. From what I’d heard, Father O’Brien was respected and liked in Knocknamee. He was a fair man, a good man. He didn’t judge, and Martin told me he was easy on the penance in confession. But whenever I’d seen him during the past few days, he’d been jumpy, irritable, and bad-tempered. He was one villager who didn’t seem to be enjoying the Steps.

33

“O
h, baby, you and me, our hearts are singing.”

What?

“Siiiiiiiiiiiiiiinging . . .”

What was going on? I rubbed my eyes and pushed back my duvet. I’d been having a sneaky afternoon nap.

“. . . the songs of you and me.”

The guitar strumming was getting even louder. I marched over to my bedroom window, parted the pink curtains, heaved the window open, and stuck my head out to see what all the commotion was about. Jim was on the street outside. His leather jacket was zipped up tightly, and an ocean-blue scarf was tied in a sloppy knot around his neck. He was playing a guitar, and his face was firmly cocked in the direction of my bedroom window.

“We can make it together so long as we siiiiiiiiiing . . .”

His eyes were closed, and he was wallowing in a Stevie Wonder head movement.

“. . . our songs of love . . .”

There were three people with him: a cameraman, a sound man, and a tiny woman who I guessed was the director. They circled him, observing, preening, coaxing.

“. . . loooooooove.”

I moved my elbows onto the windowsill and rested my chin on my hands, listening. A spattering of Anoraks gathered around Jim, pausing momentarily to enjoy the song, looking at the camera with confusion and eventually fumbling in their pockets for change for the busker.

More intense guitar playing followed. Jim’s face creased up in pain, and he jutted out his chin and gritted his teeth. Finally he opened his eyes as he strummed the final chord. Silence.

I shouted down to the top of his head, “I thought you’d turn up. Surprised it took you this long.” And quickly I ducked back and peeped out from behind the curtains, realizing I probably shouldn’t have stuck my head out like that. The Anoraks were everywhere.

He stretched his neck upward, and his wide grin enveloped me and the whole village of Knocknamee. “Kate!” He threw his arms out.

“And cut. That was perfect. Good work.” The elfin director slapped her hands together to emphasize a job well done. The cameraman unburdened himself of his heavy equipment. His large sound boom, looking like an oversized ear cleaner, toppled slowly to the ground. The tops of their heads converged together until Jim broke free and looked up at me again.

“Kate, are you over this shop? Can I come in?”

“Why not? It’s a free country,” I shouted back with as much sarcasm as I could muster. I threw on a pair of jeans and my now slightly grubby woolly sweater. I didn’t care what I looked like—this was typical Jim to turn up with a full TV crew and do this dramatic serenade.

I marched heavily down the stairs. As I reached the bottom I heard conversation in the shop.

“Is that so?” Martin’s tone was thick with skepticism.

“Yeah, we have the number one single and all the love and glory that goes with it, hey?”

“Well, I’ve never heard of you.”

“I bet your kids have.”

“Hmmm. And you’re a friend of Kate’s?”

“We go wa-a-ay back, man.”

“I’m surprised at that.”

“I wasn’t always a number one rock star.”

“I didn’t mean you.”

Martin wasn’t bothering to hide his disapproval, but it was apparent that, as always, Jim was oblivious to it anyway.

I burst through the shop door, anxious to put a stop to the conversation.

“Babe, you look awesome.” Jim crossed the shop floor in two strides and threw his arms around me. I pushed him away, aware that the embrace was probably for Martin’s benefit.

“Maybe we can get a cup of tea? Martin, would that be okay if we move to the pub area?” I stood tall and gestured toward the four stools at the far end of the bar.

Martin sighed heavily. “Well, I wouldn’t normally be open for another twenty minutes,” he said, tapping his wrist, “but I suppose, seeing as it’s tea and not alcohol, that’ll be fine.”

“Thanks.”

“There’ll be no alcohol, mind?” I’d never known Martin to be anything but friendly and hospitable, and I was surprised to see him bristling and suspicious. Jim and I sat up on two barstools. Moments later, Martin slid two mugs of tea in front of us before retreating to the far end of the counter, where he shook out the local newspaper and pretended to read it.

“So, Jim, how are you?” My aim was to be polite and ladylike
and to get it over with as quickly as possible. Jim looked good, though, in spite of the cold sore living on his mouth.

“Amazing. My life is just amazing.”

Martin rustled his newspaper.

“Did you see that crew out there? True. Life. Story.” He paused for effect. “My story, Kate. My crew. National television.” He sneezed loudly and held a tissue up to his nose, which I noticed was rubbed raw.

“Is that . . . ?”

“They follow me around, trying to get inside my head, which they’ll never do, but I can pretend. I’m a good actor. They come to band practice, photo shoots, all of it. Red Horizon is going to crack the States off the back of this. That’s why I just had to come here. You know, it makes sense. The song, Knocknamee—it makes sense to come here with the crew.”

It was always his career. “So all that singing outside, all that was for the cameras?” Why did I even ask? I knew it was for the cameras.

“Yeah, good bit of drama, wasn’t it? It was the director’s idea. I think we really nailed it, too.

“And the band is doing great. I mean, I think we’re really coming into our own, creatively, although we’re going to do a Burning Cradle cover, probably ‘The Depths of My Despair.’ People have been comparing me to Drake Chandler pretty much all my life, so it makes sense, you know? And this whole fairy thing, it ties in. A lot of those emo kids, the black-eyeliner crew, are finding solace in our music since Drake Chandler passed to the other side. We’re working on a new sound, a bit more electronic, New Agey . . .”

He slid into a world of beats and musical influences. I listened as he rambled on, enjoying the view but not the volume, studying
his gorgeous profile and following his hand as he slowly flicked a chestnut-brown curl from his eye.

My mind started to wander, and I began to feel annoyed at myself. I’d wasted a stupid amount of time on this guy, imagining and creating scenarios in my head that were never real, thinking his winks, his hugs, his smile meant something they didn’t. I’d had groupie sex. I laughed at the relief of finally understanding it all. He had completely played me.

“Everything’ll be in my documentary. Everything’s filmed. They’re following me around twenty-four/seven. They have complete editorial control—I’ve handed it over for the sake of art.”

I looked at him suspiciously. “This? Now? Are we being filmed?”

“Just don’t look out the window.” He grinned. “The director doesn’t like it when you look straight into the lens.”

I swiveled my stool around. There they were, like The Three Stooges, with a camera pressed up against the window.

I shook my head. “I don’t want to be filmed.”

“Yeah, yeah. Have you signed the rights to someone else?”

“No. Look, I don’t want to be filmed. You never asked me. You just presumed. You’ve done nothing but take liberties with me.” I was getting angry.

Jim looked confused. “Well, you’ll just have to sign a release form.”

And then I had an idea. A hell-hath-no-fury-like-a-woman-scorned idea. “They’re filming everything, yeah?” I stood up.

He smiled, delighted. “Do you want to go out and talk to them? God, they’d love that. That would really give an edge to the show. Yes.” He started muscling me toward the exit. I shook off his hand and swung open the shop door.

“Hi,” I shouted, giving a big dramatic wave to the camera crew. They were on me in a nanosecond, whirring and hovering.

Jim sidled up and, preening in front of the camera, placed an iron-clad arm around my shoulder. I bristled uneasily under his grasp.

“So, you two?” the elfin woman inquired. “It must be so great to be back together?”

Jim grinned, exposing every tooth, and slowly exhaled. “Hey, we’re just good friends.”

I stepped forward, shaking off his embrace, and looked directly into the camera, smiling and trying my best to sound breezy. “Well, of course we’re just good friends. What else could we ever be? But I’m so happy and so lucky to have such a great gay friend. You should try taking him shoe shopping—he’s a wonder. And I just hope one day he’ll find Mr. Right. He’s a catch, boys.” Then I spun on my heel, throwing a pale-faced Jim a look of ultimate triumph. He wouldn’t be having groupie sex for a long, long time.