Reluctantly Charmed (7 page)

Maura moved to shake my hand, and I noticed that she was wearing shiny black satin gloves, evening-wear style, that went to her wrist, a sliver of which was exposed as fine-boned and lily-white as she reached forward. She wore a gold signet ring on her little finger, with what looked like a ruby in its center.

“Dia dhuit.”
Maura’s voice purred with undertones of friendliness, but her sky-blue eyes were expressionless.

I raised my eyebrows at that one, and a knee-jerk reaction fell out of my mouth.
“Dia is Muire dhuit.”
“God be with you” and “God and Mary be with you” are the literal translations of the Irish greeting and response—not something many people ever say or use.

“How great to meet
the
Kate McDaid.” Maura smiled, revealing a mouthful of perfectly straight white teeth. I shot a look at Jim, who settled back into his plastic chair and shrugged.

“Hi,” I mumbled, before starting to chew the skin around my fingernails.

“I was just speaking with Jim about how interesting this all is.” Maura spoke slowly, choosing her words. “These Steps. This gift that you have. This insight into the fairies.”

“Well, I don’t think I have an insight into the fairies. I mean, I don’t even really believe that there
are
fairies. I mean, I don’t mind looking at flowers and everything, but I don’t think you’d say that I had an insight.” I was babbling incoherently.

“Shhhhhh.” She patted down the air with her hands and closed her eyes. “You mustn’t speak like that, Kate. They’re listening. They’re always listening.”

I gulped loudly and then found myself apologizing to the empty space in the room.
Oh dear
, I thought,
this has been an unusual week, what with whistling to plants and now talking to thin air, hoping not to offend it
.

“This is all very new to me. I’m not sure what to think,” I said. I was feeling muddled and confused.

“Did you ever get your fortune told?” she asked coolly, looking me up and down.

I shook my head.

“Horoscopes?” She clicked her fingers determinedly.

“Yeah, I read them all the time.”

“Do you believe them?”

“When they say what I want them to say.” I blushed and glanced quickly at Jim, thinking how, that morning, I’d read: “A person from your past has the power to dramatically alter your future. For the better.”

“You can’t see how your star sign works?”

“Well, it’s written in front of me in a magazine.”

“And what’s this? This is in front of you.” She produced a brown leather folder from her handbag and carefully opened it to reveal the Step and the letter, neatly printed out on cream paper. Certain words were highlighted.

“Here, you see.” She pointed at words. “Young Kate. Red hair.” She leaned across the table, staring intently at me, and musk-scented perfume wafted over me as she got closer. “It is you. The fairies want you. They’re using you . . .”

“No,” I interrupted. “No, no, no. I’m the same person I was last week. Honestly. I have not been fairy-struck. I mean, I think I’d know. It sounds painful.”

Maura sat very still, staring at me for too long. I saw her hands clench, almost imperceptibly. “That’s fine, Kate. I understand. You’re not there yet. It will come. There will be an awakening for you.”

“You’re scaring me now,” I said, only half joking.

“They are the keepers of great secrets and answers.” She smiled at me, but I noticed her eyes wandering, as if she was looking for something or someone around me. “May I ask, has anything been different since the letter arrived?”

“No,” I lied, thinking about how I’d said good morning to the plant on my desk, waved at a magpie without realizing, and
was now about to have a cup of coffee with my
what if
guy. “All exactly the same.”

“Strange. I would have thought there’d be a shift in some way. There will be. They’re an ancient race. They don’t step into our realm without there being disruptions.” She looked at me calmly, her blue eyes unnerving me. “They have answers,” she said again, lifting her hands, dreamlike, to her face and running the tips of her gloved fingers delicately around her eyes.

“Was there . . . ?” She breathed deeply then smiled tightly. “Was there any mention of Tír na nÓg?”

“Tír na nÓg?” The land of eternal youth. I remembered it from stories as a kid. If you went there, and you only got there through a wild adventure or if a fairy brought you, you never aged, you never died, and you lived a life of absolute pleasure. Only a few mortals had crossed into it, or so the story went.

She nodded.

“That’s kids’ stuff, isn’t it?”

“Quite the opposite.”

“Why would there be a mention of Tír na nÓg? No, there’s nothing about that.”

“If there is . . .” She sucked in a breath. “Could you keep me informed?” She flashed a wide smile and handed me a cream business card.

I took it, nodding and shaking my head at the same time. “I doubt there’ll be anything about that here, but thanks.”

Maura smoothed down her hair. “I should leave now. I have work to do.”

She stood up and shook my hand again. “It’s been an honor. Thank you so much, and look out for my piece in
The Times
the day after tomorrow.”

“
The Times
?”
The Irish Times
is a serious newspaper that
exposes corrupt politicians and budget deficits, and is the bible for Ireland’s elite decision makers. I didn’t even think it had a music section. I’d have thought music was too fluffy for it. I sat back down again. “I thought you were from
Hot Press
or
Music in Dublin
.”

Maura shook her head and looked at Jim. “No,
The Times
. It’s read by opinion makers. It has a lot of sway.” She looked at me seriously. “I have the ear of many influential people.”

I nodded.

“Your story is of great interest to some of these people. Powerful people. They’ll be watching you, and they could be upset if this is not brought to completion.”

I must have looked confused, because she quickly changed tactics and pulled an uneasy smile.

“It’s just . . .” and she trailed off, deciding not to elaborate. “I’ll leave now.” And she nodded at me, as if she’d made her mind up about something.

Jim accompanied her to the door. I watched her glide out and immediately place a phone to her ear on exit.

AlJo slid over to the table, unshaven and sweaty. “She, eh, she won’t mention this place, will she?” His eyes darted toward the back kitchen. “I don’t want the publicity, you know?”

I told him I’d do my best to ensure anonymity. AlJo’s could remain ours alone for a little while longer.

I picked up a saltshaker and put it down again. I was surprised that my hands were trembling.
Just relax
, I thought,
calm down
. I kept biting my nails and tried to dehunch my shoulders. What did he want? What was I doing here?

Jim came back to the table, grinning. He sat across from me and stretched his long arm over the seat beside him. He eyed me with the intensity of a Tom Cruise stare. “So, how are you?”

“Great, great. You?”

Now, if I’m honest, I expected the same response. Conversations in Ireland follow a certain pattern. There are no exceptions:

“How are you?”

“Great. You?”

“Grand.”

“Any
craic
?” (
Craic
, pronounced “crack,” is the Irish word for fun and not, as you might have thought, a highly addictive street drug.)

“Not much. Yourself?”

“Divil a bit.”

“Nothing strange, so?”

“Nah, nothing really. You?”

“Well, now that I think of it . . .”

And then you’re off. The conversation is officially allowed to start. Anything that moves at a faster or more aggressive pace is considered rude. Conversation needs to warm up and get slowly lubricated before the chat fires up. So I nearly fell out of my chair when Jim prematurely launched into the conversation.

“It’s great, isn’t it?” he gushed. “
The Times?
It’s such great publicity for the band.”

“Yeah, it’s brilliant for you. Strange fit, though,
The Times
?”

“Publicity is publicity. She contacted me out of the blue on Tuesday.”

The same day I posted the letter and the first Step, I thought.

“This could make such a difference to Red Horizon. We need the push.” He was practically skipping in his seat.

“You don’t think she’ll mention me, do you?”

“Nah. You don’t mind, do you?”

“Absolutely not.”

“That was a good interview. She’s a fan of our music. Often
the journos aren’t, you know? They just get sent out by their editor and they’re not into it. But she’s into it.”

“She didn’t look like one of your typical fans.” Maura’s ice-cool demeanor, her age, her suit . . . Normally Jim’s fans are hysterical seventeen-year-old girls, looking to whip off their clothes to show him their tattoo.

“We’re such a diverse band, our fan base is that broad.” He held his arms out wide to emphasize “that.”

“That’s great,” I said, trying to sound like I could be a supportive girlfriend to a rock star if the opportunity arose.

“Yeah, it is great.”

And then there was a pause, a heavy silence. We both looked around the room. One question swam uneasily around my mind. What did he want?

“We, em . . .” Edgy, he looked over my head, out the window, peered into the back kitchen at the mafioso. “We need the publicity. We’re in a bit of trouble with the record company, you know?”

I didn’t know. And I definitely didn’t know what this had to do with me.

“They don’t think we have the edge anymore. They’re downgrading us. Which is bollocks.” He clenched his fists. “We’re just starting, you know?”

There was no skin on my fingernails left to chew.

“This stuff. These Steps.” His head was turned to the side, and he was straining his eyes to see the far wall. He tapped his foot. “They could help us. It’s new, it’s an edge, it could be something different. Nothing might come of it, but, at the same time, something might. I mean, you see Maura, she’s into it. Kate, can you help us? Help me?” He stopped. He shifted in his seat and turned toward me.

Breathe and pause.
I sank a bit. I felt that heavy weight of being let down, disappointed once again by the dating merry-go-round. He didn’t want me. He wanted fairies, he wanted publicity, he wanted his band.

“Sure,” I said quietly.

“I mean, you wouldn’t have to do anything. Just, you know, keep putting them up on our site, and like, if it’s okay with you . . .”

I nodded in agreement, not even knowing what he was going to ask.

“If it came up in interviews, I could mention it?”

I was still nodding.

“And maybe you could, you know . . .” He said “you know” a lot. I didn’t know anything. “. . . tell me about Kate McDaid?”

I knew he wasn’t talking about me. “Em, well . . .” My voice was soft and quiet. “Thing is, I don’t know anything about her. You know as much as I do.”

He looked at me, disbelieving.

“But my dad is investigating. We’re trying to find out more.” I eyeballed him and held his gaze.

He smiled. His shoulders dropped and rested back against his seat. “Thanks.” He took a quick gulp of his coffee (black, two sugars). “Matthew’s okay, yeah?” He was moving the conversation back into more normal territory, away from fairies and failing rock bands.

“He’s great. We’re working on a campaign that’s slowly going belly up—Starshoot. You know the chocolate bar?” Why was I talking about this? I should have been talking about music and bands and him. Me and him. Could there be a me and him? Could I make a last-ditch attempt at a me and him? Should I even try? My gut instinct told me to walk away from this. He was not interested.

His eyes glazed. “Sure.”

“Well, it’s going pretty badly, and we have this terrible client. It’s all a bit of a nightmare.” Still I couldn’t stop. I should stop. Stop talking about this.

“Sure.”

“He’s German, and all German-like.” Did I think I was cracking a joke? What was that? What’s “German-like”?

“Sure.” He finished his coffee. “Kate, I’ve gotta shoot. Got a rehearsal this afternoon.” He stood up, leaned across the table, and put his hand on my shoulder. He looked into my eyes. “Thanks, thanks for everything.”

“Sure,” I croaked.

He swaggered toward the door. Just as he was about to push it open he turned around and shouted: “That color blue really suits you.”

And in an instant, I felt the same way I knew my mam would feel if she ever managed to meet Julio Iglesias. Magical.

Don’t Look Back in Anger

by Maura Ni Ghaora

In the far field of my grandfather’s farm in Gweedore, Donegal, grew a fairy thornbush. It was a whitethorn bush that flowered in the summer and withstood the winds of winter, a whitethorn bush that was said to be the home of a fairy, a mischievous fellow who was not to be disturbed. As children on summer visits, my brothers and I would dare each other to touch it, to see if we could see him. We never did.