That Gallagher Girl (10 page)

‘Yes. This was our holiday home.'

‘What brings you back to Lissamore?'

‘My dad has bought a house just down the beach.'

‘No shit! What made him decide to sell up here and move down the beach?'

‘Well, it's a business move, really. He's bought an oyster farm.'

‘So he's moving here permanently?'

A sorrowful look clouded Izzy's beautiful blue eyes. ‘Yes.'

‘But presumably you're not.'

‘No. I live in Dublin.'

Cat gave Izzy the benefit of her best smile and waited for her next gambit.

‘Is . . . is Finn coming to live here full time?' asked Izzy.

Cat shrugged. ‘You know Finn. He's a bit of a nomad. What about you? Are you staying here for long?'

‘No. I'm driving back tonight. I can't take any more time off work.'

‘Shame,' lied Cat. ‘What do you do?'

‘I work in marketing.'

Cat affected her most fascinated expression.

‘And you? What do you work at?' asked Izzy.

‘When I'm not cleaning swimming pools?' Cat gave a merry little laugh, and waved a hand airily at her artwork. ‘I'm an artist.'

‘Are these your paintings?'

‘Yes.'

‘They're beautiful. They're really beautiful.' Izzy took a step towards the sheets of cut-up wallpaper that Cat had used to paint on when she'd run out of canvas. ‘This is really special,' she said, indicating a riotous mass of acrylic paint that Cat had somehow managed to put manners on. It was a depiction of the view beyond the window, of Coolnamara Bay at sundown with Cat's tiny trademark Catgirl sitting on a cloud in the corner.

‘Yeah. It's a cutie, all right,' said Cat, carelessly.

‘I'd love to buy this for my dad,' said Izzy. ‘How much do you charge?'

‘Seven hundred and fifty euros.'

‘Will you take a cheque?'

Shit.
Shit!
Why hadn't she rounded it up to a grand? ‘If you make it out to cash.'

‘I have cash, actually, if you'd prefer.'

Had this Isabella Bolger descended from heaven? Cat watched dreamily as Izzy delved into her big blue bag and produced a blue suede wallet.

‘But I only have five hundred euro notes.'

Cat pretended to think about it. ‘What's a couple of hundred euro between friends? Five hundred is cool,' she said, finally.

Izzy handed over a banknote and Cat stuffed it into the pocket of her heavy-duty overalls, resisting the temptation to inspect it. A Bin Laden, no less! (since everyone knew what it looked like, but no one had ever seen one). Moving to the wall, she peeled away the masking tape and handed the painting to Izzy.

‘Thank you.' Izzy held the acrylic at arm's length and gazed at it, and as she did, Cat saw her beautiful eyes start to pool with tears. ‘This is the view Dad loves most in the world. But – but he won't be able to see it, because the Bentley is parked behind the cottage. If he wants to see the view, he's going to have to actually go into that horrible place. At least, with this, he can look on his . . . his favourite view any time he likes.'

Cat watched in fascination as the tears started spilling onto Isabella's cheeks. This girl was completely barking! ‘I can let you have more views,' she said. ‘I got some canvases yesterday. I could do you loads more, no problem.'

‘Thank you,' said Izzy, smiling at Cat through her tears.

‘I could do a whole series,' said Cat. ‘For a special bargain price.'

‘That's really kind of you. I'll have a think and get back to you. What's your email? Or can I contact you via your website?'

‘The website's under construction. You could just write care of “Coral Mansion”.'

‘“Coral Mansion”?'

‘That's what this house is called now.'

‘And your name is . . .? I'm so sorry, I've just realised that we haven't introduced ourselves yet. I'm Isabella Bolger.'

‘Cat Gallagher,' said Cat, taking Izzy's proffered hand and shaking it vigorously. She hoped Izzy would go now, before Finn came back. ‘And, heavens above and all that jazz! Is that the time? I was meant to phone my agent about my forthcoming exhibition.'

‘Oh! Where's it to be? Dublin?'

‘No. Barcelona.'

‘Oh, how lovely! I adore Barcelona. You might send me an invite? Any excuse, you know, to visit my favourite city.'

‘Yes, I will.'

‘Let me give you my card.' Izzy produced the blue wallet again, and slid out an embossed business card which was, to Cat's surprise, not blue.

‘Thanks.' Without looking at it, Cat stuffed the card in her pocket where it joined the five hundred euro note. How she loved the feeling as her fingers made contact with the cash! ‘Well, Isabella. It was nice meeting you.'

‘Yes. Say hello to Finn for me.'

‘I will. Goodbye. I don't need to show you the way out, I guess, since you used to live here.'

‘No. I can let myself out.'

Go, go,
go
!

‘But might you have an elastic band or something, so that I can roll the painting up and keep it safe?'

‘An elastic band? No. Um, hang on.'

Cat ran into the downstairs loo and unravelled yards of Kitten Soft. Then she returned to the sitting room and handed Izzy the cardboard loo-roll tube. ‘Roll it up and put it in that,' she said. ‘I hope your dad enjoys it. Now, goodbye.'

‘Goodbye,' said Isabella uncertainly. And then she turned and left the Villa Felicity through the back door just as Finn breezed through the front.

‘What's all that bog roll doing spilling out of the downstairs loo?' he demanded, poking his head around the sitting room door.

‘I was experimenting with an idea for an avant-garde installation,' said Cat. ‘Welcome home, Finnster! Did you get the T-bones?'

Chapter Seven

Keeley's lime green Ford Ka bumped along the track that led to the Crooked House, and pulled up outside the front door. Extracting the key card from the ignition, she slid out of the driver's seat and eased herself into a stretch. High on a branch of a silver birch, a blackbird was singing its throaty, liquid song; another took up the refrain from across the lake, and from somewhere to the rear of the house, a cockerel was crowing. Keeley hadn't heard a cock crow since the days when, as a child, she'd holidayed in the cottage on the west coast that now belonged to her, the cottage she was to lay claim to tomorrow. She stood looking around at the bucolic splendour that surrounded the Crooked House – the woods, the hills, the lake – then turned her attention to the residence itself.

It was like an illustration in a children's picture book, all terra-cotta chimney pots and mullioned windows and timber frames. It looked as if it might be full of priest holes and secret chambers and passages. It was the kind of house a child would love to explore, the kind of house in which you might never get found in a game of hide-and-seek, the kind of house in which you wouldn't want to listen to ghost stories too late at night.

When she had done her online research, Keeley had learned that, before marrying Hugo, Ophelia Gallagher had spent many years living in the vibrant heart of London, in an apartment in Covent Garden. She wondered how a woman who had spent half a lifetime hanging out in a quarter famous for its restaurants, pubs and theatres had adapted to this remote country retreat. It seemed to Keeley that, surrounded as it was by dense forest and ringed by mountains, the Crooked House was as far away from civilisation as any veteran misanthropist could want to get. Even the track that led to it was inhospitable, pitted with potholes and overgrown with weeds.

The cock crowed again and, as Keeley dragged her computer case across from the passenger seat and slammed the car door shut, zapping the lock, a dog began to bark from inside the house.

‘Lulu, Lulu – shut up, you silly fusspot!' a woman's voice commanded, and then the front door of the Crooked House opened, and Ophelia Gallagher emerged. The first thing Keeley noticed about the woman was that she was easily as beautiful as the photographs she'd browsed on the net; the second thing she noticed was that she was around six months pregnant.

‘Hi! You must be Keeley! I'm Ophelia Gallagher.'

Ophelia descended the steps, and moved towards Keeley, pushing back her hair from her face with one hand and extending the other. She was wearing a floral cotton frock, a cornflower blue apron and polka-dot plimsolls. Her face was bare of make-up and her nails unpainted. Keeley took a measure of her grip (firm, warm), and a measure of her smile (sincere, welcoming), and a measure of her gaze (direct, candid); for Keeley was keenly aware of how very important first impressions could be when conducting interviews. In this instance, however, it was good to keep in mind that the interviewee in question was an actress. Just how competent an actress, Keeley presumed she would find out within the course of the next couple of hours.

‘Good to meet you!' fluted Ophelia. ‘Come in, come in, you must be tired. Let me help you with that –' she reached for Keeley's computer case – ‘and don't mind the dog.' The dog had clearly found a way out through the rear of the house, because an ebulliently barking black Labrador came racing around the corner, and greeted Keeley even more warmly than her mistress had done. ‘Lulu – down!' Ophelia scolded.

‘Don't worry,' said Keeley, ‘I love dogs.' That was a fib. Keeley was actually much more of a cat person, but she knew she wouldn't endear herself to Ophelia Gallagher if she looked askance at the family pet. Conducting an interview was rather easier when the subject under scrutiny warmed to you.

‘How was your drive? Did you come all the way from Dublin? Are those hellish roadworks still going on?'

Keeley fielded the routine questions, answering them all politely as Ophelia led her up the steps and through the front door, making mental notes as she stepped into the hallway.

Inside, it took her eyes some moments to adjust to the gloom. She registered a pair of old-fashioned, glass-fronted bookcases flanking a console table upon which more books and periodicals were piled. A marble bust of a woman sporting a straw sunhat stood on a carved Indonesian plinth; an old-fashioned Bakelite telephone nestled in a hatchway in the wall; a staircase carpeted in a worn Turkish runner climbed to the upper storeys. Keeley could hear a clock ticking: looking up, she saw a grandfather clock standing sentinel on the return and a dusty chandelier dripping from the ceiling.

Ophelia opened a door to her right, and stood back to allow Keeley through. ‘We won't be disturbed in here, I hope! I'll go organise some tea. Or would you prefer coffee?'

‘Tea is perfect, thank you. What a lovely room!'

‘Thank you. It's my favourite room in the house, after the kitchen.' Setting down the computer case, Ophelia said, ‘I won't be a moment! Make yourself comfortable!' and dis appeared, followed by the Labrador. Keeley could hear the clicking of its claws on the flagstoned floor as it trailed Ophelia along the hallway.

Well, she thought, looking around. So far, so predictably bohemian. The room in which she found herself was a sitting room/study. It was much brighter in here than in the hallway – there were windows on two sides, and French doors led to a pretty patch of sunlit garden, where a pair of carved stone discus throwers posed against a background of wisteria-clad wall. There were no paintings on display, Keeley was rather surprised to see: the walls of the room were completely covered with white-painted shelves, crammed floor to ceiling with books. A table in the centre was stacked with volumes bearing the logos of arty imprints: Thames and Hudson, Phaidon, Taschen. On the top of a cabinet to one side of the ornate, smoke-blackened fireplace, was a collection of family photographs. Both books and pictures beckoned Keeley irresistibly.

Her eyes scanned the titles on display. There were bio graphies of Picasso, Matisse, Mondrian and Miró. There were illustrated alphabets and bestiaries and flora. The
Erotica Universalis,
unsurprisingly. There were dozens of glossy art history books – the kind that even smelled expensive. Keeley spotted a shelf devoted to gardening, and another to photography. Tucked away between the
Complete Works of Shakespeare
and the
Romantic Poets
, she found several volumes of chick-lit. Thanks be to God, she thought – the woman was human!

The pictures on the display cabinet told yet another story. They'd all been tastefully mounted in antique frames: many of them were artistic black and white shots. There were several of Ophelia together with the bold-eyed Hugo, and a couple of portraits of the actress on her own that had clearly been taken for publicity purposes. There were photographs of a much younger Hugo – God! he really had been devastatingly good looking! – and some of people Keeley could not identify. Family members, she guessed, many of them dead by now, to judge by the fashions. And there, tucked away in the very back row in a bog-standard clipframe, was a small study in pen and ink of a touslehaired gypsy of a child with intense dark eyes and angular limbs.

Keeley picked up the drawing. It was the girl she had seen all that time ago – was it ten years? longer, possibly – sitting on the floor of the Demeter Gallery, scribbling with a leaky biro on the back of one of Hugo's price lists. It was Caitlín, daughter of the artist and his second wife, Paloma, who, Keeley had learned during the course of her research, had died of cervical cancer when her daughter was just fourteen years old.

The sound of the dog's clicky nails in the hallway told her that Ophelia and Lulu were on their way back. Keeley set down the drawing and moved to the sofa, where her hostess had left her computer case. Unzipping it, she pulled out the printed list of questions she'd compiled, along with her tiny tape recorder and her trusty stylograph, just as the mistress of the house came into the room, balancing a tray upon which tea-things jostled for space.

‘Here we are!' said Ophelia, setting the tray down carefully on a low table. ‘I hope you like coffee cake? I couldn't decide whether to do coffee or chocolate.'

Keeley looked at the cake that sat resplendent on a pretty china plate. ‘You mean you baked it yourself?' she asked.

‘Yes. There are walnuts in it . . . oh, crikey. Maybe you have a nut allergy? I should have thought of that.'

‘No,' said Keeley. ‘Coffee and walnut is my absolute favourite! You really shouldn't have gone to so much trouble as to bake a cake.'

‘Ah. But I knew that you were coming!' quipped Ophelia.

Keeley smiled. ‘I'm not surprised that this is your favourite room,' she said, as Ophelia busied herself with cups and saucers. ‘It must be lovely to sit curled up here by the fire of an evening, with a book.'

‘It is.' Ophelia indicated the piano in the far corner. ‘Hugo plays sometimes, too. And sometimes we just sit and listen to Radio 4. It's nice to hear the voices of old friends on the drama slots.'

‘Of course,' said Keeley, sitting down on the sofa. ‘You must miss all your actor friends from the old days.'

Ophelia shrugged. ‘You move on, you know? I'd never have dreamed, in the days when I lived in Covent Garden and spent half my life in rehearsal rooms and theatres, that I'd wind up marrying a reclusive Irish artist and retiring to the back end of beyond!'

‘So you really have retired from acting?' Keeley aimed a look at Ophelia's pregnant belly – as subtly meaningful a look as she could manage.

‘Yes. I'm going to be a mum, as you can probably see.'

‘Congratulations!'

‘Thank you.' Ophelia poured tea through a strainer, and offered Keeley milk and sugar, both of which she declined. ‘I was beginning to wonder if I hadn't left it too late to have a baby. I was hitting that dodgy age, you know. And then – wow! It just suddenly happened.'

‘So, this is your first child?'

Ophelia nodded. ‘And Hugo's . . .?'

‘It'll be his third. He has a grown-up son – Raoul – and a daughter from his previous marriages.'

‘You must be very excited.'

‘Yes.' Ophelia prinked. ‘I've actually printed out my scan, I'm that excited! I'm having it framed, and it's going to take pride of place in that collection.' Ophelia nodded in the direction of the cabinet, where Gallagher family faces gazed out from their antique frames. Keeley privately thought the notion of including the photograph of a foetus in the collection rather an odd one, but then, she'd heard of women putting pictures of their unborn babies up on Facebook, and tweeting them to their friends and suchlike. Nothing should surprise Keeley, really, in this brave new technophile world.

She watched as Ophelia cut slabs of moist coffee cake and set them on plates, fussing a little over napkins and cutlery. Then, when all was in order, the ex-actress slipped off her plimsolls, and curled her feet underneath her on a chintz-covered armchair.

‘Are you ready to get going?' asked Keeley, setting her tape recorder on the table between them.

‘Absolutely!' came the warm response.

‘OK,' said Keeley, pressing ‘Record' and checking to make sure that the green light was on. There was nothing worse, she had learned to her cost, than recording an interview on empty. ‘The first question I have for you is this. You're expecting your first child at the age of . . .?'

‘Thirty-five,' lied Ophelia. Keeley knew from Wikipedia that Ophelia was actually thirty-nine, but it was commonplace for women – especially actresses – to lie about their age.

Keeley sent her subject an encouraging smile. ‘So, Ophelia Gallagher, how do you feel about becoming a mother?'

There were only a few crumbs left on Keeley's plate, and the tea remaining in her cup was cold. She'd asked Ophelia all the most innocuous questions on her list – and had got the usual innocuous answers in return.

Ophelia Gallagher, nee Spence, was the youngest of three daughters born to a working-class couple from Brighton. She had started her career as a model before being ‘discovered' by a film director, and she had become muse and wife to Hugo Gallagher after they had met at a dinner party (Wikipedia had stipulated a charity event, but Ophelia insisted that it was at Booker prizewinner Colm Tóibín's house). Until she met Hugo, Ophelia had worked her entire adult life, and she was working still, she insisted – the eggs she had used in her coffee cake came from the hens she kept, she grew all her own vegetables and made many of her own clothes, and now she was embarking upon her new career as an author.

But – big yawn – all this stuff (and more) was available to read on the internet. All this stuff would make excruciatingly dull copy. If Keeley was going to get anything substantial enough from Ophelia Gallagher to make an interesting ‘Epiphany', she'd have to dig rather deeper.

‘Where did the idea for the children's book come from?' she asked. ‘Caitlín would have been too old for bedtime stories by the time you became her stepmother. Are there other children in your life who inspired you to write?'

‘No,' replied Ophelia. ‘I'm estranged from my sisters, so I don't know my nieces and nephews.'

‘Oh? How did the estrangement come about?'

‘One of my sisters sold dodgy photographs of me to a redtop,' said Ophelia, with remarkable sang-froid. ‘And the other one borrowed a lot of money from Hugo when we were first married, and never paid it back. I haven't spoken to either of them since.'

This was more like it! During the course of her research, Keeley had – unsurprisingly – read about the dodgy photographs on the internet. However, she had been careful not to bring them up at too early a stage in their tête-à-tête today, because she didn't want Ophelia erecting defences and refusing to cooperate.