That Gallagher Girl (20 page)

She watched as, high above the orchard, a light came on in Coral Mansion, and she thought of Finn and Shane rattling around in that preposterous palace, drowning their sorrows. What wouldn't she give to be able to run there now, and join them! What wouldn't she give to sit down with her son and his father – the two people in the world she loved the most – and unburden her weary soul? What wouldn't she give to be able to crawl into bed beside Shane and sleep easy, instead of lying prone beside Adair, staring hot-eyed into the darkness, as she knew she would tonight, wracked with worries.

Another light came on, and she saw two figures stroll hand in hand on to the terrace. Finn, and his Catgirl? She hoped so. She hoped that whatever they had going between them was good, and that they were happy. Somebody in the cast of characters that made up this bizarre scenario deserved to be happy! She remembered the anxious look in Finn's eyes earlier, when he had invited her in for a drink, and knew how concerned he must be, for both her and for Shane. And she thought of Shane, clutching a bottle of Jameson and drinking himself into oblivion in his great big fuck-off mansion. And she thought of Izzy, holed up on her own in some hotel bedroom before facing the gruelling drive back to Dublin tomorrow, her head crammed with sorrowful thoughts of her father. What would become of Izzy when her darling daddy died? Río knew that the girl despised her mother, and that she had no siblings. Izzy would be as lonely as Río when Adair died. Lonelier; at least Río had Finn.

And Río had wine, she reminded herself, and with a glass or two she could try and drown a few sorrows of her own. Turning back towards the Bentley, she retrieved the bottle from the boot of her car, and climbed the steps to the deck. Inside, the television was still on mute, and Adair was asleep. Beside him lay a copy of
Irish Tractor & Machinery
magazine.

Fetching two glasses from the cupboard, she uncorked the wine, then sat down beside her new husband, and kissed his cheek.

‘What?' he said, struggling back to consciousness. ‘Whoa. That was some dream.'

‘What were you dreaming about?' asked Río. ‘I was dreaming that I was at an all-Ireland in Croke Park, taking a free kick.'

‘What a lovely dream! I'm sorry I woke you.'

‘No worries,' he told her with a smile. ‘The reality is much better. I woke up to find you.'

‘What a charmer you are! Look,' she said, nodding at the bottle she'd set on the table, ‘I remembered that there was wine in the car. We can toast our wedding at last.'

‘Aren't you the grand girl! And did Mister Maloney not care to join us?'

Río shook her head. ‘I decided not to ask him. I'd rather spend our first evening here just the two of us together.'

‘What's the story about the gate?'

‘I told him that we'd foot the bill, of course, and that I'd get Finn round to mend it for him.'

‘So it's all sorted?'

‘It's all sorted. There is one problem, though.'

‘What's that?'

‘He can't allow you to use your tractor on the right of way.'

‘What right of way?'

‘The boreen belongs to him, and there's some problem with insurance.'

‘Shit!'

‘It's OK, Adair – he doesn't mind us bringing the cars in and out, but commercial vehicles and plant won't have insurance cover.'

‘
Shit!
' Adair struck his forehead with the heel of his hand. ‘Why didn't that gobshite who sold me the joint tell me?'

‘You didn't know about the right of way?'

‘No. The
sleveen
, the rogue – bad cess to him!' Then Adair slumped. ‘
Arra
. . . there's no use blaming him. I was in too much of a hurry to buy the place – it's something I should have checked out for myself. I'm sick with myself, now, Río. Pure sick!'

‘Don't worry – there's an obvious solution. It'll involve a bit of a detour, but only a minor one. There's a right-of-way up to the road further along the beach.'

Adair looked at her miserably. ‘But sure, I'll have the same problems with insurance wherever I go, won't I? I'm banjaxed, whichever way you look at it.'

‘No. The land in question belongs to me. I'm not going to sue you if anything happens on my land, Adair.'

‘You're not talking about your orchard?'

Río nodded.

‘But, darlin', that's your pet project! I can't be barging through your precious allotment in a tractor!'

‘Of course you can,' she told him, crisply. ‘It'll simply mean cutting down one or two trees and broadening the existing thoroughfare. I'll take you down there tomorrow before we go to Coolnamara Castle and show you. It's the obvious solution to your problem.'

Río avoided pointing out that it was the
only
solution to his problem, and that if Adair didn't grab it with both hands, his dreams of working his oyster farm would be about as realistic as his dream of taking a free kick at Croke Park.

‘And you would seriously do this for me?'

‘But of course. Didn't I tell you earlier today that – while we both wish it – I will give you that which is mine to give. Those were my very words.'

‘And didn't I tell you,' said Adair, taking her hands, ‘that I shall be a shield for your back, and honour you above all others? It's not much, in the light of what you have given me. Ach – this is never a marriage of equals,
acushla
. I have married way above my station. I am not worthy of you, Río Kinsella.'

‘Will you go away out of that!' said Río. She gave him a minxy look. ‘You might remember that you also pledged to me the first drink from your cup. Would you ever get your finger out, Adair Bolger, and pour us some of that wine?'

And later that night, after they'd finished the bottle and decided to call it a day, Río lay prone beside a fitfully sleeping Adair, gazing into the darkness as she'd predicted she would, hot-eyed and wracked with worries.

Chapter Fifteen

Keeley was taking her morning power-walk along the beach beneath the battlements of Coral Mansion, wondering how she might gain access. She wished she'd had a chance to get hold of the phone number of that girl she'd met in O'Toole's yesterday, the girl in the Harajuku get-up who was living with Shane Byrne's son, Finn. Of course, she could always put in a call to Shane's people and try and set things up the regular way, but something told her that a less formal approach was what was required here.

Keeley was now dead set upon getting this interview. The YouTube video of Shane's spat with Adair had received countless hits since it had been uploaded only hours earlier, and to be granted an audience with the man himself would afford her serious kudos. She reckoned that she was possibly the only journalist in the world right now who knew where Shane Byrne was holed up.

A voice from further along the beach made her stop in her tracks. There, standing next to a five-bar gate that opened on to some kind of allotment, was Adair Bolger with his new bride.

‘It's dead straightforward, Adair,' Río was saying. ‘We get a bulldozer in and clear a track between here and the access point up the hill. All we need is a few tons of hardcore, and some galvanised steel gates. The gates should have been replaced yonks ago, anyway.'

‘Are you sure about this, Río?'

‘I've told you twenty times and more, that I'm sure. I'll put in a call to Pat Brennan.'

‘Who's he?'

‘He's a local builder. He has a dozer and all the gear, and he'll have the job done for us in no time. It'll be finished before we get back next week.'

‘You're a star,' Adair told her. ‘And you deserve a lovely lunch and afternoon tea with scones and jam and cream and a long soak in a bath and a glass of Coolnamara Castle's finest champagne before we go downstairs to a slap-up dinner.'

‘Are you mad, Adair! If I'm going to eat like that on our honeymoon you'll rue the day you ever married me by the time it's over! I'll be the size of a house.'

‘Our wedding day is practically the only day of my life I'll never rue,' said Adair, as they turned and made their way back across the sand. ‘What about some pampering, too? There's a spa, where you can get massages and manicures and facials and stuff.'

‘I've never had a manicure or a facial,' Río told him. ‘I don't see the point of paying someone to do something you can do perfectly well yourself. But I have to say, I'd love a massage. Fleur says they do great hot-stone treatments and . . .'

And Río's voice trailed away as the couple meandered around a bend in the bay.

‘Hello!'

A voice from above made Keeley look up. There, sitting on the parapet of the roof of Coral Mansion with her feet dangling over the edge, was Finn Byrne's girlfriend.

‘Hi, there,' said Keeley, shading her eyes against the sun.

‘Fancy a drink?'

‘Sorry?'

‘I said, d'you fancy a drink?'

‘Do you mean later? In O'Toole's?'

‘No. I mean here. Now.'

The girl rose to her feet as casually as she might have done had she been on terra firma, not perched on a parapet thirty feet up.

‘I'd love one, thanks!' replied Keeley.

She wasn't about to protest that it was not yet midday, and that the sun was far from being over the yardarm. If gaining access to Shane Byrne meant swigging back alcohol at an inappropriate hour, then so be it.

‘Come on up, then.' Taking a nonchalant step backwards, the girl disappeared from view.

Keeley looked around, unsure as to how to find her way up to the villa. The most obvious route appeared to be through the allotment, which clearly belonged to Río Kinsella. Moving to the gate and pushing it open, she stepped through. She was reasonably confident that the natives were friendly and that she wouldn't get done for trespassing if she took a short cut.

Wow! Luxuriant was the word that came to mind, as she made in the direction of Shane Byrne's villa. Keeley didn't know much about market gardening, but she could see that this place had been treated to a lot of TLC. There were rows of courgettes and leeks and onions and cabbages. There were potato drills. There was a polytunnel and flower garden, where roses and gladioli and frilly petunias grew. There were apple and pear trees, and Keeley could tell by the burgeoning fruit that there'd be a bumper crop later in the year. It made her wonder if she shouldn't think about getting her own hands dirty and start scraping out a vegetable patch in the corner of the garden that had been sadly neglected since her grandmother died, and the cottage had been taken off the Coolnamara Hideaways rental books. She wondered why Río had been talking about commandeering a bulldozer, and laying hardcore here. A hardcore track going through this lovely place struck her as akin to a switchblade slash across the face of a beautiful woman.

There seemed to be no real boundary where Río's allotment ended and the grounds of Shane Byrne's villa began, except for a haphazard line of raspberry canes. The grass here was nearly waist-high, and the steps that led up to the massive deck that fronted the villa were overgrown with moss. On the deck itself, a variety of tools lay around. Restoration work was evidently underway.

Finn's girlfriend was standing at the far end of the deck next to a table upon which two glasses were set. She was dressed today not in quirky high fashion as she had been yesterday, but in oversized work overalls. Her feet were bare, and her black hair was piled loosely on the top of her head. In her hands she was holding a bottle of champagne.

‘Champagne!' said Keeley. ‘Marvellous.'

‘Here's some champagne trivia for you,' said the girl. ‘Did you know that the pressure inside one of these bottles is the same as the pressure of a tyre on a double-decker bus?' With a deft twist, the cork came away from the bottle, and the girl began to pour.

‘My mother always said that, while drinking alcohol before six o'clock in the evening was reprehensible, it's perfectly acceptable to enjoy a glass of champagne at any time of the day,' said Keeley with one of her most winsome smiles.

‘Try telling that to my father.'

‘Oh . . . He's teetotal, is he?'

The girl laughed. ‘He thinks it's perfectly acceptable to enjoy a bottle of whiskey at any time of the day. Mind you, so does Shane, by the cut of him.'

Aha! This was the cue Keeley was waiting for. ‘Shane Byrne?'

‘Yeah. He's dug into the Jameson already, hoping a hair of the dog might do the trick.'

Keeley cheered inwardly. This girl was going to be indiscreet! A bonus!

‘I'm sorry,' she said. ‘I didn't catch your name yesterday when I introduced myself.'

‘That's because I didn't tell you it.' Smiling, the girl handed Keeley a glass.

‘Well . . . If we're going to share a glass of champagne, I'd rather like to know.'

The girl considered. ‘I guess that's fair enough. I suppose you need to be able to quote your sources. You could call me “a friend of Shane's”, or “an insider”, or “a source close to the troubled actor”, but I guess they're all too much of a mouthful. People call me all kinds of things. You can call me Cat.
Sláinte
.'

‘
Sláinte
,' echoed Keeley, taking a sip from her glass.

‘Sit down,' said Cat. ‘Make yourself at home.'

‘“Make yourself at home”! I haven't heard anyone say that for yonks! It was a favourite saying of my grandmother.'

‘It's kinda my motto.'

Cat sat down and swung her feet up onto the table, and Keeley sat rather more decorously on the chair opposite.

‘What a fabulous view!' she said.

‘Yeah. I've been painting it.'

‘You're an artist?'

‘Yeah. Wanna see some of my stuff?'

‘I'd love to.'

‘Finish your champagne first, and then I'll give you a sneak preview.'

‘A sneak preview – you mean, prior to your
vernissage
?'

Cat laughed.

‘What's so funny?'

‘That pompy word –
vernissage
.'

‘It means “exhibition opening”, doesn't it?'

‘It does. But not many people know that, apart from artists.'

‘Funnily enough,' said Keeley conversationally, ‘I interviewed the wife of an artist, just last week.'

‘Oh? What's her name, and why did you interview her?'

‘I interviewed her because she's going to be bringing out a book soon. Her name's Ophelia Gallagher.'

‘Oaf !' Cat spluttered into her champagne.

‘Are you all right?'

‘Yes. It's just . . . I've heard of her. She's married to Hugo Gallagher, ain't she?'

‘Yes.'

Cat narrowed her eyes, which had the effect of making her look a little like her namesake. ‘So, tell me. How is good old Hugo these days?'

‘You know him?'

‘Everybody in the art world knows Hugo Gallagher.'

‘Well, I found him very charming,' said Keeley, diplomatically. ‘I spent a very pleasant couple of hours in their home.'

‘In the famous Crooked House?'

‘Yes. It's quaint. Not the kind of place I can imagine a child being brought up, though. It's rather isolated. Ophelia's expecting, you see,' she added, for Cat's benefit.

‘I'd heard. So. You were interviewing her about her so-called book? What's it about?'

‘I haven't read it yet – there are no advance copies available. I was really just talking to her about her past life, and the fact that she's embarking on a brand new career.'

‘She could probably do with the money.'

‘I'm sorry?'

‘I said she could probably do with the money. Rumour has it that Hugo's blocked and they're skint. I heard that he can't even support his own daughter.'

‘But Caitlín's nineteen!' protested Keeley. ‘No self-respecting nineteen-year-old expects to be supported by their parents.'

‘Maybe. But Caitlín hasn't any qualifications for anything. She's really dense. I heard from someone that she's been begging on the streets of Galway.'

‘Oh, God!' Keeley recalled the drawing of the waiflike child that she'd seen in the sitting room in the Crooked House, and felt a tug of pure pity. ‘That . . . that's dreadful!'

‘Yes, it is. It's really,
really
dreadful. You might mention it to Hugo next time you're talking to him, and tell him to do something about it.'

‘It's unlikely that I'll be talking to him any time soon,' said Keeley. She gave Cat a concerned look. ‘Do you know Caitlín well? Is there any way you can help her?'

‘No. Now, hurry up and finish your champagne, and come and see my pictures.'

Cat drained her glass and jumped up from the table, and Keeley felt obliged to follow suit. Following the girl across the deck, she entered the villa through a pair of massive, sliding glass doors. On the walls of what Keeley took to be the sitting room, rows of vibrant acrylics were taped.

‘Well, I have to say your paintings are a revelation!' said Keeley, with a smile. ‘Where did you train?'

‘I didn't train. My father taught me.'

‘He was an artist?'

Cat shrugged. ‘An amateur.'

‘And tell me,' said Keeley, examining one of the landscapes more closely, ‘why have you used the back of wallpaper as your canvas of choice? Is it some kind of artistic statement?'

‘Yes. It's a statement about the rip-off prices charged by art suppliers. It's a statement that says: you don't need to fork out a fucking fortune in order to find a way to express yourself artistically. All kinds of creative alternatives are available to those who are gifted with imagination, like I am. I could paint on a binbag.'

‘I'm impressed. Do you mind me asking how much you charge?'

‘One thousand five hundred. Twelve hundred to you.'

A laugh came from the doorway. Lounging against the jamb was a man Keeley recognised as Finn Byrne.

‘Shut up, Finn!' said Cat. ‘There is a serious chat about art going on here, and since you know bugger all about it you're not welcome to join in.' Cat turned back to Keeley. ‘It may interest you to know that Elena Sweetman is one of my patrons.'

‘Elena Sweetman? The film actress?'

‘Yeah. She adores my work. She's one of my biggest fans. Well, Keeley? Can I interest you in one of my paintings? How about this one? Elena Sweetman's dead keen to buy it, but if you like it, I'll let you have it COD.'

‘Keeley?' Finn gave her a look of scrutiny. ‘Are you Keeley Considine?'

‘Yes.' Keeley extended her hand. ‘And you are . . .?' she said, doing that vague tailing-off thing as an invitation to him to introduce himself.

‘He's Finn,' said Cat. ‘He's Shane Byrne's son – Shane who you want to interview.'

‘I . . . I never said that I wanted to interview Shane Byrne!' said Keeley, colouring.

‘Yes, you did. You said it yesterday in the pub. I thought that's what you were here for when I saw you on the beach earlier, snooping around. I thought you were probably trying to find a way in. That's why I invited you up.'

‘You invited a journalist into the house, Pusscat?' said Finn. ‘Jesus Christ! It's one thing to invite an old woman from the islands—'

‘What old woman from the islands?'

‘The one you invited in last week, who you sold a painting to, that you said was like Peig Sayers.'

‘Oh, yeah,' said Cat dismissively. ‘Her. Anyhoo, I just thought it was probably safer to invite Keeley in, in case Shane discovered her trespassing in the grounds and shot her.'

‘What? Dad doesn't have a gun!'

‘Yes, he does. He showed it to me last night. And can you imagine if he did shoot her? It would go straight to the top of YouTube.'