That Gallagher Girl (21 page)

‘Well, not courtesy of you. You wouldn't even know how to upload the video.'

‘You could do it, easy peasy.'

‘Yeah, and you really think I'm going to stand around making a video of my da shooting an intruder? Anyway, knowing him, the gun is just a replica. Just how many YouTube hits would that get? My da waving a replica gun at some random hack?'

‘Still. There'd be a fair few bob involved, wouldn't there? How much do you get if you get to the top of the YouTube charts?'

‘Nothing,' said Finn.

‘Nothing?' Cat looked gobsmacked. ‘Are you serious? Then why do people
bother
?'

‘They do it for fun.'

‘Fun? Well, blow me if that's a person's idea of fun. That sucks. I'm getting the champagne.' And Cat stomped off.

Keeley could not believe that she was standing here listening to this couple bickering about which of them was going to upload footage of her murder at the hands of a drunken film star on to YouTube. She thought it was possibly the most surreal moment of her life. But then things got even more surreal, because there came a crash from the hallway beyond the sitting room door, and a man's voice yelled, ‘
Noooooooooooooooo!
'

‘What's up, Da?' said Shane, looking over his shoulder.

‘That was my last fucking bottle of Jameson,' came the mournful reply.

And then Shane Byrne, star of
The Faraway
and
The O'Hara Affair
, and sundry other Hollywood epics, shambled into the room.

‘It's OK, Shane,' said Cat, coming back in with the bottle of champagne. ‘There's loads of Veuve Clicquot. And there's brandy somewhere, Finn, ain't there? I mix a mean champagne cocktail. All we need are sugar cubes.'

‘I suppose you learned how to do that when you were ten too,' said Finn. ‘And may I remind you that that fizz isn't ours, Pusscat. Adair bought it for the . . . um . . . the festivities.'

Shane gave Finn a saturnine look. ‘All the more reason to drink it, then,' he said.

Finn shrugged. ‘I suppose we could always pay Adair back.'

Shane curled his lip. ‘Pay him back? Bollocks to that for a game of soldiers. We'll drink the entire case.'

‘Yay! I'll get more glasses!' And Cat danced out of the room, singing ‘Hey diddle diddle, the cat and the fiddle,' just as someone's phone tone jangled. It was the theme tune to
The O'Hara Affair
.

‘Your phone, Da,' said Finn.

Sliding it from his pocket, Shane squinted at the display, then slung the phone onto a calfskin Buddha bag. ‘Fuck off, my friend,' he said. ‘“No comment” is the catchphrase du jour.'

‘I'd turn it off, if I were you.'

‘I can't. I'm expecting a call.'

Shane stretched and yawned and said ‘Ow', then realised belatedly that there was someone else in the room. ‘Who's this?' he asked, peering at Keeley through bloodshot eyes.

‘The name's Keeley Considine,' said Keeley, presenting a hand with her best smile.

‘Nice to meet you.'

‘She's a journalist, Da,' Finn warned.

Shane withdrew his hand as though he'd touched a hot iron. ‘A journo? What's a fucking journo doing in my house?'

‘I invited her,' said Cat, returning with champagne flutes and another bottle.

‘You've really embraced that
mi casa es su casa
ethic, Catkin, haven't you?' said Shane. ‘Next thing you know, you'll be inviting
all
your friends to stay.'

‘That won't be a problem,' said Cat, giving him a look of hauteur, ‘since I don't have any friends. “The little dog laughed to see such fun, and the dish ran away with the spoon, la la.”'

‘So,' said Shane, skewering Keeley with a look. ‘What
are
you doing in my house?'

‘She wants an interview,' said Cat, helpfully. ‘She does in-depth stuff for the
Sunday Insignia
. She did Ophelia Gallagher last time.'

‘Who's Ophelia Gallagher?' asked Shane.

‘Good question,' said Cat. ‘I wonder what the dish
saw
in the spoon?' she mused, as she set about filling glasses and handing them around. ‘She must have been on drugs. It was probably a cocaine spoon.'

Tch!
Keeley was beginning to regret that she'd ever met this girl. It might have proved less torturous to go through the usual channels. And then she remembered what Shane had said, about ‘No comment' being the catchphrase of the day, and she guessed that actually, she was pretty damn privileged to be here.

‘An “in-depth” interview, eh?' Shane stroked his jaw. Even unshaven, hungover and dishevelled, Shane Byrne was a damn sexy man. ‘What's it worth to you?'

‘Well, that's axiomatic,' she said with a laugh. ‘It's how I earn my living.'

‘I'm not a very “deep” individual.'

‘In the course of my work, I've found out that everyone has hidden depths.'

‘That's a pretty facile answer, if you don't mind my saying so.'

‘Touché.'

‘I suppose they were all on drugs. The cat and the fiddle and the little dog. I mean, how else would you explain the cow jumping over the moon?'

The O'Hara Affair
ringtone sounded again. ‘I'm fucking beleaguered!' moaned Shane. ‘Why can't they all bog off and leave me alone?'

‘Who is it this time?' asked Finn. ‘It's my press agent. Again. He's phoned about fifty times this morning.'

‘Da?' said Finn, very gently. ‘Allow me to make a suggestion. Talk to him. Tell him you've offered the
Insignia
a world exclusive and then he can send all the others packing. One answer fits all, if you get my drift. You know it makes sense.'

‘You think?' said Shane. ‘It makes very good sense to me,' said Keeley.

‘Well, of course it would make sense to
you
!' returned Shane.

‘If you don't speak out, you won't be left alone, Mr Byrne,' Keeley continued, unruffled. ‘And you'll be subject to the most prurient kind of media speculation. As will Ms Kinsella.'
Gotcha!
It was clear to Keeley from Shane's expression that she'd played her trump card. ‘You can trust me to set the record straight any way you want. And I'll allow you to approve the copy before I file it.'

‘Can I have that on record?'

‘Sure.' Her editor wouldn't like it, but then, since she'd handed in her notice, Keeley didn't much care what Leo thought.

‘Old King Cole was probably spaced out on drugs, too. He called for his pipe in the middle of the night, didn't he? It could have been an opium pipe.'

Shane looked into his glass, then downed the contents in one and handed it to Cat. ‘Slosh some more fizz in there like a good Kitty Cat,' he said. ‘And then I'll go and make some phone calls.'

‘Number one being your press agent?' asked Keeley, daring to hope.

‘No. He's number two.'

‘Who's number one?' asked Cat.

‘You know what curiosity did to the cat,' Shane told her.

‘Doesn't worry me,' said Cat. ‘I'll still have eight left.'

‘Will you sit in on the interview with me, Finn? You can be Patroclus to my Achilles.'

‘Sure.'

‘And you can keep Ms Considine entertained while I talk trans-Atlantic, Catkin.'

‘But she might want to find out stuff about you!' protested Cat.

‘In that case, you have my permission to tell the sweetest lies. Come with me, Finn. I could do with your strategic advice.'

‘Honestly!' protested Keeley. ‘I'm not some kind of many-headed Hydra, out to get you!'

‘I have a deep-rooted mistrust of the press,' Shane told her. ‘Have done since the
National Enquirer
set a rumour in train that I was a drunk.'

Cat laughed. ‘A rumour! That's a good one.'

‘You, Catkin, are the cheekiest madam it's ever been my misfortune to encounter. You're bloody lucky that I haven't thrown you out of my house yet.'

‘You can't throw a cat out of a house if she doesn't want to leave,' Cat told him. ‘She just finds her way back in. And it doesn't suit me to leave just yet.'

‘You'll go with my boot in your hole if you don't mind your manners.'

‘Did you hear that, Keeley? You can put in your interview that Shane Byrne threatens vulnerable females.'

‘Vulnerable! Ha!' And Shane strolled from the room armed with his phone and his wineglass, followed by Finn.

God, Keeley thought wearily, as she took a swig of champagne, she'd be bloody glad to finally doff the ‘hack' label once and for all! She was fed up of people treating her as if she were some kind of virulent succubus.

‘What's it feel like to have people so suspicious of you?' Cat asked her.

‘Bloody awful, if truth were told. I can't wait to get started on my new life. Can I have some more of that?' she added, indicating the champagne bottle. If everybody else in this house was going to get roaring drunk, she might as well join them, even though it was highly unprofessional conduct. But, hell – who cared? It would appear that the rule book had already gone through the window today.

‘Here we go,' said Cat, pouring with a practised hand. ‘What's your new life going to be?'

‘I'm thinking about becoming an agent.'

‘An agent?' Cat turned interested eyes on her. ‘Like, an artists' agent?'

‘No. A literary one.'

‘Because if you were thinking about becoming an artists' agent, I might consider taking you on.'

‘Thank you. That's quite a compliment. But I don't know enough about art.'

‘Unlike Shane Byrne. He
loves
art. That's why he has my paintings all over his house. He even has one in his en-suite bathroom, so he can look at it while he's taking a dump. He's what they call an aficionado.'

Keeley decided that it was time to start doing a little preliminary digging. ‘You seem to know Finn and Shane very well, Cat. How did you meet them?'

‘We go way back. We met when I worked as a scenic artist on a film called
The O'Hara Affair
.'

‘Oh, yes. That was made near here, wasn't it?'

‘Yeah.'

‘Elena Sweetman was in that too, wasn't she?'

‘Yes, she was. Poor Elena.'

‘Why so?'

‘I don't know how I'm going to break the news to her that I've sold one of her favourite paintings.'

‘Who did you sell it to?'

Cat looked put out. ‘I sold it to you. Didn't I?'

‘Oh. I . . . I'm not sure I can afford it, Cat.'

‘I think you'll find you can,' said Cat with a sweet smile. ‘After all the trouble I went to, to set up this world exclusive interview for you. And you know, it would take just one word from me in Finn's shell-like to scupper the whole caboodle. Caboodle – that's a word, isn't it?'

Keeley nodded. Honestly, the girl was shameless! But she had to admit a grudging admiration for her. She studied Cat over the rim of her glass as she held the bottle up to the light to gauge the level of the contents. There was something vaguely familiar about her, but she couldn't place her. It would come to Keeley, sooner or later. It was there, lurking somewhere in the box-file of her journalist's mind.

‘Here – have some more,' said Cat cheerily, even though Keeley's glass was still half-full. ‘We may as well finish the bottle, and there's loads more where that came from. In the meantime, while Shane and Finn are planning their strategy, is there anything else you'd like to know about life here in idyllic Coral Mansion?'

‘Yes, indeed,' said Keeley. ‘I'd love to ask you a few questions. Just let me find my notepad and pen . . .'

Much later the following evening, dazed, confused, and monumentally hungover, Keeley typed in the final sentence of her first draft, attached it to an email, and sent it winging its way through the ether to the other side of the bay, where, from the dormer window of her cottage, she could just see the lights of Coral Mansion glimmering through the branches of the fruit trees in Río Kinsella's orchard.

She wondered what antics might be going on there now in that extraordinary villa, and whether champagne was still being randomly popped. She'd lost count of how many bottles had been popped there yesterday. Popped . . . it was a funny word, when you thought about it. Pop . . . pop . . . pop! goes the weasel. Why did the weasel go pop? wondered Keeley. Could he have been on drugs, too? Could the half pound of tuppenny rice have been a euphemism for hash? Could the treacle have been best Lebanese Black? Was there a clue in the words ‘That's the way the money goes . . .? Pop! goes the weasel . . .' It was a puzzle.

And then Keeley caught herself on and dragged herself to bed.

Chapter Sixteen

‘Listen to this! “They may have called him ‘Slow' Byrne at school, but Shane Byrne is actually one of the most nimble-witted actors it has ever been my pleasure to interview. He is laidback with it, and utterly devoid of ego – and, yes, he is easily as sexy in the flesh as he is on celluloid.” Sheesh! How much did you pay Keeley to write this, Da? It's practically a hagiography.'

‘What's a hagiography?' asked Cat.

‘A kind of lick-arse “too good to be true” type of piece, like you'd find in
Hello!
magazine.'

Shane, Cat and Finn were lounging on the deck of Coral Mansion. Shane was nursing a Bloody Mary; Cat and Finn had opted for pink grapefruit juice. Keeley's email had arrived some time in the middle of the night, and Finn had printed it out and was reading it aloud to his father.

‘Did they really call you “Slow” Byrne at school?' asked Cat.

‘Yep.'

‘I was called Puddy,' said Cat.

‘Because you were fat?' asked Finn.

‘No!' Cat gave him a disdainful look. ‘Because of Puddy Tat – you know, of Sylvester and Tweety fame. Go on reading about Shane.'

‘I couldn't be arsed. It's the usual crap. Read it yourself if you're so interested.'

‘No,' said Cat.

‘Oh, look! There's something here about you.'

‘What?'

Finn handed her the printout. ‘Here you go. It's halfway down.'

Cat shook her head.

‘What? Don't you want to know the lovely things Keeley has said about Shane Byrne's taste in artwork?'

‘I can't.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘I mean just that, OK? I can't read.' Cat threw the pages back at him, then turned over on the sun lounger, and lay on her tummy.

‘Oh,' said Finn. ‘Oh, God, I'm sorry, Cat. I didn't realise . . . you're dyslexic?'

‘I told you. I can't read. I'm like, “Special Needs”.'

There was a hiatus, then: ‘There's no shame in being dyslexic,' remarked Shane. ‘Loads of actors are dyslexic. Tom Cruise and Orlando Bloom are dyslexic. And so is Keira Knightley.'

‘And . . . um . . . Winston Churchill was dyslexic,' said Finn helpfully.

‘I knew about Keira Knightley and Orlando Bloom,' said Cat. ‘But I didn't know about Tom Cruise.'

‘He blames it on his father,' Shane told her. ‘His pa used to come down hard on him for the slightest thing – that's why he disowned him, when he was twelve.'

Cat gave him an interested look. ‘Tom Cruise disowned his father?'

‘Yep.'

‘How do you know that?'

‘He told me himself.'

‘Picasso was dyslexic,' said Cat. ‘And even Leonardo da Vinci might have been, too.'

‘See?' said Shane. ‘You're in illustrious company. Loads of really artistic people are dyslexic. Elena is.'

‘Elena Sweetman?'

‘Yep.'

‘Cool!'

‘Duncan Goodhew!' said Finn. ‘There's another famous dyslexic person!'

‘Who's Duncan Goodhew?'

‘He's an Olympic swimmer. They called him Duncan the Dunce at school.'

‘See?' said Cat, crossly. ‘Everyone thinks dyslexics are dense. I used to get that all the time. The teachers kept telling my parents that I was lazy, and that I should try harder. Nobody understood.'

‘Not even your dad? When he was home-schooling you?'

‘Especially not my dad! He thought I was as thick as two planks plus one. Raoul was the only one who had a clue. He rocked.'

‘Who's Raoul?'

‘My half-brother. He taught me everything I know.'

‘Including breaking and entering?' asked Finn.

‘Yes, actually.'

‘I'd like to learn how to do that. Will you teach me, Pusscat?'

‘She will not teach you how to break and enter!' said Shane. ‘The tabloids would have a field day if they got hold of that.'

‘Breaking and entering's been way more useful to me than anything my dad taught me,' said Cat. ‘He used to read me poetry until it felt like it had bunged up my brain and was coming out of my ears. I could recite practically the entire works of Shakespeare.'

‘You're right. Breaking and entering's way more useful than poetry,' conceded Shane. ‘And I'm speaking as a professional actor.'

‘You could get a job as a locksmith,' suggested Finn.

‘Talking of locks,' said Shane, ‘what does Goldilocks have to say about the famous YouTube fiasco, Finn?'

‘Goldilocks?'

‘Keeley Considine. Our roving reporter.'

‘No, no – first tell me what she says about me!' pleaded Cat, sitting up straight and hugging her knees. ‘Please, Finn! I'm dying to know.'

‘OK.' Finn reached for the discarded printout. ‘She says that . . . um . . . Oh, yeah. Here we are. “Shane also has a discerning eye when it comes to art. Hanging in his new home are numerous works by a young artist who goes by the name of ‘Cat', whose work invites comparison with the naïve French painter, Henri Rousseau.”'

‘Rousseau!' breathed Cat, feeling starry-eyed and all aglow. ‘My hero!'

‘“Among Cat's notable patrons,”' continued Finn, ‘“are the actress Elena Sweetman, and Shane's great pal, Johnny Depp.”' Finn gave her a stern look over the top of the A4 pages. ‘Bad Cat! Telling lies to the press.'

Shane laughed. ‘I'll buy one of your paintings and give it to Johnny as a birthday present. That'll take the harm out of the lie.'

‘Oh – would you, Shane? Ta muchly!' Cat, feeling greatly cheered now, slid off her sun lounger and plonked a kiss on Shane's cheek. ‘I'll even give you a discount if you buy two.'

‘How much are they?'

‘Two thousand each. I'll give you two for three grand.'

‘Jesus, Cat! You are incorrigible,' said Finn.

‘You still haven't told me what she says about the YouTube lark,' said Shane.

‘Oh, yes! Go on,' said Cat, jumping up onto the sea wall and promenading along it. ‘Let's hear how she gets Shane out of that one.'

‘Um . . . she says the “fracas” was down to some misunderstanding to do with the title deeds of the Villa Felicity.'

‘Good,' said Shane. ‘There's absolutely nothing there about your ma? I specifically asked her to keep Río out of it.'

‘No. Ma isn't mentioned.'

‘Well, good on Goldilocks, to stay true to her word.'

Cat had come to the end of her catwalk. ‘And here she comes now,' she said, looking up the garden towards where the old yoga pavilion used to be. An elegant woman was gliding down the path towards them. ‘Oh, no – it ain't Keeley, actually. This one's goldy locks are even goldier.'

‘Then it'll be Elena,' said Shane, getting to his feet.

‘Elena Sweetman?'

‘Yeah. She phoned yesterday to tell me she was coming.'

‘Fucking ace!' Cat jumped down from the wall and scooted towards the house.

‘Where are you off to, Pusscat?' asked Finn.

‘To get champagne, of course,' said Cat, ‘to celebrate the arrival of my new best friend! Will you take a picture of us together, Finn, and put it up on the internet? Then I can text Oaf with the link.'

And Cat scampered off, humming the theme song to
The O'Hara Affair
.

Cat was in love. Elena Sweetman was the most beautiful person she had ever met. She had the face of a Botticelli angel, she was svelte as a leopardess, she smelled like a flower shop, and her smile was a benison: like her namesake, Helen of Troy, men would die for her, thought Cat. Never before in her life had Cat wanted to please another person, just to see them smile. Elena was rangy, she was radiant, she was game for anything. She threw together a lunch made from store cupboard staples, she helped Cat sand down a window frame, she played a mean game of rounders, she made Shane laugh. And, after dinner and a swim in the sea, she beat them all at poker.

‘Why did you never get married, Elena?' Cat asked her. They were sitting together on the sea wall, listening to the sound of the waves whispering on the shingle below. Cat had lit candles liberally all over the deck, which had the effect of enhancing Elena's golden beauty; Cat felt as though she was worshipping at the shrine of a goddess. ‘Are you gay?'

Elena laughed her wonderful, throaty laugh. ‘No, I'm not gay. I've just never met a man I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. And I'm the kind of old-fashioned gal who believes that marriage is for life.'

‘Wasn't there even one man you'd have considered?'

‘Yes. There was one. But he wasn't available.'

‘What about George Clooney?'

That laugh again. ‘He asked me, but I had to say no. I couldn't trust George not to stray.'

‘You turned down George Clooney? But every woman in the world wants to marry him! I mean, even I think he's quite tasty, and he's old enough to be my dad.'

‘I don't mind not being married. I'm rather set in my ways, like an old spinster with her cats.'

‘How many cats do you have?'

‘Three beautiful blue Burmese. I love them like they were my own children.'

‘And do you mind not having children?'

Elena shrugged. ‘It would have been nice. I like to think I'd have made quite a good mother.'

‘You'd have made a brilliant mother! Why don't you think about adopting, like Angelina Jolie?'

‘I'm not keen on the idea of single parenthood. I think a child needs a father figure. Like I said, I'm an old-fashioned gal.'

Shame, Cat thought. She'd have loved to have been adopted by Elena Sweetman.

‘Now,' said Elena, ‘let's talk about something a lot more important.'

‘What?'

‘You. More specifically, your artwork. We've got to get you launched, Cat. Why don't you think about coming out to LA?'

Cat shook her head. ‘I . . . I can't, Elena.'

‘Whyever not?'

‘I couldn't fly.'

‘Have you a fear of flying?'

‘Yes. There are really only two things in life that scare me rigid. Needles and aeroplanes.' And fire, Cat might have added, since the incident on the houseboat.

‘Did you have a bad flying experience once?'

‘No. I've never flown in my life.'

‘You might find you enjoy it, you know. I love it. I would have applied for a pilot's licence if I weren't dyslexic.'

‘Tom Cruise is dyslexic, but he flies a plane, doesn't he?'

‘Ah – but Tom claims that Scientology cured his dyslexia. I'm not so desperate to be cured that I'd turn to that kind of claptrap. Anyway, we're veering away from the subject. You're adamant that you won't come to LA?'

Cat nodded. ‘I'm sorry.'

‘No worries. There a solution to every problem if you look hard enough. What if I take your paintings with me when I go back, and hold a private view in my house?'

‘You'd do that?'

‘Of course. Any excuse for a party.'

‘And do you think you'd get buyers?'

‘For sure. The LA film community loves anything artistic to do with Ireland. That's why Irish actors do so well there. I could invite the usual suspects – Neeson, Farrell, Gleeson – and ask for their support. If you volunteered to donate a portion of the price of each painting sold to a charity, you'd be guaranteed sales. People like to think they're contributing to a good cause.'

Privately, Cat thought her own fight for financial survival was a good enough cause, but she could hardly say so to a woman she'd compared to a Botticelli angel.

‘Um. I suppose I could donate something to the Dyslexia Association,' she said, trying to inject a little enthusiasm into her tone. She'd have to put up her prices again.

‘Perfect!'

‘I don't like to sound mercenary, Elena, but how will I get the money?'

‘I'll lodge it in your bank account.'

‘I don't have one. I have a fear of filling out forms.'

The list was getting longer. Maybe Hugo Gallagher's fearless daughter – the kick-ass loner who walked by herself – was actually a scaredy-cat at heart?

‘Hm. We'll have to find a way around that. I'll drive you into town tomorrow, and we'll see about setting one up for you.'

‘But you need ID for that, and I don't have any, apart from a fake student one.'

‘You've no ID at all? Not even a passport?'

‘No. I've never needed one.'

Elena gave a delighted laugh. ‘So you're a complete floater! The ultimate vagabond! There's something wonderfully romantic about that.'

It suddenly didn't feel very romantic to Cat, especially if it was going to get in the way of her making some money.

‘In the days when my dad supported me,' she told Elena, ‘he used to send me cash in a card – you know, like a greeting card. Maybe you could just send me dollars that way?'

‘It's unorthodox,' said Elena, thoughtfully, ‘but I guess it could be done. What about tax, though?'

‘Tax, Shmax. You know that artists in Ireland didn't have to pay tax once upon a time?'

‘I'd forgotten what a civilised country Ireland is. Maybe I should think about coming here to live.'

‘Would you really like to live here?' Cat gave her a sceptical look. ‘There's loads of disadvantages.'

‘Tell me about them.'

‘Well, we're governed by a shower of shites—'

‘A shower of shites! I love it!'

‘And the weather's mostly crap – apart from this summer. We've been lucky this year.'

‘It's beautiful. So balmy.'

‘And we're broke on account of all the corrupt bankers.'

‘Sadly, there's corruption everywhere in the world. Where would you most like to live, Cat, if you could live anywhere you chose to?'

‘I'd like to live on a Greek island,' said Cat without hesitation. ‘In a white house by the sea – one of those houses that has Aegean-blue painted doors and window frames – with a beautiful dark-skinned boy. That's what I'd like from life.'