That Gallagher Girl (28 page)

‘Shit!' he said, when Cat sat down opposite him. ‘You gave me a fright. Where the fuck did you come from?'

‘I'm like the Cheshire Cat in
Alice in Wonderland
,' Cat told him. ‘I tend to materialise from nowhere.'

‘I like your dress.'

‘Thanks.'

‘Fancy a toke?'

‘No, thanks. But I'd like some wine.'

‘Stay where you are. I'll get you a glass.'

Shane disappeared into the house, and Cat sat back in her chair, regarding the sky over the bay. It was a clear night, and all the constellations were out. The Plough. Canis Major, Canis Minor, Cassiopeia. Cat could navigate her way to her Greek island by that stellar map in the sky. She could set sail to Byzantium, if she liked, as Yeats had claimed to do in one of the poems her father had used to read her.

It had been good to talk to Hugo today. It had been good to be able to tell him that he didn't have to look out for her any more, now that she was earning her own crust. It had been good to see the look of pride in his eyes. But then, she knew that her father had always been proud of her. He just hadn't been very good at talking about his feelings, like most men. Cat guessed that that was a trait she'd inherited from him. She had never been touchy-feely, like the girls at her boarding school, who had talked endlessly about the pyjama parties they held during holidays when they'd watch rom coms and gorge on cupcakes and paint each other's nails and giggle over the text messages they'd send to boys. Cat had longed for a mate with whom she could compare the cut of a spinnaker, the shape of a keel. Someone who didn't mind getting their hands dirty. Someone like Finn. Finn would have become a great mate, had they more time to get to know each other. But Cat knew that, while the sex had been very, very good, she wasn't right for Finn in a romantic sense. She had known from the first time she'd heard him talk about Izzy that whatever he had had going on with her was as good as it could ever get for him. And wasn't it right that, with one of the main men gone from her life, Izzy should look for her own port in a storm? Finn could be that for her. Maybe Cat could send them a painting as a wedding present.

Shane was back with the wineglass. He poured, then passed an envelope across the table to her.

‘What's that?' asked Cat. ‘It's the proceeds from the sale of your paintings,' said Shane. ‘Elena knew you'd prefer payment in cash.'

‘Wow.' Cat hefted the envelope in her hand. ‘I must have sold a fair few. Feels good.'

‘Time to get cracking on some more,' Shane said, with a yawn. ‘What'll I do about Sleeping Beauty over there? Should I wake her?' He indicated Río with a nod of his head.

‘No. Cover her with a pashmina or something. There's nothing worse than being woken up when you're dog-tired, and told to lay your head somewhere else.'

‘You sound like you're talking from experience.'

‘I am. I've done my fair share of sleeping rough.'

‘You can afford hotel rooms from now on, Catkin. Or a deposit on a little flat somewhere. There are a lot of dollars in that envelope.'

Cat laughed. ‘I've better things to spend my money on than hotel rooms and mortgages,' she said, draining her wine and rising to her feet. ‘Good night, Shane. It was nice knowing you.'

And Cat scooped up the envelope on the table, and took herself off into Coral Mansion, detouring via the kitchen to pen some notes on a Post-It pad before helping herself to a chicken leg and an apple.

Upstairs, in the bedroom she'd earmarked as hers – the one she didn't share with Finn – she packed her backpack methodically, rolling items of clothing into bundles so compact they could have been balled socks. Cat was a seasoned packer: she knew better than most how to travel light. Double checking that she hadn't forgotten anything in drawers, cupboards, under the bed – her compass, her Nalgene, her Swiss Army knife – she made for the balcony and the steps that would take her down to the garden. And then she halted, and struck a mental fist to her forehead. She had forgotten one of the most important tools of all. Setting her backpack down on the bottom step, she slinked back to the bedroom. On the window ledge, where she had carelessly left it after some work done several days ago, was her right-angled screwdriver.

Cat would need somewhere to sleep tonight.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Río woke to find that someone had laid her pashmina over her. There was no one else around: her menfolk must have retired. She slid off the recliner and eased herself into a stretch. Her body felt as though it didn't belong to her: she had an overwhelming longing to reclaim it. Unzipping her dress, she let it fall to the deck, and stepped out of it. Bra next, then knickers. The night air on her skin felt like a caress, the grass – when she stepped barefoot on to the floor of her orchard – like a merino carpet.

Beyond the orchard gate the susurration of the waves called to her. The water, as she waded in to waist level, was like cold silk. Plunging, Río swam several strokes underwater before surfacing to gulp lungfuls of salt air. Then she turned over on to her back and floated, gazing up at the star-spangled sky. The Plough. Canis Major, Canis Minor, Cassiopeia.

What was written in the stars for her? What did her destiny hold? Río wasn't superstitious, but right now destiny for her was a throw of the dice. Her life was a tabula rasa – a bit like those magic slates she'd played with as a child, the ones you drew upon and then wiped clean, so that you had a blank sheet upon which to draw something else. She thought of her sister, Dervla, who seemed to have everything mapped out. There was nothing haphazard in Dervla's universe. She had taken knocks in her time, sure, but Dervla was resilient, Dervla bounced back. She was busy, she was motivated. Fleur? Fleur had her shop to keep her occupied, but more importantly, Fleur had her baby, the dotiest of dotes to care for. As for Shane – he had his career, not to mention his beautiful new wife.

Shane had said something over supper earlier about finding Finn more stunt work in LA. If he did, that would mean that Río would be on her own again. She remembered when Finn had first left her, to go travelling, and the awful, awful aching emptiness that had claimed her then. Those days of being unable to get out of bed, to wash, to eat. The days when dying seemed a better option than living, the days of the Black Dog. And Río was full of fear suddenly, that the Black Dog might return and seek her out. The Black Dog liked company. She could see it now, hiding under Canis Major, winking at her.

How could she keep it at bay? Her orchard. Her painting. She'd have to work hard at nurturing her smallholding, and work hard at being creative. The Black Dog hated creativity. And because the Dog had a keen nose for physical frailty and would use it to his advantage, she would have to maintain the machine that was her body. Río would have to swim every day, come rain, come shine.

Right now, the flexing of her biceps, the tensing of her pectorals, the strain on her calf muscles as she turned and furrowed through the water felt good. She wanted to feel all her muscles tauten, all her sinews stretch, she wanted to feel the entire tissue of her body contract and expand as she tested it. She wanted to be comfortable in her own skin, she wanted to make her senses sing. She wanted to make love.
She wanted to make love
. . .

Río wanted Shane. She wanted him one last time.

He was waiting for her, on the shore, with her pashmina, and a towel.

Wordlessly, she took his hand as she emerged from the water, and together they walked into the orchard and found the tree under which Finn had been conceived. Río was trembling with cold, and with desire. Neither of them spoke as Shane spread the pashmina on the grass, and settled Río upon it, arranging her limbs just so. Her left leg crooked a little, her right arm outstretched, her left hand over her mons veneris. He stood over her for a long moment, looking down at her, taking her all in, and then he lowered himself to his knees and began to kiss her as he towelled her dry. He kissed her forehead first, and then he kissed her eyelids and her cheekbones and the tip of her nose and her chin. He kissed the hollow made by her collarbone, and then he kissed her nipples and her navel before removing her hand and kissing her sex. He angled her leg a little more so that he could kiss the soft place behind her knee, and then he kissed the dip below her ankle, and the arch of her foot and all ten of her toes. And by the time he'd finished kissing her all over, and she was wet only where she wanted to be, and her goosebumps were all gone, Río felt as though she had dissolved in water.

‘You taste of salt,' he told her, as he entered her. ‘You taste of the sea.'

But the salt that Shane tasted on his tongue when he trailed it along Río's cheekbone and traced the contour of her ear was not sea salt. It was the salt of her tears.

And later, when the glimmer of Canis Major, Canis Minor and Cassiopeia had evanesced in a sky the shade of faded denim, in a place somewhere between living and dying, Río told Shane how much she loved him, how she had always loved him, and how she always would.

 

* * *

Propped next to the fruit bowl in the kitchen of Coral Mansion was a note from Finn saying ‘Iz & me gone to check out dive outfit on Inishclare. Iz says she'll bring back crab claws for lunch. Love you, Ma. Hi-five, Pa.'

‘I'll do pancakes for breakfast,' said Shane, setting a cafetière on the table.

Río smiled up at him. ‘With lemon and sugar?' she asked.

‘Of course. And with honey from your beehives. If that ain't too OTT?'

‘Not OTT at all. I'll need a big sugar rush to get me through the next few days. And lots of caffeine. Thank you. Thank you for everything, Shane.'

‘Everything? What have I done?'

‘You've looked after me. You've been there when I needed you.'

‘Sure, I've always done that.'

‘I know. Fleur said as much, just recently. She said that every woman should have a Shane in their lives.'

Shane looked horrified. ‘Fleur? You've been talking girly stuff about me to your mates?'

Río laughed. ‘Girly stuff! Don't imagine for a minute that we sit around over cupcakes and pink fizz and giggle and share sex tips.'

‘Sex tips? Jesus – don't scare me, Río. What did you say to Fleur?'

‘I said nothing. She just knew.'

‘Knew what?'

‘That I was still in love with you.'

‘You are?'

Río threw him a look. ‘I told you so, didn't I? Just as the sun was coming up this morning.'

‘Yeah.' Shane looked uncomfortable. ‘I kinda feel the same way, Río. I mean – I never stopped loving you.'

‘I guess it's a bit like that Alanis Morissette song, isn't it?'

‘What? Now you
are
going all girly on me.'

‘“Isn't It Ironic?”'

‘Isn't what ironic?'

‘Oh, you're useless, Shane. You'd make a crap girl.'

‘I'm glad to hear it.'

‘And I was about to start a meaningful talk with you.'

‘I don't do meaningful.'

‘I know. I've just remembered. But we have to.'

‘Have a meaningful talk?'

‘Yes.'

‘Oh, crap. You go first.'

Río plunged the cafetière, and poured them both very strong mugs of coffee. ‘We shouldn't have done that.'

‘Done what?'

‘What we did earlier this morning.'

‘Why not?'

‘Because you are now a married man.'

‘But I only married Elena on the rebound.'

Río covered her ears with her hands. ‘Don't say that! That's a shocking thing to say.'

‘It's true.'

‘It doesn't matter. I don't want to hear it.'

‘So just because you don't want to hear it means I can't say it?'

‘Yes! I've gone through a really hard time recently.'

‘And I haven't?'

Río stood up abruptly. ‘OK. That is now officially the end of our meaningful conversation.'

‘Just because you say so?'

‘What? You want more?'

He skewered her with a look. ‘Yes. I want to know why you married Adair.'

‘I loved him.'

‘You're a really rubbish liar, Río. You married him because you felt sorry for him, didn't you? Izzy told Finn that Adair would have been dead within the year – that he had pan creatic cancer. You knew that, didn't you?'

Río sat down again. ‘Yes. I did know that.'

‘You didn't love him.'

She shook her head. ‘I . . . I guess I didn't love him, really. Not in the way I love you.'

‘In other words, it was an act of charity.'

‘No, no! Don't say that,' wailed Río. ‘It diminishes him, and he was such a lovely man.'

‘It was an act of charity, Río,' said Shane categorically. ‘It was an incredibly altruistic thing to do, and very big of you. But you really didn't think it through, did you?'

‘Think it through! There wasn't anything to think about. It was . . .' she made a helpless gesture with her hands ‘. . . impulsive of me, maybe.'

‘And ruinous consequences are generally the result of impulsive gestures.'

‘Oh, come on! What about you? I didn't know you were going to go and get married, you tool! Why didn't you warn me?'

‘And what would you have done? Would you have said “Oh, no, hang about, Shane. Just wait until I'm available when my hubby dies in a year's time.”?'

Río wanted to slap him, but instead, she slumped. ‘You're right. I'm sorry. I don't know what I would have done.'

Shane took a swig of coffee and set the mug down on the table with a thud. ‘Fuck. It's like something out of a Greek tragedy, minus the ornate dialogue.' There was a long, loaded moment of silence before Shane said, rather sheepishly: ‘I suppose we could just carry on the way we always have. As fuck buddies?'

Río threw him a look. ‘Well, you sure are right about the dialogue, pal. Fuck buddies! That is
hideous
. That is
undignified
.'

‘Sorry. You're right. And I couldn't do that to Ellie. If I'd married some plastic bimbo on the rebound, things would be simple. I mean, if I'd married someone like . . . um, Jordan, who'd love the publicity of a quickie divorce—'

Río couldn't help it. She started to laugh.

‘What's so funny?' asked Shane.

‘The idea of you marrying Jordan. Sorry for laughing, but there's not much else to laugh about right now.'

‘No, there ain't.' He gave a humourless smile. ‘Cat once suggested that we call this house “The Smugs”, after some painting her dad did. We could call it “The Glums”, now.'

‘You've nothing to be glum about, really, Shane. Elena's a wonderful woman.'

‘Yeah,' said Shane, glumly.

Río looked at him over the rim of her mug, assessing. Then: ‘She really loves you, doesn't she?' she asked.

‘Yeah. She told me she's been in love with me since we first met. But she always knew that you were The One. It wasn't until you married Adair that I became fair game.'

‘She seduced you?'

‘No. She . . . consoled me. She was a real port in a storm during those hellish few days after your wedding. And I found myself thinking about how pointless life is without a soul mate and a partner to share it with, and when I knew I couldn't have you, it just felt right to be with Elena. I seduced her.'

That wouldn't have been difficult, thought Río. Poor woman, loving Shane from a distance for all those years. Lucky woman, to have landed him at last! She remembered the picture she'd seen in
Hello!
magazine, of a stunning Elena with Shane at some red carpet event in LA. The smile on her face had said it all: it was the blissed-out smile of a woman in love, a woman who'd bagged her main man.

Whereas love had only ever brought Río grief and heartache and tears. To express it in words less than ornate: love sucked.

‘Did your assistant organise a flight for you?' she asked Shane.

‘Yes.'

‘When are you going back?'

‘This afternoon.'

Río started to cry. ‘Oh, no! How can I live without you in my life, you stupid person?'

‘We've done it before,
acushla
.'

‘It won't be the same. It just won't. Oh, God!' She dashed tears away with the back of her hand. ‘What a stupid mewling crybaby I've turned into. I was feeling earlier that I was dissolved in water, and I am. I'm made of tears, like the man in that poem by Brendan Kennelly, the man made of rain.'

It was true. She remembered how the first verse of the poem went, and it seemed to her to express so precisely her feelings, that long poem written ‘between living and dying', after open heart surgery. Because that was how Río felt now: she felt as though she were undergoing open heart surgery without an anaesthetic.

Hatestage. That was the stage that Río was at now. She loved Shane so much she hated him. She hated him for loving her and leaving her and loving her still, and for leaving her again, and taking her heart with him. Her heart! Her heart was here.
Her heart was here
. Of the two men remaining in her life, it was Finn she loved the most; Finn was the one without whom she could not live. She was a lucky woman. She had a man in her life still.

‘Don't take Finn with you to LA, Shane,' she said abruptly.

‘What do you mean?'

‘You said something last night about getting him more stunt work over there. I don't think I could bear it if he went away again. I don't think my heart can take any more cuts to it.'

Shane reached for her hand. ‘Listen, to me, Rí,' he said. ‘It's my turn to get meaningful, and for me “meaningful” means putting my money where my mouth is. If Finn and Izzy are serious about setting up this dive joint, I'll invest. That Izzy's real savvy. You know she has a degree in business studies? If they want a backer, I'm their man.'