That Gallagher Girl (29 page)

Río clutched Shane's hand, then covered it with kisses. ‘I love you. I
love
you!'

‘There is a fly in the ointment, though,' he told her when she stopped kissing him. ‘What about Finn's girlfriend?'

‘You mean Izzy?' said Río, confused.

‘No. I mean Cat. She came back last night, after you fell asleep on the terrace. If I were in her Doc Martens I wouldn't much like the idea of my boyfriend setting up a business with his ex.'

‘I don't know Cat,' she said.

‘You've never met her?'

‘We said hello once. But she was painting, and I didn't want to disturb her.'

‘She's a talented painter.'

‘Yes. She is.'

And Río thought back to the cottage where she had first seen one of Cat's paintings – the one of the curious Catgirl peering into a rock pool – and she remembered the vibrant acrylic that Izzy had bought for her father, so that he could have a beautiful view before his eyes even though The Bentley was parked in a junkyard, and she remembered how she, Río, had come across Adair once, sitting on an upturned crate in the derelict cottage, gazing at his view with his hands on his lap and a smile on his face, and how she had backed out of the cottage on soundless feet, and left him to his thoughts. And she knew now that she had been right to have married him.

Her phone started flashing at her.

‘Go and introduce yourself,' suggested Shane, as she reached for it.

‘Sorry?'

‘Go and introduce yourself to Cat.'

‘Where is she?'

‘Upstairs, I guess.'

‘I wouldn't want to disturb her,' said Río, checking out the display on her phone. Finn's name was illuminated; she picked up at once. ‘Hey, darlin'. How's my main man?'

‘It's looking good, Ma. If Da is serious about investing in the joint—'

‘He is!'

‘Then we could be in business by the New Year.'

‘We?'

‘Me and Iz.'

‘Um. What about Cat?'

‘Cat's gone.'

‘Cat's gone? What do you mean?'

‘All her stuff's gone. I went into her room this morning and there was nothing left.'

‘How weird. Was . . . d'you think her nose was put out of joint?'

‘What do you mean?'

‘By Izzy.'

‘By Izzy? Oh. I never thought of that. You mean, she might have thought that Izzy and me were – you know . . .'

‘Yes, Finn.'

Why were men so
thick
? She glanced across the table at Shane, who had taken up a pen and was defacing a photograph of George Clooney on last week's
Sunday Insignia
.

‘Anyway, the only thing she left was a painting for Elena,' said Finn. ‘And an envelope of cash for me.'

‘Why did she leave you money?'

‘To pay for the iPod she nicked from me.'

‘And what makes you think the painting's for Elena?'

‘Because it's a portrait of her. Cat did it when she was staying here. I saw it on the table in the hall when we left this morning. Where were you, by the way?'

‘Oh . . .' Río got up from the table. ‘Your dad and I . . . went for a walk.'

She looked at Shane, but he was engrossed in scribbling snot on George Clooney's upper lip.

‘Fantastic dawn, wasn't it?' said Finn. ‘Izzy came in and dragged me out of bed to take photographs. I'd forgotten what an early bird she was.'

Thank God, thought Río, that Izzy's early bird photoshoot hadn't taken her in the direction of the orchard. Curious about Cat's painting, she wandered across the kitchen and out into what Felicity – the woman for whom this house had been built – had called the ‘Atrium'. There, on the console table was a portrait of a woman who could only be Elena, dressed in a gown embroidered with stars. Río picked it up. In the bottom right hand corner were the carefully worked letters ‘C A T'.

‘There's no message?'

‘What?'

‘From Cat.'

‘No. She's the kind of gal who comes and goes as she pleases.' There was the sound of a voice calling in the background – Izzy's voice – then: ‘Gotta go, Ma,' said Finn. ‘See you lunchtime. Crab claws, remember? Your gaff?'

Río considered. Shane would be on his way to the airport: she didn't want to stay on in Coral Mansion by herself.

‘Yes. My gaff. Bye, love.'

Río picked up the painting of Elena and studied it more closely. Cat had got the blissed-out, loved-up smile just right. But Finn had been wrong about the message: there was one, on the back of the canvas, painstakingly printed in Anthracite Black capital letters. ‘I HOP U GET THE BABY U WANT'.

Elena wanted a baby! She wanted Shane's baby . . . But of course she did.

Life went on.

‘Serendipity,' said Río, out loud.

‘What's that?' Shane's voice came from the kitchen.

‘It's when good things start to happen,' said Río, setting the painting back down on the table for Shane to find. ‘It looks like Izzy and Finn might be onto something.'

‘Serendipity, eh? Bring it on,' said Shane.

And as Río walked back into the kitchen, to where the one-time love of her life was adding nerdy glasses on to George Clooney, she knew that the white heat had consumed itself, and the fire in her head had finally gone out. She found herself hoping that Elena got the baby she wanted, too.

Chapter Twenty-Four

It was ten twenty-five in the morning. Having set her alarm for six o'clock, Keeley had finished reading the book she had taken the liberty of provisionally renaming
Catgirl and the Pleasure Palace of Adventure
, and was hugely excited. Paloma Gallagher had written a classic children's page-turner: all the right ingredients were there: cliffhanging chapter endings, an engaging heroine and subsidiary characters, and a pacy narrative. It was cinematic, too. Keeley was looking forward to negotiating the film rights. Film rights, television rights, audio book rights, large print rights, book club rights, translation rights, anthology and quotation rights, serial rights, electronic rights – the list was endless. Cat Gallagher was going to become a very rich young woman. And Keeley would be entitled to fifteen per cent of those riches. Not including the percentage of the advance and royalties she would negotiate for Cat's illustrations. And the percentage of the advance and royalties generated by the next author she signed, and the next, and the next. And sign she would, until her wrist hurt. Once news hit the trade publications that Keeley Considine was representing Cat Gallagher, bright new star in the biblio firmament, talent would come tearing at her from all directions, knocking other agents aside like nine-pins in a rush to seek her out.

Picking up the phone, she punched in Cat's number. There was no reply. Bummer. But Keeley was certain that Cat would have no objection to her, Keeley, putting the record straight on Cat's behalf regarding the authorship of
Catgirl
. If she didn't do it, it would give rise to prurient speculation in the media, and Keeley was sure that that would be the last thing Cat would want. Or Hugo. Or poor, stupid, mortified Ophelia, who was going to have a lot of crow to chew on for the foreseeable. It was just as well she'd have a baby soon, to take her mind off things.

Keeley poured herself another mug of coffee, entered Camilla Featherstonehaugh's details into her iPhone, and dialled the mobile number, as Camilla had advised her.

‘Camilla Featherstonehaugh,' came the autocratic, Anglo voice in her ear.

‘Camilla? It's Keeley Considine here.'

‘Who?'

‘Keeley Considine. We met at Ophelia Gallagher's birthday party yesterday.'

‘Oh, yes, of course. The journalist.'

‘Turned literary agent,' Keeley reminded her politely. ‘That's right. Yes. You had some kind of insider info on Ophelia's book.'

Keeley smiled, and launched her Exocet. ‘It's not Ophelia's book. She didn't write it.'

‘What?'

‘The book was written by Paloma Gallagher, Hugo Gallagher's deceased ex-wife.'

‘
What?
'

And Keeley filled Camilla in on the story behind the story, of how
Catgirl and the Pleasure Palace of Adventure
had come to be written.

‘You mean it was written for that extraordinary-looking girl – the one in the bandana? Hugo Gallagher's daughter?'

‘Yes.'

‘But how on earth did Ophelia think she could get away with it?'

‘It just must never have crossed her mind that Cat knew the story by heart. Or that there was a tape recording in existence.'

There was a pause on the other end of the line as Camilla digested this information. ‘Well, my goodness. I daresay people have got away with stupider scams. You say the girl can paint?'

‘Yes. I own one of her paintings.'

‘Could you send me an image?'

Could she? Keeley guessed she could take a photograph of Cat's painting and email it as a JPEG. ‘Sure.'

‘Do you have a photograph of the girl?'

Keeley wanted to laugh. She'd known this question would come.

‘No. But I can get one, no problem.'

‘This is
very
exciting news! I mean – I'm gutted about Ophelia of course. But every cloud and all that. The concomitant publicity could be huge. Really fucking huge. Oh, I am so sorry. Pardon my French.'

‘No worries, and couldn't it just?' Keeley smiled, catlike. This was the response she had been banking on. She'd hit pay dirt already, and she hadn't even registered her agency yet. How green was her valley!

‘Can you bring the girl to London? I'd like to schedule a meeting.'

‘No problem.' There
was
a problem, actually. Cat's fear of flying. She'd told her about that the day they'd driven to Oaf's – Ophelia's party. But pah! That was a ha'penny place problem. Since the ash-cloud business, everyone was taking the ferry these days. Keeley could drive Cat to London.

‘Would next week suit?' asked Camilla.

Keeley almost laughed out loud. It would appear that Camilla had already written off her dawdle in the Dordogne, and got her priorities right.

‘I'll run it by Cat. She's working on a project right now.'

‘What kind of a project?' Camilla's voice was so urgent that Keeley had to hold the phone away from her ear. She wasn't about to tell Camilla that Cat was working on re furbishing a house.

‘A series of landscapes,' she said.

‘Are there other Catgirl stories, do you know?'

‘Yes.' Cat had made reference to stories that took place not just in King Frederick the Great's Sans Souci, which was where
Catgirl and the Pleasure Palace of Adventure
was set, but in Ancient Egypt and the era of the Celtic Twilight and on the Planet Zog and Atlantis. During the year that Cat had spent in and out of hospital, Paloma had worked harder as a storyteller than Scheherazade, in order to keep her daughter's spirits up. ‘Didn't Ophelia tell you?'

‘No. She said she was working on ideas for a series of stories, but she had nothing concrete to show me.'

And that, Keeley deduced, was because Paloma had written only one of the stories down. The rest were in Cat's head, or on her Walkman. Cat was the only person who had access to them.

‘I'll have them transcribed onto a Word document for you, Camilla. Compatibility mode?'

‘Super!' said Camilla.

‘And I look forward to doing business with you,' said Keeley, smoothly. ‘I'll go hunt Cat down now, and get back to you directly.'

‘Absolutely! Talk soon, Keeley. Oh – and you might fire off an email to me, so that I have a record of your address.'

‘I'll do that right away. Goodbye, Camilla.'

‘Goodbye!'

Keeley set down her phone, and eased herself into a satisfying stretch. She wondered when the story behind the true identity of the author of
Catgirl and the Pleasure Palace of Adventure
would hit the newspapers, and decided that really Leo should be the first to know. She'd phone him presently. But first she needed to talk to Cat. Hitting speed-dial, she waited and waited again for Cat to pick up. But the phone still rang on endlessly.

Bugger, thought Keeley. She would just have to get her ass down to the big house on the beach. No hardship really, since the weather was fine, and she could do with the exercise. She donned her walking boots, slid her phone into her bag, and set off.

But when she got there, there was no sign of life. She rang the front doorbell and knocked on the kitchen window and tapped on the sliding glass doors that led onto the deck, but all in vain. Finally, she gave up, and set off back to the village. She was thirsty now, and could murder a bottle of Ballygowan. It was lucky for her that she chose Ryan's over O'Toole's, for there, in the corner shop, was Finn. In his wire basket was a baguette, a punnet of strawberries and a bottle of
prosecco
.

‘Hello, Finn! Celebrating something?'

‘Um. No. It's for my ma. She needs cheering up.'

‘Poor Río,' said Mrs Ryan lugubriously, from behind the counter.

‘Poor Río,' agreed Padraig Whelan, counting out change from his purse for the Sweet'N Lo he'd just slid into his Bag for Life.

‘Yeah. I thought a glass or two of fizz might help,' Finn told Keeley, handing over his Laser card. ‘I'll get that for you.'

‘The water? Thanks. I was hoping I might run into you, actually,' Keeley told him. ‘I'm looking for Cat.'

‘Oh, yeah?'

‘Yes. I've just come from your house, and there's no sign of her there. Do you know where she might be?'

Finn frowned at her, and Keeley realised that he was reluctant to answer any questions in front of Mrs Ryan.

‘Hang on two secs,' he said, entering his number in the chip and pin. ‘There we go. Thanks, Mrs Ryan. Good day to you.'

‘Good day to you, young Finn. Be sure to send your mother my love, and my condolences.'

‘Tell her I'll drop her in a copy of
Oprah
magazine,' said Padraig.

‘Will do.' And Finn left the shop, followed by Keeley.

‘Sorry about that,' he said. ‘It's best not to say anything in front of Mrs Ryan. Or Padraig, for that matter. They're all ears, and there's a story doing the rounds of Cat gate-crashing some party and making a scene.'

‘Oh! You're talking about Ophelia Gallagher's birthday party. I was actually there.'

‘You were? What happened?'

Keeley explained.

‘So Cat is that famous painter's daughter?' asked a surprised Finn.

‘Yes. Didn't you know?'

He shook his head, bemused. ‘I hadn't a clue. She hardly ever talked about her family, or her past.'

‘But you're in a relationship with her, right?'

Finn looked a bit dubious. ‘
Was
in a relationship, by the look of things.'

‘Was?'

‘She's gone.'

‘What?'

‘Cat's gone. She went off on some mysterious jaunt – I guess it was to that party – and then came back in the middle of the night, packed up all her things and left.'

‘So she's not living with you any more?'

‘Doesn't look like it. She turned up in Lissamore out of the blue, and now she's disappeared back into it.'

‘And you've no idea where she might be?'

‘No.'

‘She didn't leave a note or anything?'

‘Just a Post-It saying goodbye.'

‘But aren't you worried about her?'

Finn shrugged. ‘Not really, to be honest. Cat's well able to take care of herself. She's the most streetwise chick I ever met.' He frowned, considering. ‘Maybe she's gone to Galway. She mentioned something about having a brother there.'

Warning bells were starting to go off in Keeley's head. ‘Where was she living, Finn, before she moved in with you?'

‘On a houseboat. But she won't be going back there.'

‘What makes you say that?'

‘It was torched.'

‘Oh, shit!' Keeley felt a sudden flash of pure panic. ‘I have to track her down, somehow.'

‘Why?'

And Keeley quickly filled Finn in on the putative book deal she had lined up for her client.

‘Well, all I can do is keep an eye out, and let you know. Have you a phone number for her?'

‘Yes. But she's not picking up.'

‘Text her.'

‘Good idea. Look, here's my card.' Keeley produced a business card from her bag. ‘Phone me at once, will you, if you hear from her. Or ask her to phone me. Tell her it's urgent.'

‘Will do.'

‘Thanks, Finn. How's your dad, by the way? I saw him at Adair's funeral, but didn't get a chance to talk to him.'

‘He's gone back to LA. Left for the airport this morning.' Finn looked at his watch. ‘I'd better get my ass on down to me ma's. I promised to do lunch for her. Bye, Keeley. Good luck.'

‘Goodbye, Finn.'

And Finn strode off down the village street, swinging his carrier bag, leaving Keeley standing outside the corner shop feeling . . . well . . . cornered. Cornered and antsy.

What was she to do now? Who would know Cat's whereabouts? Moving across to the sea wall, Keeley sat down on it and sent Cat a text saying
Pls fone. Urgent
. before accessing her contacts. Ophelia Gallagher. Would she know? Unlikely. But her husband might. And then Keeley cursed herself for not having entered the landline number of the Crooked House in her phone. All she had was Ophelia Gallagher's mobile number, and she had an inkling that Ophelia would not be picking up her phone to anyone today – especially not to members of the press.

Stupid Keeley! She thought and thought, gazing unseeingly at the boats bobbing exuberantly in the marina, exercising her brain like the clappers. Hugo's gallery, the Demeter in Dublin. His agent there would know the number. But it was bound to be ex-directory, and there was no way they'd give it out. She'd just have to go there, to the Crooked House, and pay him a visit in person.

The sound of a cork popping made her look up. On the balcony of her apartment, Río Kinsella was cracking open her bottle of
prosecco
. Keeley watched through her mirrored sunglasses as she poured herself a glass, then set the bottle on the table, and sat down on a canvas director's chair. She had never seen anyone look so forlorn: Río must be gutted by the loss of her husband. Poor woman, to have been bereaved so tragically so soon after her wedding! But Keeley didn't have time to dwell on Río's plight. She needed to find that Gallagher girl, and she needed to find her fast.

Rising from the sea wall, Keeley tucked her phone back in her bag, then sprinted at the double back home to where her trusty green Ka was waiting for her.

If she'd waited just a moment longer, a familiar voice might have kept her there, by the marina.

‘Good doing business with you,' Cat said, spitting on the palm of her right hand, and shaking on it.

As Keeley rounded the bend on the driveway that led to the Crooked House, she spotted to her right, like flotsam on the lakeshore, the weathered remains of a small dinghy.
Catkin
was the name painted on the stern, in letters rendered almost illegible by time and tide. She guessed that Cat would have spent countless hours sailing on and swimming in that lake as a small girl, since there wasn't much else in the environs of the Crooked House to keep a child occupied. No wonder she had inhabited a world of the imagination. No wonder she had felt the need to make that world concrete in paintings, since she could not tell stories in words. And how lucky Cat had been to have a mother who understood, and who had helped bring all those places to life for her: the pleasure palace; the submarine world of the coral reef; the Planet Zog.