The Hollow Heart (The Heartfelt Series) (11 page)

“Quite sure, thank you Paul,” she said as soberly as she
could. She pressed her body against the closed door. He did not try the handle
again, he made no plea or protest. She heard him walk slowly back to his room.
She clamped her nose and mouth with her hands. She shuddered, stifling a sob of
sheer, physical longing.

‘No, it would be wrong, so wrong,’ she tried to convince
herself, climbing back into bed and wrapping the duvet around herself like a
cocoon.

Autumn seeped on, oozing
greyness, turning cold and wet and murky taupe. No bronze sunsets streaked with
ribbons of molten gold, no backlit iridescent blue skies tinged with purple.
Grey to dark grey, to black. Winter loomed gloomily, threatening to swamp them
all in a damp, pewter pit. The last of the leaves swashed against the back
door, the porch smelled of decay. Number seventy four Oakwood Avenue was
desolate.

Marianne and Paul remained outwardly friendly. He was in
charge of housekeeping and sustenance. She was responsible for lively office
gossip, reports of Jack’s dourness and Sharon’s madcap parenting. Despite the
veneer, Monty went off his food, touted a dry nose and took to gazing into the
distance for long periods of time, ears pressed against his skull.

Marianne took him to the vet. A charming man with a Northern
Ireland accent and runny eyes, he smiled kindly, he had known George well and
in fact, had found Monty for George to give to Marianne. Monty co-operated with
a full examination, which was unusual in itself.

“Has anything changed, his routine, his food? Have you moved
his bed? Cut down his exercise? Taken something away?” Marianne shook her head.
Monty looked pleadingly at the vet.

“He seems, well almost, depressed.”

“Really?” Marianne scratched behind his ears, his tail
thumped once, listlessly.

The vet took some blood for tests and suggested grilled
chicken and scrambled egg, fresh air and maybe a change of scene. It was a
recommendation he hoped they would both consider. She bundled Monty into her
arms, his snout poked out from the tartan rug, she kissed it and he closed his
eyes. The vet touched her shoulder as she left.

Carrying Monty in through the back door, Marianne was
surprised to find the kitchen untidy, food wrappers, dishes and empty wine
bottles littered the surfaces. She heard muffled voices, laughter. She put
Monty down and went into the hall, straining to listen up the stairs. Monty was
out of his rug in a flash, yapping as he took the stairs at a gallop. A door
opened on the landing. She withdrew, closing the kitchen door behind her.
Flustered, she started to clear up. Paul tumbled into the room. He pulled his
t-shirt down at the back with one hand and tried to smooth his hair with the
other.

“Hi ya, okay?” He was flushed, breathless.

“Tests. Nothing obvious.”

“What?”

“Monty, remember, vet.”

“Oh, yeah, good, er Marianne.”

A blonde head appeared behind him.

“Hello,” it beamed.

Lovely smile. Marianne blinked.

“And you are?”

“Sorry, Cheryl. Cheryl Ward,” the smiling face extended its
hand, “nice to meet you. I’ve heard so much.”

“Indeed? Wish I could say the same.”

The girl removed her hand from mid-air where Marianne had
left it.

“I met Cheryl in hospital.”

Marianne resumed wiping the counter top.

“Were you in the attack?” She thought she would have
remembered such a fresh, angelic face.

“No, I’m a nurse.”

“Ward Sister, Ward,” offered Paul, trying to make a joke of
the girl’s name, Marianne looked straight through him.

“I’m just taking Monty for a walk, we could do with the air.
Help yourselves to anything you like.” She looked them both up and down.

It was dark when she returned. The kitchen was spotless, the
washing machine on. Cheryl had gone. Paul offered her a drink. She declined,
angry at Paul, furious at herself.

“She seemed nice.”

“I wanted to tell you.”

“Is it serious then?” She examined her fingernails.

“I think so.”

“Good. I’m pleased for you, pleased for you both.”

“Marianne…”

“Hey, we’re friends. We’ve always been friends, always will
be. Nothing’s changed.”

But everything had.

Jack Buchannan did not
take the news at all well. Isabelle berated him for his selfishness. He ignored
her, pouring his guest a whiskey and himself vodka. He had been told to cut
down on the gin. Grouchy and discommoded, he joined them at the table. Marianne
pleated her napkin. Catching Isabelle’s eye, she shrugged.

“You have to let me go, Jack.”

He pushed the plate away. It was Isabelle’s classic Aberdeen
Angus stroganoff. He had barely touched it. In the candlelight he looked more
liverish than usual. Isabelle tutted as she took his plate.

“Paul’s a bairn. Nay the gift,” he said to his placemat.

“I’ll be back. I just need some space. A break.”

“But six weeks?”

Marianne was entitled. She had been with the company long
enough for a career sabbatical, she was permitted to take three months leave in
any given twenty-four month period.

“Well, work while you’re away. What about a Travelogue? What
about a series of retrospective articles about the attack. Aye, while you are
away, that would be the time to write it, flashback style, contrast with return
to normality. We could syndicate it.”

“Maybe.”

None of their group had written a single word about their
experience on that vengeful night, no interview, no report, no discussion, not even
between themselves. They had sewn their bodies back together, plastered over
the cracks and returned battered and bruised to their respective lives. Jack
was seriously pissed off that not one, but two of his own writers had the
inside track on what was a world-shattering event – a bestselling story of
carnage and tragedy. Yet there seemed to be this debilitating, unspoken pact
and neither of them had written a damn word.

“Well, why not do some follow-ups on the ‘babies for sale’
scam. You have a few more reunited through the website – there must be stories
there?”

“Early days, really.”

“You know we’re losing money hand over fist, Marie,” said
Jack; the shortening of her name, a sign of his affection. “More and more
regional dailies are becoming weeklies. What about the Bath Chronicle? You know
what happened there, a weekly after being published daily since 1760. Sign of
the times, blidy internet.”

“Progress, change, embrace it, Jack.”

He guffawed, deep in his chest.

“Too late f’me but no f’you.  You’re the bridge between my
era and the future. I need someone to hand over to. I thought it was what you
wanted?”

She reached across the table and squeezed his clump of a
hand. Calloused, tobacco-stained fingers gripped his now empty glass.

“Weren’t you told to cut down on the drink?” She asked.

 “Were you not told to cut down on your lip?” He replied.
They grinned at each other.

Isabelle returned with cheese and fruit. Jack sliced a wedge
of crumbly Stilton.

“Our paymasters are highly political. Don’t be away any
longer, I’m warning ye, lots of bright young things queuing up in the wings,
promotions because of connections, not ability.”

Marianne nodded. Isabelle sneaked some of the cheese off
Jack’s plate.

“Good, that’s settled then. Are we looking after Monty,
while you are away?” she asked.

 “No. Thanks Isabelle, but he’s coming with me. He could do
with a break too.”

Although he had accepted
Paul, Monty was still sniffing every man who came to the house, plumber,
builder, electrician, in the hope that it might be George, returned. Marianne
had decided the vet’s advice could apply to them both. She was in the middle of
packing when Paul announced his imminent engagement to Cheryl.

“I’ll have moved out by the time you get back.” He was
over-chirpy.

“Take as long as you like, not sure when we’ll be back.” She
gave him a stiff smile, continuing to stuff items of clothing into her bag.

“Congratulations Paul, hope you’ll both be very happy…” he
mumbled, as he left the room.

She could face neither Sophie’s or Sharon’s interrogation,
so sent a cowardly round-robin text saying she was off to Ireland for an
extended break and would be in touch. The new message symbol flashed back
immediately from Sophie. Marianne turned the phone off, loaded the car and
headed west, shielding her eyes from a watery sunset.

Larry Leeson sipped a latte, pulling
idly at a bagel, on a napkin bearing the legend ‘Bennie’s Wine and Diner, you
won’t find finer’. He lifted heavy-lidded eyes to the window, gazing at the
murky early November swirl of New York, just visible from the nineteenth floor
of Faddon Heights. He sighed, picked up a pile of paper and, rising with effort
to his feet, unceremoniously dumped the stack in his waste basket which,
already over-flowing, collapsed sideways spilling the sheets onto the thick,
pile carpet.

He flicked the switch on the intercom.

“Mimi,” he barked although, it had to be said Larry was one
theatrical agent whose bark really was worse than his bite.

“Hmm, hmmmmm...” came the reply, Mimi was already
exasperated by her boss’s bad humour and unwillingness to be appeased this
morning.

“Did you try Ryan again?”

“Yes, Mr Leeson. I tried Ryan again. I tried all his
numbers, and left messages at his west coast beach house; his New York
apartment; his girlfriend’s apartment and his answering service. I have also
left messages on his cell phone, and no Mr Leeson, he has not got back to me.”

“Did you say it was urgent?”

“No, did
you
say it was urgent?”

“Of course it’s goddamn urgent. Why d’you think I got you to
ring half way around the goddamn world, if it’s not goddamn urgent.”

Mimi remained quiet while Larry calmed himself. It was a
ritual they had established over the years.

“Well, his service said they were under the impression Mr O’Gorman
was out of the country at present, but couldn’t give me any more information
than that.”

“Which country?” Larry was really irritated now; with Mimi;
with Ryan’s answering service, and particularly with Ryan.

“I didn’t ask,” Mimi offered. Then quietly, “Ms Leeson’s
just arrived, sir.”

“Shit!” said Larry.

“I heard that,” responded his sister, striding through the
doorway into his office. Lena Leeson was not the door-knocking kind.

“So you haven’t managed to track down Boy Wonder then?” she
observed, planting her considerably-sized bottom on the edge of his glass and
chrome desk.

“Not yet.” He smiled, more of a grimace - a vain attempt at
brightness.

Lena could see straight through her little brother; it was
obvious he was unconvinced the time between now and contacting his errant
client was diminishing in anyway, and worse than that, he also seemed to be,
well, scared.

“
There’s something you’re not telling me
,” she
sing-songed at him, in her gravelly New York accent. Larry hastily wrapped the
remains of the bagel in the napkin and threw them towards the bin. Lena
followed the trajectory.

“Well, what have we here?” The magenta-taloned hands bent to
retrieve the discarded script. She flipped the opening pages, raised an eyebrow
and slammed the paperwork down on Larry’s desk.

“He’s not even seen the script?” She was incredulous.

“He doesn’t need to. The part’s global, it’s monolithic. The
script mere detail, not important...” He trailed off.

“Not important? Maybe, if he were any normal, hungry,
half-talented, not-too-bad looking actor perhaps. But you know Ryan. I know
Ryan. He actually thinks things like the script matter, he actually believes
acting is an art form; he has some mad cockamamie notion that his work could
somehow be cerebral. Gimme-a-break, Larry. We’re on the verge of the biggest,
single deal in the history of not only Leeson & Leeson, but the whole
goddamn Universe and I can tell that you – beloved brother – are scared outta
your mind because there is a distinct danger that the stupid, Irish son-of-a-bitch,
could actually turn this down. He might, just might, say no.”

“Ah, come on Lena.” The reply was unconvincing.

She pulled a pack of cigarettes from her latest designer
handbag, flipping her solid gold lighter and taking a deep drag of the sweet
tobacco. She glared out of the window. This building is strictly no smoking
thought Larry dismally, as he played with the heavy gold chain at his throat.

“Mr Rossini has been on, himself, personally, two times. He
needs an answer. We need contracts, a schedule. He has two others lined up and
I know Steven Saggito has already told half of LA he has the part.” She
expertly flicked ash into the remains of his latte. “We need that half-baked
son of a tinker and we need him now!”

Larry frowned, his stomach churning. Ryan was one of his
oldest friends. They had been at drama school together before Larry decided the
roar of the crowd was not for him and offered, half-jokingly, to become Ryan’s
agent instead. They had, by many others’ standards, been successful but this
was potentially the biggest deal he had ever handled. It could make them, all
three of them, very wealthy and without any real need to do anything much for
the rest of their lives.

“I am not flying back to Los Angeles unless I can drive
straight to Rossini’s office with a clutch of papers in my briefcase, ready for
the great man and our two bit TV star to sign.”

The significance of her presence in his office was portent,
she rarely left her Californian masseur, hairdresser or plastic surgeon for longer
than a weekend these days. Larry decided to come clean.