The Hollow Heart (The Heartfelt Series) (23 page)

“What fecking visitors?” The older woman replied.

They piled down the stairs and out into the lane.

Marianne gazed through the French
doors of the garden room at seventy four Oakwood Avenue. The preened
Chesterford landscape was in sharp contrast set against the wild, unfettered
hinterland of Innishmahon. The room, which was meant to open the house to the
changing seasons, only seemed to reinforce her claustrophobia. Beyond the
boundary of the oak tree, Georgian railings blended into Victorian terraced
houses, which faded in the distance like rows of uniformed soldiers. She had
always loved Oakwood Avenue, the garden and the tree lined cul-de-sac, but now
it looked bland, uninteresting, somehow it disappointed her.

Clipping his lead on distractedly, she took Monty on their
daily constitutional to the park. The weather was unseasonably mild for
December. Marianne sat on a bench, re-reading the letter suspending her from
duty while the Board decided whether she had broken the terms of her contract
by taking six weeks consecutive leave. It was a vacuous ploy to be rid of her.

She grumbled under her breath, she had never been a day out
of work since leaving college, and although it had not been a conscious
decision, she could certainly be called ‘a career girl’, even if that
definition just meant a female without the demands and needs of a family to
impact on her professional life. She was, as her CV stated, diligent and loyal;
creative yet practical; willing to learn from those who were more experienced
and a fine example to up and coming professionals. How dare they?

 “I don’t deserve this.” She stood up abruptly, beckoning
Monty to abandon the rear of a friendly spaniel, and follow her homewards, as
she waggled her disabled mobile in the air. She dropped the phone on the hall
table and grabbed the landline to dial Jack’s number. Isabelle answered.

“Oh, Marie, it’s so lovely to hear you. We’ve been worried.
Are you alright?”

Marianne assured her all was well and asked to speak to
Jack. Isabelle hesitated.

“You’d better come and see him yourself. He’s not the best.”

“Not ill, is he?”

“No, not ill. No more so than he has been these past years.
Just not the best. Not himself, but even more himself, you’ll see what I mean.”

Marianne caught Isabelle’s anxiety.

“Come and eat with us. Come at seven.”

Marianne went to hang up.

“Is it just yourself coming?”

“Monty’s free too,” Marianne replied, lightening the tone.

“That’s good. Just yourself and Monty, then.” Isabelle hung
up quickly.

Jack was clearly depressed, morose, grouchy and more
crotchety than ever. He barely rose out of his armchair as Marianne entered,
looking briefly up from his glass with liverish eyes. He had a tartan picnic
rug around his knees. Monty saw this as an invitation and pushed his nose at
his legs, asking to be allowed onto his lap. Jack acquiesced, giving the dog a
cursory stroke. Sensing a brief respite in Jack’s demeanour, Monty settled
quickly. Isabelle sighed. It was the kindest Jack had been to any living thing
for months.

“Hi Jack, how’s things? Can’t say I’m that thrilled to be
back.” Marianne knelt down beside his chair.

Jack seemed to have forgotten Marianne had been away in
Ireland for a month and a half. He eyed her suspiciously.

“Well, I’m not really back, as you know. They’ve suspended
me,” she continued.

He looked straight at her, as if to check if she was lying.

“What? What the hell is going on there? Do you need a
lawyer? Isabelle fetch me my contacts book.” He twisted in his chair, looking
for the telephone.

Marianne took his hands in hers.

“No, no, Jack, I’m fine. I’ll sort it out. They’re in the
wrong, don’t you worry about it.”

He took a deep breath and seemed to calm a bit, momentarily
looking off into the distance.

“How are you Jack?” she asked softly.

“Furious. Fucking furious, if you want to know. I’ve been
shown the door by a piddling pipsqueak no bigger than this fella and with none
of his intelligence.”

Monty, now squashed on his lap seemed unable to decide if
this was a good, or a bad thing, so just eyed Jack cautiously.

“It’s up to me to decide when I stop. Not them, faceless
bastards on the top floor. Couldn’t manage a piss-up in a brewery, as we well
know. No hope managing a newspaper. And what are you doing? Why have you been
so backwards in coming forwards? Up to no good, I’ll be bound.”

“Marianne’s been away, Jack. You know that.” Isabelle and
Marianne exchanged a look. Jack glared at them both.

“I was just telling you, I’ve been suspended, something
about my contract. Didn’t know I had one, did you?” Marianne smiled.

Jack grunted.

“Didn’t know I had a retirement plan until they told me. Now
I’m living it.”

“But we’ll not want for anything,” Isabelle called from the
kitchen.

“Not the blidy point; blidy dictatorship.” Jack drained his
glass.

“Paul’s written a book.” Marianne tried to change the
subject.

“So I believe. Shame he wouldn’t put pen to paper when I
asked him to, asked you both to, we might still be in work if you had. Could
have sold the world rights for a decent series of articles - an inside take on
the bombing. Might have saved our bacon, but no, too highly principled for
that, too sensitive, too bullshit. Made me look foolish, weak. I can’t even get
a decent story out of my own team, who were there on the night. Really helped
circulation, that did!”

“Jack, it wasn’t like that. Not meant anyway.”

“It blidy well was like that. Nail in my coffin. And now
he’s nailed yours. Blidy disgrace.”

Isabelle came into the sitting room, making soothing
gestures.

“Ah, stop woman,” Jack barked, handing her his glass to
refill, “you know it’s the truth. Betrayed by two of my own. And now the Irish
story, don’t suppose you’re going to write that one either?”

“What’s to write? I was on holiday. There was a storm.
Plenty of reports on TV, you must have seen them.”

“There’s more to tell,” Jack replied. “More to tell in a
different way, there always is.”

“Maybe, but not right now.”

“Humph,” Jack replied, taking a long swig, which seemed to
soothe him.

“Anyway, I thought you’d be happy to retire. Hand over. You
were always saying you’d had enough. I could have your job if only I was half
as good as you, but I wasn’t, you were always saying that.”

“True.” He patted Marianne’s hand, relenting. “But in my own
time, not dancing to their tune. Suits and calculators, I ask ye? And they’ve
even chucked you out, and you’re a shining star, that’s what you are, well, on
and off, anyway.” They chuckled together, then Jack gripped her hand. “You
better get something else straight in your head. That lad’s ambitious and he’s
changed. He’s ambitious and he’s angry. I don’t know why, and I don’t know what
about. But he’s a blue-eyed boy with the new regime and they don’t take any
prisoners. None of us will escape, you mark my words.”

“Now, now Jack. Come and eat some supper,” Isabelle pleaded.

“You watch, there’ll be the book about the bombing – the
inside story; then the storm in Ireland, all featuring this newly world-famous
movie star, who is supposedly more of a hero off screen than he is on. Paul
will make a fortune for himself, when he should’ve made it for the paper, he’ll
toss the likes of us aside in his stampede to become a global media magnate. Ye
gods!” He pushed Monty off his lap and hauled himself up out of the chair,
shuffling towards the door in carpet slippers.

“Jack... Supper!” Isabelle insisted.

“And what about the latest rumour? The notion that the movie
star, has a love interest in Ireland, while his girlfriend back in Hollywood
struggles with a difficult pregnancy. Who started that I wonder? What happened
to news, decent features, integrity?”

“What?” Marianne too was on her feet.

“Jack! Supper!” Isabelle called.

“I need a lie down. Goodnight Marie.” He closed the door
behind him.

Marianne turned wide-eyed to Isabelle.

“More like himself than he ever was? I see what you mean.”

The women ate in silence.

Isabelle was washing up, Marianne drying, and Monty gnawing
the bone of the chop that would have been Jack’s.

“He’s too much time on his hands, looking at daytime telly
and surfing the internet, usually both at the same time. He feels he has every
right to be angry,” Isabelle spoke quietly, “he feels betrayed.”

“I can see that,” Marianne was putting cutlery away.

“You and Paul were once so close. Did you know about any of
this?”

“No way.” Marianne let the knives clatter into the drawer.
“He came to tell me about the articles, the book, but not to ask permission. He
seemed to want me to hear it from him. But that was all. The deal was struck.
Paul told me I’d been suspended and Jack was ‘off the scene’ as he put it.”

“So he is just looking out for himself, making a fast buck,
a name for himself.”

“He said he needed the money, getting married and all.”

“Really? I’d heard he’d called it off. He’s running around
with a new bit of fluff these days, a model or some such,” Isabelle said, as
she released the plug and let the water gurgle away.

“I think he’s planning to marry the model now. You can’t
blame a young man hankering after the lifestyle.”

Isabelle shrugged.

“When did he tell you about the book?”

“In Ireland.”

“He came to Ireland then? Did he stay long?”

“No, it was after the storm had hit, we’d been cut off, he
came by boat. No he didn’t stay long.”

“Last ditch attempt to woo you back?”

“We’ve only ever been friends, Isabelle, whatever others and
indeed Paul might have thought. He was a bit strange, though. It was an odd
time, for all of us.”

“All of us?” Isabelle asked, intrigued.

“Is that the time? I’d better get a move on. Not even
unpacked properly yet and Monty needs a walk.”

Isabelle went to fetch Marianne’s coat.

“Was it Innishmahon, you stayed? The island that was cut
off?”

“Er, yes, lots of places were cut off. It made a mess of a
thirty mile stretch of the coast.”

“It said in one of Paul’s articles about the movie star’s
early days, how he’d spent many summers there, on the island. I’m sure it was
that island.”

“Really? Nice place, though.”

Isabelle wiped down the draining board, then stood looking
out of the window, holding onto the side of the sink.

“Marie, be careful. I don’t mind about the newspaper, Global
Communications, or even Paul Osborne making money from a little bit of fact and
a lot of fiction. But a broken heart? That’s a much bigger issue. You can’t see
the damage, or feel the pain – but it’s still excruciating, you should know,
you’ve been through it before.” She touched Marianne’s shoulder in parting.
“And a heart broken in public view is even harder to bear. I know, I’m living
with it every day. Jack thinks the whole world is laughing at him. I don’t know
which is crueller, letting him go on thinking that or telling him the truth,
that no-one really gives a damn.”

Marianne left the Buchannans with a heavy heart and an even
heavier stomach. Isabelle really was the most awful cook. Monty, on the other
hand, considered Isabelle’s culinary skills exemplary, everything swimming in
grease and always generous leftovers congealing gently in cling film for him to
consume later. Back at Oakwood Avenue, once he had devoured Isabelle’s treats,
Monty sloped off to bed while his mistress pulled things out of bags, pushing
them into drawers before slamming the door of George’s study, to engage in a
lengthy discourse with his paperweight.

Half the week had gone by
the time Marianne had dealt with the washing, a pile of post and a dodgy
boiler. She was about to go out of her mind with boredom, when both Oonagh and
Miss MacReady emailed.

Oonagh brought news that plans to reinstate the bridge had
been agreed at the Parish Council Meeting. And news of her own, she and Padar
were going to try IVF. They knew it was risky and expensive, but it was worth a
chance, their final chance. If the storm had done anything positive, it had
made them realise that they wanted a family more than anything. She asked
Marianne to say a prayer and in the same sentence, asked if she had heard from
the film star, because the latest online blog said filming was going well but
that his personal life was not. His agent, Lena Leeson – not that Larry fella
at all – had commented that Ryan wanted to be left alone to concentrate on his
work. There had been no recent mention of the girlfriend or the supposed
pregnancy! What did Marianne make of that?

Marianne laughed out loud. Oonagh wrote exactly as she
spoke, and it amused her to think that this woman, living on a remote island
off the west coast of Ireland, could be so bewitched by an industry operating
from a town halfway round the world. She was pleased about the IVF treatment.
The Quinns’ disappointment, following Oonagh’s miscarriage, had been
heart-rending. Marianne said a quick Hail Mary for a happy outcome as she opened
the postmistress’s email.

News of the battle for the Innishmahon bridge, as Miss
MacReady referred to the now monumental debate, was also positive. Miss
MacReady agreed with Padar and the other business people on the island, the
bridge needed to be rebuilt, but with so much widespread devastation following
the storm, it would be hard to justify such enormous non-urgent expenditure for
the benefit of just one small community.

Miss MacReady wondered if Marianne could think of anything
that might help the cause. Since she had looked her up on Google and saw she
was a bit of a campaigner herself, she thought the website reuniting mothers
with babies stolen in the charity scam, was brilliant. Could Marianne do the
same for Innishmahon?