The Hollow Heart (The Heartfelt Series) (28 page)

Subject: Little White Dog

Message: I’ve been working on a script. It’s a romantic
comedy. The lead roles feature an actor and a West Highland terrier. The story
is a bit stuck and someone has threatened to expose the plot and spoil the
ending. Don’t trust anyone.

Signed, Monty Weathervane.

“What does all that mean?” Oonagh pinged back immediately.
Marianne speed dialled Oonagh from her mobile.

“Can you make sure he gets it? I have to trust you Oonagh,
there’s no-one else.”

“I’m a gold star, platinum plated member of his fan club.
Our messages are blogged daily, and he responds - all part of his contract.”

Marianne laughed out loud, but at least she was reassured.
Trust Oonagh to be appraised of the detail of Ryan’s contract.

“You can’t tell anyone where this came from. You have to
keep this secret for me. It would serve no purpose to blow this wide open, no
purpose at all.”

Oonagh was quiet for a moment.

“You’ve seen him, then?”

Marianne did not respond.

“You two are an item, aren’t you? I knew it, knew it all
along,” Oonagh staged-whispered down the phone.

“Will you help me? Help me warn him?” Marianne pleaded.

“Of course I will. Aren’t we as close as sisters? You have
my word. I won’t let you down.”

“You’re an angel. Thank you.”

“On one condition, you two are godparents to this little one
when it arrives.”

Marianne was touched by her friend’s request.

“I can’t answer for
him
, but try and stop me.”

The next day an
extravagant bouquet arrived, arranged in a vase the shape of a martini glass. A
note in Ryan’s loopy hand read:
‘Message received. Already tricky. Whatever
happens, wait for me. Trust me. My love, always.’

Marianne placed the vase on the dining room table and tore
the note into tiny pieces, tossing the shards of paper one by one on the fire.

“Sorry boyo,” she told the burning embers, “I’m not waiting
around for anyone. I’ve places to go, people to see.”

She poured a whiskey and took it into the study. She needed
to commune with George. She needed him to know how she felt. She needed him to
understand. She needed him with her. Sitting in the chair at his desk, she
reflected that for some time, she had felt strangely detached and hollow, as if
Oakwood Avenue were no longer her home, and Chesterford no longer where she
wished to be. In a very short space of time she had been through a series of
major traumas: George’s death; the bomb attack; the storm on Innishmahon. And
she had survived. Surely she had been spared for a reason? Surely she was still
around for some purpose?

Sipping her drink, she considered her friends, Sophie and
Sharon, ex-colleagues more than friends, both busy with babies and all the
changes new lives bring. And what of Paul? Once a dear friend, now someone she
did not like and could no longer trust. She sighed. She found it hard to
believe he had changed so fundamentally. Was it avarice? Jealousy? Ambition?
They had been so close once, too close, perhaps. Then she thought about
Isabelle, Jack’s stoical wife, who had chosen to remain in Scotland. Her
homeland, she called it, with or without Jack. None of them needed her, they
all had their own lives.

It was time for change, time to forge a new life for
herself. She had done it before and she could do it again, maybe this time with
a happier outcome. She pulled a tight smile at the framed photograph of herself
and George at the awards ceremony, still in pride of place on the desk where he
had placed it. She had never made particularly good choices where men were
concerned, George being the only exception, and he very definitely had chosen
her, not the other way round. Ryan?

Well, Ryan would have to be the one that got away, just a
fling with a being from another planet; a gorgeous dalliance with someone from
another world. It was all just a huge crush and though it hurt, her heart would
heal. It was time to take stock, take charge. She nodded at George, as he
grinned back from the photo, and drained her glass.

Marianne accepted the
first offer on the house, put her best pieces of furniture into storage, and
sold the rest. She bought a second-hand 4x4 and booked a crossing to Dun
Laoghaire. A cause needed a fundraiser; an unborn child needed a godmother; She
would let everyone know where she was, once she was settled. She was on a
deadline, her own deadline, for a change.

Monty spotted the walking boots, soles stuck with sand from
their last Irish adventure, as they were slung into an old sailing bag with his
bowls, rugs and half-chewed toys. He yapped at the bag, then whimpered gently,
as the door of his newly purchased travel cage was clipped shut.

“Sorry Monty, long journey, you’ll be more comfortable in
here.”

He gave her a doubtful look but settled down, none the less.
Marianne wondered if he knew they were going back to Innishmahon, if he knew
they were going for good, and then she smiled, this was the first time she had
admitted as much to herself. She pulled the heavy Georgian door closed behind
her, clutching the glass paperweight she had redeemed from George’s desk before
it went into storage. She jumped into the truck and swung out into the avenue.

“Don’t look back, Monty,” she called, adjusting her
spectacles at the same time as the rear-view mirror, narrowly missing a
double-decker bus. “Never look back,” she murmured, accidently swishing the
windscreen wipers as she drove.

Ryan O’Gorman was both pleased and
intrigued to find his agent and friend, Larry Leeson, sitting in his trailer
sipping a chilled soda, when he returned from shooting his latest escapade as
the daredevil secret agent, Thomas Bentley. He greeted him warmly.

“Hey, nice surprise. Good to see you.” He stopped, letting
his arms drop. Larry looked in no mood for a hug. He gave Ryan a vague smile
and mopped his brow with a crisp, white handkerchief, unnecessary with the air
conditioning on full blast. Ryan waited, he knew Larry hated travelling, rarely
left his New York office these days, claiming to be incalculably busy. He had
even employed another PA to help with the workload, which was indicative of the
pressure he was under. Being an inflexible perfectionist, Larry preferred to do
everything himself.

Pouring himself an ice cold mineral water, Ryan waited for
his visitor to speak.

“How’s it going?” Larry’s gaze swept over his friend
appreciatively; he looked fit, tanned, groomed, yet beneath the makeup, tired.
Ryan shrugged. Larry knew how it was going; he received daily reports from his
contacts on the set, if not from Ryan himself.

“Is it Angelique?”

Larry nodded gravely.

“The old habit?”

Larry sighed, gazing out of the trailer window across the windblown
desert, towards the set which had been created to look like a lunar landscape.
Thomas Bentley was displaying his skills as an astronaut in this particular
scene.

“She’s been partying rather heavily since you guys split.
I’ve had reports of some pretty wild stuff, so I put a private eye on her tail
for the last few weeks and some of the photographs... Christ, if the press ever
got hold of them!”

Ryan pulled out the chair at his dressing table. He sat
heavily, unscrewing the lid off the cold cream, smearing it carelessly over his
face, glaring back at Larry through the mirror, his eyes burning through the
whiteness slashed across his brown skin.

“Well?”

“She’s still pregnant, but only just, I reckon. Anyway, I’ve
seen her, spoken to her, and I’m sorry, Ryan, but if you want to save that
baby, if you really believe it’s yours, you’re gonna have to take a break from
filming; get back over there and try and sort her out. Even if you just do what
has to be done until the kid is born, and then it’s up to you.”

“Couldn’t you persuade her to go into a clinic, if not for
her sake, for the sake of the child?”

“She ain’t making any sense, Ryan. It’s worse than ever.
She’s hanging around with a bad crowd, and there’s this young rock star. Well,
what they’re not taking, snorting or drinking is only because it ain’t been
invented yet and…” Larry was striding about the trailer, twisting and
untwisting the handkerchief in his fingers.

“Stop!” Ryan shouted, jumping up and lunging at Larry. He
pinned his arms to his sides. “You know it’s mine. She was straight enough to
calculate that correctly, the last time we made love, to the minute. God knows
she knew what she was doing, that’s the truth of it.”

Freeing himself, Larry handed Ryan a box of tissues to clean
his face, then went into the galley kitchen and started making tea.

“Well, I’ve thought this through, so hear me out,” he said,
pouring the now-fresh-faced Ryan a cup. “I’ve negotiated a break with the
director. We don’t want Angelique’s beloved Uncle Franco to know what’s really
going on, so we’ll say it’s for personal and medical reasons; she’s having a
difficult pregnancy, and you need to be with her. Just till the obstetrician
says things have stabilised.”

Ryan nodded, sipping his tea gratefully.

“You get married, get her into the clinic, finish filming
and, by then, the baby should be born and you’ll be back home and we can sort
things from there.”

Ryan gave Larry a wry smile. Larry continued to look him
straight in the eye.

“What?!” Ryan yelled, putting his cup down with a clatter.
“You’re serious? Are you mad? I can’t marry that woman…it’s, it’s a crazy idea.
I don’t even like her, let alone love her. Come on Larry, I’ve been trying to
sort Angelique out for ages, but you and I know she’s her own worst enemy. She’ll
take everyone down with her…you’ve got to come up with something else, you’ve
just got to, please, I beg you.”

Larry shook his head slowly.

“I’ve checked things out. When Angelique has the baby, and
let’s face it, unless some sort of miracle occurs, she ain’t gonna make ‘Mother
of the Year’, you will no doubt want custody of the child. If you’re not
married, it’s going to cause all sorts of problems and, dare I say it, a
fortune to sort out. Particularly if you want to take the child out of the US.
Believe me, it looks complicated now, but it really is the simplest way in the
long term.”

Ryan had, by now, forsaken tea for a very large bourbon. He
took a deep draught.

“But I’m in love with someone else,” he said, in a small
voice.

Larry softened.

 “I think I know that.” He smiled at his client pityingly.
“And if she loves you, you’ll work it out. I know you, you ain’t nothing, if
not tenacious.”

“When has all this got to happen?” Ryan was pale beneath the
tan.

“Right now, my friend.” Larry went to the bedroom to locate
an overnight bag to start packing. “And in secret, no communication, you hear?
Don’t email, use your cell phone, nothing. If Angelique gets wind you’re on
your way home to break up the party, she’ll go to ground. Lena’s on the case,
sorting out the wedding arrangements as we speak.

“ This time next week, it will all be over, and Angelique
will be safely ensconced in the clinic for the remainder of her pregnancy. So,
not a word to anyone. We’ll surprise her.”

“We’ll surprise more than her,” Ryan said flatly, draining
the remains of his drink.

The road from Dun Laoghaire to
Innishmahon is a long one. Marianne and Monty stopped overnight at a roadside
hotel and made good time to Knock the next day. It was unheard of for Marianne
to travel to Ireland and not have her fix of Dublin, the playground of her
college days, but something was driving her on. She needed to be further away.
She needed to be somewhere else. She needed to be in Innishmahon.

She burst through the doors of Maguire’s, having driven
straight off the ferry and into the car park. Padar was polishing glasses ahead
of the lunchtime trade. He dropped the cloth, hurrying towards her with open
arms.

“Marie, heavens above, where have you sprung from? I’d no
idea. Did you tell Oonagh you were coming?” laughed the landlord, embracing her
heartily, as he rubbed Monty briskly under the chin.

“What can I get you?
Oonagh! Oonagh!”
he called up
the stairs.

 A heavily pregnant figure appeared, clad in a swirling
purple kaftan.

“Okay, I’m coming, where’s the fire, for god sake?”

Padar oiked a finger at the figure in the shadows.

“She’s here. Marie. She, and the little fella with her.”

Oonagh was upon them in seconds, tears of joy running down
her plump cheeks.

“Hey, hey what’s all this?” Marianne hugged her friend.

“Ah, hormones, only. How long are you here for? Come in,
come in. Padar, did you get Marie a drink? She’s had a woeful journey
altogether.” Oonagh busied herself behind the bar, pouring a drink for Marie.
“Padar, fetch Monty some warm milk. God love them, they’re half-starved. Look
at them!”

Marianne smiled broadly as she watched the usual scenario
unfold.

“There is food in England you know, Oonagh. The war is
over.”

“Shut up,” Oonagh said, eyes twinkling, “well if there is,
you eat none of it, and look at the poor little fella.” Monty wagged up at her.
He loved Oonagh and Padar.

“Well, you’re in luck. The people in Weathervane left
yesterday and I don’t have another booking until next month.”

“That’s good, but you’ll have to put the next lot off too.”
Marianne sipped her drink.

“Will I? Why? Are you staying for a good while?”

“Put it this way. Is it for sale?”

“At the right price,” Padar interjected, returning with the
milk.

“Ah, stop it, Padar,” Oonagh chided. “But not a holiday
home, surely? Surely you’ll come and live among us?”