The Year of Living Famously (16 page)

At least half the people in the room looked up from their laptops or magazines when Declan and I walked in. No one bothered us, though, as we got a few triangles of cheese and a drink from the bar. We took a seat near the plate-glass window that overlooked the tarmac. Declan picked up the courtesy phone and dialed.

“Graham,” he said. “Sorry to bother you at home.” He paused. “Yeah, we're on our way, but we had a spot of trouble getting here.”

He told Graham the story about Amy Rose, the words she had said. “Kyra is really freaked out,” he said. “And to be honest, I am, too.” He glanced over his shoulder, lest any reporter be lurking. You never knew.

After a moment, Declan gestured for me. I sat on his lap, and he held the phone close so that we could both hear.

“Listen, kids,” Graham said. “I think it's time to get you out of Venice.”

I shot Declan a look. Venice Beach was the one place in L. A. I felt attached to.

“I know you love it,” Graham said, as if sensing my thoughts. “But it's really not a secure place. Sure, there are some nice big houses on the canals, but any Tom, Dick or Harry could trot right down there and jump your fence.”

“What about a place on the beach?” I said. I adored the ocean, especially viewed from the Venice boardwalk.

“Those places are worse. You've got tourists from South Dakota walking by all day, and the houses are smashed close together. It'd be easy to stand out on the beach and point a telescope, or something worse, right into your windows.”

I had a flash of Amy Rose in her purple T-shirt, standing on the beach with a hunting rifle.

“What do you suggest?” Declan said.

“Here's what I'll do for you. While you kids are gone, I'll get a real estate agent looking for something more private. You've got the money now. You might as well stop throwing it away on rent and get someplace safe for the both of you. How does that sound?”

Declan looked at me. I nodded. I was already dreading going back to our apartment with Amy Rose lurking somewhere outside.

“Sounds good, Graham,” Declan said.

“Great. Call me when you're in Dublin and give me a fax number. I'll send you listings, and I'll personally start looking. We'll find you a new home.”

Another one, I thought.

D
espite the relative luxury of first class, with its hot, white towels and unlimited cabernet (which I made good use of), I felt trapped and restless the entire time. I couldn't stop seeing Amy Rose, her face leaning close to the car window. I kept hearing her matter-of-fact voice saying,
You're going to visit our family.
What was wrong with that girl? And how many times had she watched us through our windows?

It wasn't hard to figure out how she had learned our address. After
Normandy
came out, we got an unlisted number, but there were still millions of phone books out there that said precisely the street and apartment number of our place in Venice.

The flight was interminable. While Declan snoozed with his chair fully reclined, his black shoes poking out from under a blue blanket, I drank one glass of wine after another. Instead of making me mellow, my anxiety grew. The plane felt like a flying lipstick tube where I was trapped against my will.

When we arrived in Dublin, Declan was fresh and keyed
up at the prospect of seeing his family and friends. Meanwhile, I was about to meet my in-laws with a hangover and a bad attitude.

As it turned out, the twins picked us up. “Hello, pet,” they said to me, hugging me roughly and messing my hair. Instantly, my mood improved. I wasn't sure where the term
pet
had come from, but I loved it. It made me feel like somebody's little sister.

Their car was tiny and cramped and dirty, shades of Declan's old car in L. A. (Since receiving the huge advance for his new film, he'd gotten a gold Jaguar sedan.)

“Christ, man, we can't turn on the TV anymore without seeing your bleedin' face,” Colin said to Declan. The twins seemed not so much impressed by Declan's success, but rather found the whole thing hysterically funny.

“And then there you are on this fecking interview, all straight-faced and such, talking about your
inspiration
.” This again from Colin, who rolled his eyes and wiggled his shoulders.

“Yeah,” said Tommy, raking his hands through his red hair, “like you've ever had any inspiration other than a properly poured pint of Guinness.”

Declan put his arm around me in the back seat and took their ribbing in stride. He swung his head constantly, looking out the windows. “God, it's good to be home.”

“We're taking your girl on the scenic route,” Tommy said.

Ten minutes later, Tommy told me to start paying attention. “This here is O'Connell Bridge,” Tommy said as we passed over a four-lane bridge. People packed its sidewalks. “And you can get a view of the River Liffey.” The river was a wide stretch of placidly flowing brownish water. I didn't admit to the twins that I had somehow expected it to be green.

The buildings in the area were tightly packed brown
stones or brick apartment buildings with storefronts at ground level. It was a real city, unlike L. A., and I got a twinge of excitement to be there. We turned right at the end of the bridge and drove along the river's edge.

“Here's Temple Bar,” Declan said, gesturing to an area with cobblestone streets and shorter, quainter buildings. “Boys, Kyra's friend, Margaux, has told her we've got to get her pissed in Temple Bar.”

Tommy swung around from the front seat, a lascivious grin on his face. “How is Margaux?”

“Now listen up,” Colin said from the driver's seat. “See that across the river there?” He pointed at an impressive white stone building with a colonnade and a shallow green dome. “That there is Four Courts. That's where Declan's da works.”

“I can't wait for you to meet my parents,” Declan whispered in my ear.

“Me, too,” I said. Truth was, I was nervous again. I wished I'd slept or at least washed my face on the plane. I felt like a human grease slick.

Declan's parents' house was in an area called the Liberties, a more suburban part of the city. Rows of squat cottages were all connected together, but each was painted a different color—brown, yellow, cream, red. Short stone walls and diminutive iron gates gave the illusion that they protected the cottages. Lace curtains hung in nearly every window.

“The neighborhood is getting all posh now,” Colin said, “but we're fighting it.”

Declan's parents greeted us at the door. His father, Liam, was a barrel-chested man with graying black hair and the red nose and tired eyes of a career drinker. His mom, Nell, was the one who looked most like Declan. She had his chestnut hair and his golden eyes, although her eyes bore a certain tiredness that I'd never seen on Declan.

I knew that Nell's life with Liam had been a long haul. Liam's constantly drunken behavior and dalliances with other women had sent her first into rages and then into a separation of sorts. While Declan and his younger sister, Brenda, were in their teens, their parents lived together, but they had different lives. Every so often, Liam would move into the apartment of one of his girlfriends, but within months he would be back in his bedroom down the hall from his wife.

They were one of the first couples to get a divorce when the divorce laws changed in Ireland. Declan said he couldn't have been prouder of his mom for giving Liam the heave-ho, but within six months they were spending all their time together, more time than they had spent when they shared a home. Seven months after that, they remarried, and that was precisely when Declan left for L. A. His father didn't deserve his mother, he said, and he couldn't stand to see it.

“Declan!” Nell threw herself into her son's arms.

She had tears in her eyes, which almost made me cry, too. She had told Declan that his father's drinking was better—not perfect, but better—and that she was happy now with her husband. I knew, though, that she missed Declan immensely. He had been her main friend and support for all those years. Declan's sister was one of those quiet kids who kept to herself and her few friends, and so it was Declan who had gotten his mom through the tough times.

“Kyra,” Nell said, turning to me. She grasped my hands in both of hers, then gripped me in a sudden, tight hug. “We're so happy to meet you.”

“It's wonderful to meet you, too.”

I shook hands with Declan's father, who patted me on the arm. “Sure, aren't you the loveliest girl that Declan's ever courted?” Liam said.

“Oh, thanks, I—”

“And he's courted many,” Liam said, cutting me off.

The twins guffawed and started rooting through the kitchen cupboards.

I exchanged a quick hug with Brenda, a slight girl with a very fat baby on her hip. “Nat,” she said to her child, “this here is your aunt Kyra.”

My heart jumped and spun around at those words. I hadn't thought of it before, but I was an aunt now. A member of the family.

“Can I hold him?” I asked.

She handed Nat to me. He had fuzzy blond hair and too-blue eyes, a string of drool from one corner of his mouth. I bounced him on my hip, the way Brenda had been doing, and I felt another jump of my heart. He wasn't crying! The kid
knew
I was family.

Declan was across the room, accepting a bottle of soda from his dad, nodding at something he was saying. It had never been particularly smooth between them, mostly because Declan felt the need to protect his mother, but there was an apparent ease now. Declan was talking, explaining something about
Normandy,
while his dad beamed appreciatively.

I continued to bounce Nat on my hip. I asked Brenda how old he was. As she and I talked, I glanced once more at Declan. He caught my eye and beamed at me, and right then Los Angeles and Amy Rose seemed far, far away.

 

Declan and I spent the afternoon sightseeing around Dublin. He was hopped up on some kind of energy. He couldn't wait to show me everything.

We went first to Christchurch, stunning in its size and splendor, then to Dublin Castle, a King Arthur–type castle with moats and spires, plunked incongruously in the middle of the city. I put my hand on a mammoth stone door,
marveling at the other people who might have touched that same stone seven, eight, even nine hundred years ago.

“It's amazing, right?” Declan asked me at least five times.

Declan wanted to talk to everyone we came across. Only a few people recognized him, and he seemed not to care in the slightest. We met people in cabs and in coffee bars and in line at the National Museum. How sexy and full of character the Dubliners seemed to me. It had something to do with the Irish accent, so much more friendly and interesting than the British, so much more approachable. A British accent comes from the nose, but a brogue rolls out of the chest with a laugh waiting behind it.

In the early evening, as the sky turned a blue-black, Declan and I walked the lawns of Trinity College.

“God, it's amazing to be back here,” Declan said. He hadn't attended Trinity but he'd taken a playwriting seminar that had been held in one of the classrooms. “What do you think, love? Do you like the city?”

“I adore it,” I told him honestly. I felt comfortable in a way I hadn't since I left Manhattan.

“I miss it so much,” Declan said fervently. “So fecking much.”

“But you love L. A.,” I pointed out.

“I love L. A. the way I love my sister,” he said, slinging an arm over my shoulder. “But I love Dublin the way I love you.”

 

The next day, Dec's mom took me shopping on Grafton Street, a tight-angled avenue paved with brick and lined with shops and bars.

Shopping is something I love but I've mostly done alone in my life. As a kid, Emmie took me to Bergdorf's and sent me off with a salesgirl. Later, as an adult, she would take me back there when I was depressed, but it was always to choose between a few items she knew I wanted but
couldn't afford—a Pucci scarf, a Louis Vuitton bag. Once I'd made my selection, we were gone.

So it was strange but marvelous to be with Nell on Grafton Street. She picked out clothes for herself, but she was looking for me the whole time, too.

“Kyra, girl,” Nell would yell, gesturing for me to come to her side. “Sure, aren't these marvelous?” She handed me a pair of very cute powder-blue pants with tiny flowers embroidered along the cuff.

“They're great,” I said. “What would you wear with them?”

“Oh, not for me!” She laughed. “No, no, my dear. My backside would look enormous. I thought these would be lovely on you.”

I took them and studied them, struggling to hide how pleased I was by her mothering.

“Oh, I have to see them on you.” She hustled me off to the fitting room, where she stood outside until I came out to model for her. “Adorable!” she proclaimed.

I told the saleslady to ring them up. Even if I'd hated them, I think I would have bought them just to see Nell smile.

 

I took a nap when we got back from shopping that day. When I woke up, Declan was sitting at the kitchen table with piles of paper surrounding him.

“Graham already has ten houses for us to think about,” he said. “He faxed us the listings to the corner store.”

Nell came in the kitchen, and together we starting looking through them with Declan.

“Glory be to God!” Nell said. “These must cost a fortune. They're right mansions, they are.”

She wasn't far off base. These were real houses. Some had five bedrooms, some boasted four to five thousand square feet.

Then I looked at the list prices and nearly gasped. When Nell left the room for a moment, I whispered, “Dec, we don't need a million-dollar house.”

“A million won't get us anything,” he said, holding out a listing. It showed a white ranch house with a roof that looked more weather-beaten-gray than a nice Ralph-Lauren-paint-kind-of-gray. The bushes out front were bedraggled; the sidewalk leading up to the house was broken in places. It had three bedrooms and 1.5 baths, and the description said it was “cozy” with “knotty pine cabinets.” The list price was $990,000. Was that all a million dollars bought these days?

“It's in Bel Air,” Declan said, pointing to the picture “but it's in a neighborhood, right next to a bunch of other houses. We might as well stay in our apartment. Now, this is something that might work for us.”

He gave me another listing that showed a Southwestern desert–style home with adobe walls and a large arched front window.
Holmby Hills, Luxury Living at Its Finest!
the description boasted. It went on to brag about the four bedrooms and three and a half baths, the location at the prestigious Bel Air Crest, the pool, the spa, the “grand, sweeping staircase.” Finally, at the end, it mentioned the price tag of well over two million dollars.

“Okay, I'm not even commenting on the price right now,” I said to Declan. “We just don't need something this big. It's only the two of us.”

“Not really,” he said. “I've got to get an assistant, and they'll need to work there. And you need a proper office, and I'd like to have someplace to review scripts and such.”