The Girl on the Cliff (27 page)

They believe in magic, like I do, because they are a young race, still to learn the wisdom and cynicism that comes with experience.

So, let us find out how Matt is getting on …

Matt flicked aimlessly through the channels on TV. Even if there had been something that would normally take his fancy, he wouldn’t have been able to concentrate on it. His head was currently all over the joint and he was sleeping badly. Grania had been gone now for over seven weeks. And he hadn’t spoken to her for almost four of them. Charley’s constant ‘She’ll come back when she’s calmed down’, was wearing thin. It was becoming more and more obvious to Matt as each day passed that Grania was almost certainly never coming back. And their life together was over.

Many of his friends who knew what had happened to him had urged him to move on, citing the fact he was still young and at a stage when many of his contemporaries hadn’t begun to settle down yet anyway. Neither was he married to Grania – her insistence on living with him, so as to prove to his family and friends she was no gold-digger, had been more important to her than wearing a ring on her finger.

In essence, his friends were right. The loft he shared with Grania was rented, and there were no real assets between them. He was certainly not looking at a prolonged and painful divorce. He could simply terminate the lease to their loft – which he would have to do soon as the rent was impossible to afford alone – find another
place to live and walk away. Unscathed, practically and financially.

But emotionally, he was beginning to realise, it was a different story.

During his mental meanderings into the past, Matt had focused on the first time he had seen Grania. He and some of his friends had gone to the opening of a tiny gallery in SoHo – one of his buddies knew the owner of the gallery and the plan had been to pass by and show their faces, then move uptown for dinner. His crowd had arrived, the girls with them, immaculate as always in their designer jeans and freshly blow-dried hair.

The gallery was crowded and Matt had glanced cursorily at the modern art displayed on its walls; strange daubs that looked as if they’d been painted by toddlers were not really his thing. Then his eye fell on a small sculpture standing on a plinth in the corner of the room. He moved nearer to inspect it and saw it was a beautifully fashioned swan. His hands were drawn to trace the elegant neck, and the impression of the softness of the swansdown wings the sculptor had managed to create. It appealed to him. It was a beautiful thing. He checked the price and saw it was within his budget. He’d looked for someone who could tell him how to go ahead and purchase it. Having found the gallery owner talking to Al, a buddy of his, he was led over to a desk, where he produced his credit card.

‘You got good taste, sir. It’s one of my favourite pieces too. I’ve a hunch its creator is going to go far.’ The gallery owner had pointed across the room. ‘That’s her right there. Want to meet her?’

Matt’s gaze had fallen on the small figure, dressed in a
pair of old jeans and a red checked shirt. Her curly blonde hair was hanging – possibly unwashed – in an unkempt mass around her shoulders. As the gallery owner called her name, she’d turned round. Matt took in the big turquoise eyes, the retroussé nose with a dash of freckles upon it and the pale pink lips. With her face devoid of make-up, she looked like a child, and her naturalness could not have been in greater contrast to the sophisticated women he’d arrived with.

As the girl acknowledged the gallery owner’s signal to come over, Matt had taken in her slim body, her small hips and long legs. This girl was not a beauty, but she had a prettiness and a sparkle in her eyes that Matt instinctively reacted to. As he’d stared at her, he hadn’t known whether he wanted to throw his arms around her and protect her, or strip her naked and make love to her.

‘Grania, this is Mr Matt Connelly. He’s just bought your swan.’

‘Hello, Mr Connelly,’ she had smiled at him, and her cute nose had wrinkled in pleasure. ‘I’m happy you have. Sure, I can be eating now for the next few weeks!’

Looking back, perhaps it was that soft Irish accent, so much pleasanter on the ear,
and
sexier, than the harsh tones of New Yorkers.

Whatever it was, fifteen minutes later Matt found himself asking Grania if he could take her out to dinner. She’d declined, saying she’d already arranged to go out with the gallery owner and the other artists exhibiting that night. But he had been able to inveigle her cell-phone number, using the excuse of wanting to view other pieces of work she had in her studio.

Matt, so handsome, friendly and attractive, had never before had a problem getting a girl to go out on a date with him. Grania Ryan proved to be different. He’d called her up next day and left a message on her voicemail, but did not receive a call in return. He’d tried her again a few days later, and this time she’d answered, but it seemed she was busy most nights.

The more she seemed to avoid him, the more Matt was determined to gain an audience. Eventually, she’d agreed to meet him for a drink in a bar she knew in SoHo. Matt had duly turned up dressed in his blazer, chinos and brogues, to find himself in a bohemian establishment where he was the odd one out. Grania seemed to have put little thought into what she was going to wear for the occasion – still in the same pair of jeans, but this time in an old blue shirt. She’d asked for a half pint of Guinness and drank it down thirstily.

‘I can’t stay long, I’m afraid.’

She’d offered no explanation as to why she couldn’t.

Matt, having finally got her in captivity, had struggled manfully to make conversation. Grania had seemed completely uninterested in most things he had to say, her attention elsewhere. Eventually she’d stood up, apologised and said she had to leave.

‘Can I see you again?’ Matt had asked as he’d hurriedly paid the bill and followed her out of the bar.

She’d turned to him on the sidewalk outside, and asked, ‘Why?’

‘I want to. Is that a good enough reason?’

‘Speaking honestly now, Matt, I saw all your smart friends come into the gallery the other night. I don’t think I’m your type, and you’re not mine.’

Matt was taken aback. As she turned on her heel, he followed her. ‘Hey, what do you think my “type” is, Grania?’

‘Oh, you know … born in Connecticut, some smart private school, then Harvard to finish you off, before you go and make your bucks on Wall Street.’

‘Yeah, well, some of that is true.’ Matt had reddened. ‘But I sure have no intention of following my pop into his investment business. As a matter of fact, I’m studying for my Ph.D. in psychology at Columbia. Once I’ve completed that, I hope to become a lecturer.’

At that, Grania had stopped and turned round, a flicker of interest in her eyes. ‘Really?’ She’d folded her arms. ‘I’m surprised. You don’t give the impression of being a poor student, do you now?’ She’d swept her hands up and down his body. ‘So, what’s with the uniform?’

‘Uniform?’

‘The whole preppy look,’ she’d giggled. ‘You look as though you’ve walked straight out of an advert for Ralph Lauren.’

‘Well, hey, some girls seem to like it, Grania.’

‘Well, some girls aren’t me. I’m sorry, Matt. I’m just not one to be played with by some rich kid that thinks he can buy his way into people’s affections.’

Matt’s emotions had veered between anger, laughter and fascination. This pint-sized, feisty Irish girl who, on the outside, resembled Alice in Wonderland, but obviously had a core of steel and a tongue that could whip the hide of the toughest customer, enthralled him.

‘Whoah there!’ he’d shouted at her as she proceeded along the sidewalk. ‘That sculpture I bought of yours? I
spent every penny of a legacy from my aunt to buy it. I’ve been looking real hard for months for something that appealed to me. It was stipulated in my aunt’s will that I bought something of beauty with the money.’ Matt had realised he was shouting at the petite figure fifty yards from him, and people were staring. For the first time in his life, he didn’t care. ‘I bought your swan because I thought it
was
beautiful. And, for the record, my parents are pissed with me because I’m not following in Daddy’s footsteps!
And
the “uptown prince” has no penthouse on Park Avenue, ma’am. He lives in student accommodation on campus, which comprises a bedsit, shared kitchen and restroom!’

Grania had stopped again and turned round, silently raising an eyebrow.

‘You wanna see it? None of my uptown buddies will come there. It’s on the wrong side of town.’

At that, Grania had smiled.

‘And,’ Matt knew he was letting rip, but somehow it was imperative this girl knew who he really was, ‘there’s every chance I’m not in line to inherit a penny from my rich folks unless I do as they ask. So if you’re looking for that kind of guy, yeah, I suggest we call it quits.’

They’d stared at each other for a good twenty seconds. As had the onlookers, enthralled by the street drama.

Then it was Matt’s turn to walk away. He’d walked fast, not understanding his unusual outburst of a few seconds ago. A minute later, Grania was keeping pace with him.

‘Did you really use your legacy to buy my swan?’ she’d asked quietly.

‘Sure I did. My aunt was a great collector of art. She
told me only to buy stuff which gave me a gut feeling. And that’s what your sculpture did.’

They’d walked on in silence for a while, neither of them knowing where they were heading. Finally, Grania had spoken. ‘I’m sorry. I judged you and I shouldn’t have done.’

‘Hey, that’s OK, but what’s the big deal anyway, about where I came from and how I dress?’ He’d looked at her. ‘I’d say that’s as much your issue as it is mine.’

‘Don’t pull that psychology malarkey on me, Mr Connelly. I might still be thinking you’re trying to impress me.’

‘And I might be thinking you’d had a rough ride with one of my type in the past.’

Grania had reddened. ‘I’m thinking you might be right.’ She’d stopped walking suddenly, turned and looked up at him. ‘How did you know?’

‘Hey, Grania,’ Matt had shrugged, ‘no one can be that set against Ralph Lauren. He makes some real nice stuff.’

‘Fair play. Yep, my guy was an eejit to end all eejits. So, there we are.’ Grania had seemed suddenly unsure of herself. ‘Well, I suppose …’

‘Listen, instead of having this conversation on the move, why don’t we go to some place and eat?’ Matt had winked at her. ‘And I swear there’ll be no blazers in sight!’

That night, and the few weeks afterwards, Matt remembered as some of the best times in his life. Grania had blown him away with her lack of guile, freshness and honesty. Used to the uptight, uptown women who hid their true thoughts and feelings behind a veil of sophistication, which meant that a guy had to use guesswork to know
where he stood, Grania was a breath of fresh air. If she was happy, he’d know about it, and if she was pissed or angry, or frustrated over her current sculpture, then he’d know about that too. She’d also treated his future career, and the work he put in to gain it, with respect. Did not assume, like so many of his friends, that this was a game for him, a little time out until he capitulated and followed his father into the world to which he’d been born.

Although not educated to the same level as Matt, Grania’s mind was bright and enquiring, and she’d soaked up information like a sponge. Then leaked it out again, using her instinctive wisdom to make sense of what she’d heard. The only fly in the ointment was that he’d had to tell Charley their relationship was over. For him, it had been a casual fling that couldn’t lead to anything permanent. She’d taken it well, or had at least seemed to, and as the months passed, Matt had seen less of her and his old friends anyway. Matt had understood where Grania was coming from and, through her eyes, had seen further how shallow some of the people who inhabited his world
were
. But the point was, it
was
his world and even though he had cast off his friends, his family was not so easy.

He’d taken her home to meet his folks one weekend. Grania had spent the few days before trying on numerous possible outfits, until, with hours to go, she’d burst into tears of frustration. Matt had hugged her. ‘Listen, honey, what you wear is unimportant. They’ll love you because you’re you.’

‘Hmph,’ had been the answer. ‘I doubt it. I just don’t want to let you down or embarrass you, Matt.’

‘You won’t, I swear.’

The weekend had passed as well as it could have done, Matt had thought. Yes, his mom, Elaine, could be overpowering at times, but anything she did or said was usually out of best intentions for her son. His father was less approachable. Bob Connelly had been brought up in a generation where men were men and were not expected to intrude in either domestic affairs or the emotional dilemmas of their women. Grania had done her best, but his dad was not a man with whom one could have an open heart-to-heart on anything.

Grania had been quiet on the way home, and Matt spent plenty of time in the week afterwards reassuring her how much his folks had liked her. Perhaps, he’d thought, if he could give her the security she needed, show Grania this wasn’t some mere dalliance for him, it might help her. Six months later, on a holiday to Florence, after they had made love in the shuttered room not far from the Duomo, Matt had asked Grania to be his wife. She had looked up at him, her eyes wide with surprise.