Fragile Lies (21 page)

“No. We went there just the once. I had a feeling about the place … I didn’t like it. Perhaps that’s what influenced me when I was painting it. My daughter regularly accuses me of projecting my moods onto her. Perhaps I did the same with your photograph.” She realised she was talking too fast, a vulnerable voice starved of attention, giddy from wine and nervous energy, but she seemed unable to stop, just as he seemed unable to hear her.

“You never went back?” The hint of steel in his voice when he repeated the question surprised her.

Puzzled, she laid down her fork, shook her head. “I prefer Howth or Dun Laoghaire if I want to walk the piers. Why do you ask?”

“I used to go there all the time when my son was younger.”

“Why do you always sound as if you’re hurting when you mention his name?”

He frowned, taken aback by her frankness. “Is it that obvious?”

“To me, yes. Does he live with you?”

“He never lived with me, at least, not in the sense you mean. I had visiting rights.”

“Was it difficult being a single father?”

“We made it difficult, Jean and I. We treated him like a possession, not a child. He used to say he felt like a football being kicked from one end of the pitch to the other.”

“What a terrible thing to hear. I’m still trying to adjust to being a single mother. Every time Emily mentions her father’s name I hear myself snapping back. Sometimes, I don’t recognise my own voice. Sometimes I don’t even recognise myself. How do you get along with Killian now?”

“It’s difficult.”

“And his mother?”

He tipped the wine bottle towards her. Throughout the meal he had slowly sipped his wine yet insisted on topping up her glass as soon as the level dropped. “My track record is fairly dismal when it comes to relationships.”

“Haven’t you ever been in love?”

“Never.”

“What kind of man
never
falls in love?”

“What kind of woman risks everything for love?” he replied.

“What do you mean?”

“Your paintings suggest great passion.”

“
Painting Dreams
was a farce.”

“Surely not. You were painting a dream of love.”

“Yes, an illusion. That’s why I came here. To kill the illusion.” She excused herself and walked quickly towards the Ladies. She held her wrists under the cold-water tap. Her reflection stared back at her, bright-eyed, her flushed face, her hair tumbling over her forehead.

A woman glanced curiously at her before entering one of the cubicles. Lorraine was still standing in the same position when she emerged. “Are you all right, dear?” she asked.

“I’m fine, thanks.” Her colour was beginning to recede. She combed her hair, searched in her bag for an elastic band and tied it back. Her hand shook slightly when she applied lipstick.

“You’re the new art teacher.” The woman washed her hands, held them under the dryer. “Noeleen Donaldson was telling me about the class. Are there any vacancies?”

“I’ll take your number and ring you tomorrow.” She scribbled the woman’s number on the back of a cheque book and returned to the table.

He watched her anxiously as she approached. “You were gone so long. I was beginning to worry.”

“Sorry. I met someone.” She slung her bag across her shoulder. “Do you mind if I skip dessert, Michael? I’ve a busy day tomorrow and I’d like to go home now. You finish the bottle and relax. I’ll call a taxi.”

“Please don’t go yet,” he said. “I’ve upset you. I’m sorry.”

“It’s nothing to do with you. I’m just exhausted.”

Angie, approaching their table with the dessert menus, looked surprised when Lorraine asked for her coat.

“Lovers’ tiff?” she whispered, returning with it over her arm.

“Nothing that can’t be sorted out with a good night’s sleep.” Lorraine slung the coat over her shoulders and walked quickly towards the exit. Taxis were occasionally parked outside the pub but tonight the road was empty. An elderly man in a luminous yellow jacket patrolled the car-park. He bade her goodnight, called her “Lorraine”. She was becoming a recognisable figure in the village.

“I’m driving you home.” Michael had followed her from the restaurant. When she tried to call a taxi he placed his hand over her mobile phone. Without another word she walked with him to his car.

A love song played on the radio. They listened in silence. Small talk seemed irrelevant. He concentrated on the road, headlights beaming into the turn at the top of the lane. Their silence became more abrasive as he drove slowly over the uneven surface. Drifting mist winged past the windows and the air was clammy when she stepped out of the car. She moved from the headlights into an inky space and would have stumbled on a tuft of grass if he had not steadied her.

At the front door she searched for her keys, unable to locate them in the jumble at the bottom of her bag. Impatiently, she pulled the zip down too far and the front panel fell open, spilling the contents across the path. The tinkle of a small cosmetic mirror breaking, the jangle of keys, loose coins falling. The sounds cut through the night like discordant music and she was reminded of Adrian’s briefcase, the same hapless spewing of everything changing, changing forever. She cried out with annoyance and bent down to fumble in the dark.

“I’ve a torch in the car,” he said.

The porch light automatically switched on before he could move.

“Leave it.” Lorraine’s hand closed over the keys. “I’ll pick up the rest in the morning.” Any poise, dignity, privacy seemed stripped from her, spread as randomly before him as the items littering the path.

He reached down and helped her to her feet. “You’re trembling,” he said. He made it sound like an accusation. “Tell me what I’ve done to displease you.”

“Nothing. As I said already, I’m tired. If you want to discuss the portrait, phone me and we’ll come to some arrangement. Thank you for a lovely evening.”

Before he could reply she opened the door and closed it firmly behind her. She leaned against it, listened to his footsteps on the path. His car door slammed. She waited for him to drive away. The minutes passed. She could call him back. Her heart shook with reckless yearnings. I want his hands on my body, his lips against my mouth, she thought, and bit down hard on the words, shocked by the response he had aroused in her. She could call him back and he would come. She knew it as surely as the night tide was flowing over sand, eroding footprints and leaving in their place the undulating possibilities of new beginnings. The dog howled, a demented werewolf howl, as if he sensed the turbulence of her thoughts. Finally, the headlights switched on. The engine gave a low growl. The dog continued to howl.

B
rahms Ward
, 6 a.m.

J
anice thinks
I’m crazy coming here so early. Well, ordinarily she would, but she’s had a row with her fiancé, something to do with the main event and the afters. She’s comfort eating a chocolate bar in the nurse’s station. Fruit and Nut. I refused a chunk. Claimed I wasn’t hungry. Something in my voice must have registered and she finally snapped herself back from tulle and ivory lace.

“You look like something the cat dragged backwards through a hedge,” she said. “Long night, was it?”

She’s right. It was a long night. But the roads were empty of traffic. I need to get my head together and Brahms Ward is where reality bites deep and hard. She stole a march on me, Killian. Something opened inside my head when she gave me your portrait. She stared at me across the table, her eyes blue and troubled, sensing but not understanding my confusion. She’s used to people responding with pleasure when she presents them with her paintings. What’s the matter with me? Why couldn’t I be straight with her? She gesticulated when she spoke, made language with her hands, and she spun a funny story about cows and a black woman, who sat opposite us dressed in brilliant colours and a robe that rippled like sails every time she moved. How long since you heard me laugh? Her hair falls red to her shoulders and would, I believe, spark if I touched it. Why couldn’t I say it? Come with me to the Brahms Ward … see what you have done … see my son. I lied to her from the beginning. Each word we speak swamps me deeper.

I count facts, indisputable bullet points. She owns a silver car. She hides in a lane. She left a husband. She calls Trabawn a refuge. She has a daughter whom she loves yet removed from all that was familiar. She wore a pendant at her throat. It all added up until I looked into her eyes. Sapphire blue, guileless, not cruel or indifferent, which is how they should look … beguiling eyes … and her mouth, wide, but not too wide with strong white teeth that match its generous shape. Her wrists were bare. Do you get the picture, Killian? See what I see? Maybe I’m right. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe I’m crazy. A car in shadow, snatched sounds, Bozo’s story; his accusations seemed ludicrous until I drove away and removed myself from her spell.

I wanted to kiss her mouth. Her strong wide mouth. She hesitates before she smiles, afraid that if she laughs she will also cry. How do I know this? Don’t ask me to explain. I should have spoken then. I should go back there now and wrench the truth from her. What’s the matter with me, Killian? I betray you every time I think of her.

K
isses on eyes
… drowning eyes … yellow eyes … yellow eyes … headlights … daisy screens … hands on sheet … hands on sheet … hospital!

M
ount Subasio
, illuminated with strategic spotlights, rose above them in magnificent splendour.

“Disneyland, eat your heart out.” Adrian stared in disbelief at the turrets and the flag which slapped a persistent tattoo against the flag-pole.

“Keep your opinions to yourself,” Virginia warned as they mounted the steps. In the past she had attended a number of Andrea’s soirées with Ralph and knew they provided an excellent networking environment. She was aware that Andrea’s desire for publicity was an important factor in their friendship and Virginia had no objections to being used. Use and be used in turn. It was a fair exchange – and also a significant one. The latest invitation addressed to Virginia and Adrian meant they were now being accepted as a couple in their own right.

Drinks and canapés were served in the long drawing room. The view from the windows dropped towards the distant lights of the city but it was Lorraine’s portrait hanging above the mantelpiece upon which the guests fixed their attention. Adrian refused to acknowledge its existence. Not an easy thing to do as Andrea, flattered by the comments from her guests, coyly preened herself in front of it at every opportunity.

“An impressive piece of work, wouldn’t you agree?” Bill Sheraton moved to Virginia’s side and nodded upwards. Was he enjoying her discomfort, relishing the incongruity of Lorraine’s invisible but dominant presence in their midst?

“It’s one of Lorraine’s most sensitively executed pieces,” she replied. He had the defensive antennae of a self-made millionaire and would be quick to catch the slightest hint of mockery in her voice. Lorraine’s portraits had always carried a raw energy and originality. Her focus had been on discovering something unique, a hitherto unnoticed feature or expression, the angle of a head that added a new dimension to the sitter’s personality. But this was a painting of plastic people. She wondered if its very perfection was Lorraine’s way of mocking her own work, of proving how inconsequential it had become.

“Are you satisfied with it?” she asked.

“Andrea certainly is.”

“And you?”

“Technically, it’s perfect. What more can I say?”

She knew he hated it.

“What a wonderful study of Lorcan.” She felt compelled to comment on the handsome young man staring down at her from the wall, his usually dour young face decisive yet relaxed, his gaze forceful.

“Do you really think so?” Bill studied it carefully. “I’m hoping she saw something in him that I’ve never managed to catch.”

“It’s an astute observation.” Virginia lied graciously. “I’ve always found him to be a most charming young man.”

“In that case Adrian should have no difficulty taking him on. I’ve employed my son every summer since he was fifteen and he’s never shown a blind bit of interest in what I do. Now, suddenly he wants to go into advertising. I’m anxious to see him settled with people I can rely on.”

“Of course, if that’s your wish, Bill.” She steadied her smile, allowed it to reach her eyes. “But are you sure –”

“Absolutely positive. I suggest he starts next Monday.”

“The sooner the better, Bill. I’m sure Adrian will be delighted to take him under his wing.”

“There’s no such thing as a free lunch.” Virginia made the announcement as she undressed for bed. “Bill expects you to take Lorcan into the agency.”

“Shit!”

“My sentiments exactly. But I had the good sense to hide my feelings.”

“Hiding your feelings is a piece of performance art with you, Virginia.” Adrian sounded drunk, morosely so, his face gaunt as he turned around to face her.

“If having good manners and being courteous is performance art then maybe you should consider studying it,” she snapped back. “Was it necessary to be so rude to everyone?”

“I wasn’t being rude.”

“What would you call staring out the window for most of the night and refusing to engage in conversation?”

“I wasn’t aware that I was there in the role of a performing dog.”

She pulled the sheet to her chin and tried to hide her annoyance. “No, you were there to network, make contacts, do business. Advertising is not just about ideas, Adrian. It’s about selling that vision to people who make decisions. I saw Bill watching you. He doesn’t miss a trick and now that Lorcan’s joining the company he’ll have first hand knowledge of all that’s going on.”

“Can you really see his obnoxious brat lasting more than a week in the business?”

“He could surprise us. I spoke to him at the end of the night. He seems keen and he’s got some interesting ideas.”

“I thought you said advertising was not just about
ideas
.”

“Why won’t you be honest and admit the real reason you’re so upset?” She switched off the bedside lamp. Somehow, it seemed easier to talk about Lorraine in the dark. “You fell apart when you saw that portrait.”

“You never told me he’d commissioned her.”

“It was a while ago. I’d forgotten.”

“You forget easily.”

“Meaning what, exactly?”

He lay silently beside her.

“Don’t block me out, Adrian. I want to know what’s going on in your head. Are you worried about Ralph?”

“Fuck Ralph! I’m thinking about the lad …”

Once again, he was forcing her to walk over the same old ground. No matter how hard they tried to forget, the accident cast a long shadow over them, creating panic where none should exist. “I thought we agreed not to discuss him any more?”

“The car could still be traced. With forensics they can tell by paintwork, even glass. We don’t know what clues we left behind.”

“For a start, it was Lorraine’s car. Even if they manage to trace her to Trabawn, all she has to do is tell them she was in New York.”

The car had been repaired in a garage where a mechanic, gruff and overworked, took Adrian at his word when he blamed vandals for the damage to the bonnet and the broken glass. Their dread that the boy would die had not been realised. Otherwise they would have read it in the papers – and Virginia read them every day, skimmed them from cover to cover, checking headlines, news in brief, any items that might have repercussions for them. She reassured him, reminded him they were safe, so much time had passed, and, gradually, heard the tension ease from his voice.

“You’re so much in control, I envy you,” he said.

“Why not kiss me and see how much control I have then?” She was determined to bring an end to the discussion.

It was over quickly. Perhaps it was the darkness that separated them even as their bodies joined and moved together. They always made love with the lights on, open to each other, taking delight in giving and receiving, in watching the passion reflected in their eyes, but now he pressed her face into the pillows and came into her from behind, thrusting deep, and she felt his tension kick into a swift, frantic orgasm that brought relief but no satisfaction to her. He fell asleep immediately.

She listened to the voices. At first they had whispered so softly they were almost inaudible but they were growing louder, more distinct, imitating a grotesque parody of her father’s philandering.
“My mummy told me if I was goody that she would buy me a rubber dolly. But when I told her I kissed a soldier she wouldn’t buy me a rubber dolly.”
Outside Sonya’s window the little girls clapped hands and chanted, and in the room where Virginia could not go she heard the puppy sounds. The clock with the cat’s face ticked on the mantelpiece and the coloured glass hearts jingled from the ceiling – but nothing sounded as sweet as the canary singing all alone in her cage, like her little throat would burst wide open and all the notes would pour out, spilling downwards, tumbling one after the other onto Virginia’s lap. Sonya was a secret, a safe and sound secret that must never be told. Except for Lorraine. In Trabawn she told her cousin. Lying in the darkness of the caravan, she felt the secret lift, as if a hand had released a tight grip on her forehead, and they giggled so hard they had to drink water from the wrong side of the glass to stop the hiccups.