Solace (8 page)

Rupert Lefroy had lived in his mother’s mews all the way through his time at Trinity, and for a couple of years afterwards, while he tried to make a name for himself writing on politics
for one of the Sunday newspapers. But he lacked discipline – he had admitted as much himself, in his first meeting with Eoin – and soon even the friends of his father who had been
putting work his way tired of his disregard for deadlines, and of the signs, which displayed themselves more and more blatantly with every piece he wrote, that his grasp of politics, not to mention
political history, was extremely selective. He moved to London and, with the bulk of his inheritance from his father, opened a restaurant in Knightsbridge, which within five years had made him
‘moderately wealthy’, he told Eoin. He had married a model – a catalogue model, actually: Joanne had googled her – bought a Jaguar (no googling required) and built a country
house that had involved some complicated and very expensive levelling work on a field in the Cotswolds. Within another five years he was divorced, almost bankrupt, and hatching plans for a return
to Dublin, which was then in the first flush of the boom.

Joanne had read both sides of the rest of the story, from the court transcripts, but it was Elizabeth’s version that had stuck in her mind: delighted to see Rupert home, she had agreed
readily when he explained that, for tax reasons, it would be of enormous benefit to him to be able to claim the mews as his own. He would be living in it, he had promised her, and he would not be
using it for anything else; certainly for nothing commercial. The lease he had had his own solicitor draw up had included this condition, he assured her. She had trusted him, and she had not felt
the need to read through the final draft of the lease, and shortly after signing it, she had woken one morning to find a demolition crew setting up in her yard and roaring at her, when she ventured
out her door, to get back into the house. When the new restaurant opened a few months later, its design was hailed as a triumph of modern sophistication, mainly, Elizabeth added, by the publicists
Rupert had hired to secure him ample coverage in the Dublin papers. But for her own part, she said, she had stood at her window and wept as she watched the brick walls come down and, later, the
glass walls go up; watched them carry into the place a ‘ghastly’ steel spiral staircase without a banister. It was her one small comfort, she said, that some people from the Health and
Safety Authority had forced Rupert to put a banister on the staircase after all, but it was still ghastly. And the restaurant was not a place into which she would ever venture; not that she would
ever be invited. She had declared her intention to sue almost as soon as the demolition crew had gone for lunch that very first day, and she and Rupert had not shared a civil word since. It was,
she said, a source of unspeakable pain to her. But she did not know what else to do.

When she read that detail in the transcript, about the lack of an invitation, Joanne had hesitated over whether to include it in the case notes. Whether or not Elizabeth felt welcome in the
restaurant was, after all, beside the point. The question was whether Rupert Lefroy had tricked his mother into signing away her rights to keep the mews house the way it had always been.

‘And he’s put all these absolutely divine paintings on the walls,’ Mona said. ‘None of your Graham Knuttels.’

‘Right,’ Joanne said lightly, and typed a few nonsense words on to her screen, signalling with the clatter of her keyboard that the exchange was over, and that it was time to
disappear into the wordless hum of work in which they were both expected to be immersed every morning when Eoin and Imelda arrived.

‘Well, rather you than me, reading that old windbag,’ Mona said, and she turned back to her screen.

*

Waking up that morning had not been among the more pleasant experiences in Mark’s life. It wasn’t the hangover, though certainly that was bad enough; he had agreed,
after coming home from the party on Sunday morning, with Mossy’s suggestion that they postpone the inevitable by heading to an early-house. So, the hangover was atrocious, but the hangover
was not what was causing him to cringe: it was the fact of what he had done the night before, turning up plastered on Joanne’s doorstep, falling into her house, collapsing into Christ knew
what kind of a flailing, snoring, farting mess on her couch. He had no memory of having been awake on the couch the night before, even for a couple of minutes. Joanne had said, when she had brought
him in a cup of tea that morning, that they had talked for a while before he ‘dozed off’, as she so delicately, so sweetly, put it; but when he asked her what they had talked about she
had just given him a sort of teasing shake of the head, told him that she knew all his secrets, and then gone around the room, picking up folders and stuffing them into her handbag and cursing
about the creases in her suit. And then she had left.

He had let himself out of the house half an hour later – there had been no chance of any more sleep: the self-loathing had already been too intense – and it was only when he hit the
fresh air that he realized how bad he smelled. When he had found Mossy asleep on the couch in their place he had woken him with a dig in the ribs and told him that they were never going to another
early-house, ever again, and Mossy had grunted and sat up and produced Mark’s phone from his jeans pocket, and then he had flopped back down on the couch. Then, in the shower, there had come
the next high point – throwing up all over the little corner gang of shower gels and shampoos, and for a moment Mark had considered leaving the clean-up to Mossy, as a sort of thank-you note.
But it would probably be bad karma, he thought, and he needed all the help he could get.

Nor could he remember anything he had said to her at the party – at least, not after the coke had kicked in. He was not sure he wanted to remember. And he felt pretty shit about the coke
as well, about having taken it with her. He felt guilty, but not guilty because he had somehow led her astray – it was obvious that she had done it before. Guilty, rather, that he had let her
see him in such a fitful, shit-talking state, because that was how he was on coke, that was how everybody was, and he wished she hadn’t seen him like that. He didn’t know how many lines
they’d ended up doing, but he knew it was more than was wise.
One
was more than wise, for fuck’s sake. He’d promised himself he was finished with that shit for good. It
wasn’t like he did it very often, maybe once every couple of months, maybe more at certain times of the year than others; it was just that he was getting a bit fucking long in the tooth for
all of that, by now; it was that he wished he hadn’t had to go and make such a jabbering prick out of himself in front of her the first time they’d talked. And he couldn’t
remember what, if anything, they had done in the bedroom – had they even been in a bedroom? He had a vague memory of a bed, but he also had a vague memory, now that he thought of it, of
someone else already being on the bed, on top of someone else. So where had they done it, whatever they had done? He had a vague memory now, too, of having spouted some stuff to her, while he was
touching her, while he was getting off with her; he groaned. That was the problem with coked-up sex, or with any kind of physical contact while you were on coke: you just ended up saying –
shouting – the most excruciating things. You went from being someone who knew how to make all the right moves – all the hair-stroking, all the eye-contact, all the kissing and caressing
it took to get over the threshold of the bedroom door – to someone who was bellowing at a girl to know who her daddy was while at the same time trying to ignore the fact that you
couldn’t really get properly hard.

At least, at
least
, he had not said that to her. But it was hardly as though the question had not been, and was not still, hanging over their heads. At the party, after she had told him
who she was, before they had gone anywhere near the coke, he had tried, by a series of apparently harmless questions, to work out whether she knew anything about the history between their fathers.
About what her father had done to his. About how his father had reacted. About the fact that his father still held a grudge. But she had given no sign of knowing anything. She talked mainly about
growing up where they had grown up, about trying to get into the pubs in Edgeworthstown, about hitching lifts to the shitty clubs in the Fountain Blue, about seeing Mark around the place sometimes,
and – this part had swollen his head pretty nicely – wondering about him, wondering if he had noticed her. He could remember that part. And he could remember, too, that she had talked
for a while about her father, about working for him one summer and hating every minute of it; he remembered being relieved to hear that, relieved that he would not have to listen to her gushing
about the dead father she still worshipped and adored. He had been crooked, she said; as crooked as a briar and just as nasty to come into contact with. Mark had said nothing. She had fought with
him, she said; he had wanted her to fiddle with a will or something, and she had refused, and had walked out of the job, and she had never talked to him again before he died. That had been an
opportune moment for hair-stroking, and for a concerned arm around her shoulders, and for a comforting little hug that had had the very satisfactory ending of a long, deep kiss, and it was a couple
of minutes after that, actually, that he had suggested they take a trip into the room with the mirror and the marching powder. It had got him high, the feeling of her body in his arms, her tongue
moving against his, her gorgeous, full little ass in his hands, and he had wanted to get higher still, had wanted to go that high with her coming along for the ride. And so that was how it had
started. But where they had gone, in terms of talking and touching and everything else at which they had spent the next seven or eight hours, he didn’t know. All he knew was that she had
seemed pretty friendly to him this morning. She had been smiling, and slagging him, and she hadn’t seemed to be pissed off with him, or wary with him, about anything he had said or done, and
when he had asked her if he could call her during the week, she had given him her number, and given him this cheeky little look at the same time. So maybe, after all, things weren’t that bad,
but Mark couldn’t believe that; maybe the reason for her cheerfulness was actually that he had given her so much ammunition against him that she felt, he didn’t know, powerful or
something, standing over him like that in her business suit. That suit: if he could see her again right now in that suit it would do a million good things for his mood. But he had to see someone
else in a suit now. And it was not going to go well.

He looked rough enough. That was some reason for hope; his skin was pale, his eyes were heavily shadowed. So the excuse he had invented for his supervisor might just work. And in case McCarthy
brought up the obvious point – that he had had a year, not just a single weekend, to write this chapter – Mark stuffed a folder of notes into his rucksack. He could offer it to McCarthy
as evidence that he’d been working.

The nerves really started to hit as he walked through Front Arch. McCarthy had the power to take his funding away, and without his funding, Mark could not continue his PhD. He could not afford
to. A part-time job would not pay his rent, and a full-time job would make it impossible for him to do his research and to write. He did not allow himself to think about the fact that a year of not
needing to work at all had done nothing to advance his writing, and little to advance his research; that was the way with most PhD students, he told himself. Most of his peers in the department
were in similar positions. And the ones who weren’t just had less complicated relationships to their thesis subjects.

McCarthy was in his office with the door ajar. He answered Mark’s knock with a lift of his eyebrows. ‘Reporting for duty?’

To his horror, Mark felt himself blush. If he was blushing now, even before he started to tell the lie he needed to tell, what chance did he have of getting around McCarthy? He shook his head,
more in disgust at himself than in reply to McCarthy’s question, but it seemed to do both jobs at once, because immediately, McCarthy’s face took on an expression of practised
exasperation.

‘You’re not serious. Are you serious?’

‘Sorry,’ Mark blurted. ‘I was sick the whole weekend. Food poisoning. I ate something Thursday evening . . . Salmon . . .’ He could see from McCarthy’s set jaw that
he didn’t believe a word of it.

‘And, what, in your fever you accidentally destroyed all the work you’ve done over the last six months?’

Mark wanted to sit down. No, he wanted to stand. Did he? What did he want to do? He wanted to escape. McCarthy hadn’t invited him to come into the office, to sit, to come closer. He was
still standing at the door. And to McCarthy’s question he had no answer. How could he not have worked out an answer to that question? He had known it was coming.

‘You’ve been working on this chapter since Christmas,’ McCarthy said, pointing finally to a chair opposite his desk. ‘Are you telling me that a few days of puking fish
has made all the difference?’

Mark had to move a couple of copies of
English Studies
off the chair in order to sit. McCarthy had told him to submit something to
English Studies
the year before, he remembered,
with a pang of guilt; he had meant to get around to it, but he had never seemed to have enough time. ‘It’s just not ready,’ he said now, and McCarthy snorted.

‘It’s never ready with you, Mark,’ he said, putting both hands behind his head. When McCarthy did that pose – the one that made him look like he was trying to sunbathe
under the fluorescent lights, tilting the two front legs of his chair up off the floor – you knew you were fucked. He was getting into withering dismissal mode. He was gearing up to tell you
you might as well forget the whole thing.

‘I’ve these . . .’ Mark said, opening his rucksack hurriedly. He took the pages from the manila folder. ‘I mean, it’s just a draft, but if you want to see what
I’ve been doing?’