That Gallagher Girl (22 page)

‘And I wish I could be your fairy godmother, darling,' said Elena, ‘and make it happen for you. Ping!' She tweaked an imaginary wand, then gave Cat a curious look. ‘But how will you get to Greece if you can't fly? Overland?'

‘I would sail. I could get myself a little blue water cruiser and navigate my way there.'

‘How are your map-reading skills?'

‘I know how to navigate by the stars. My brother taught me. And you can get something called GPS that practically takes you straight to wherever you want to go.'

‘GPS? What's that?'

‘Um . . .' Thankfully the arrival of Finn meant that she was let off the hook.

‘GPS,' he said, ‘stands for Global Positioning System. Without GPS there'd be no such thing as satnav and . . .'

Cat zoned out.

‘How do you learn your lines, Elena, for your films?' she asked, when Finn had done boring them both to death with stuff about GPS.

‘It's not as difficult as you might think. Once I've mastered reading them, I record them and play them back over and over and over. I get there in the end.'

‘Ill met by moonlight, proud Titania!' he said in an actorish voice as he joined them by the wall.

‘What! Jealous Oberon,' responded Elena. ‘Fairies, skip hence: I have forsworn his bed and company.'

‘Tarry, rash wanton! Am not I thy lord?'

What the fuck were they on about? thought Cat.

‘Then I must be thy lady.' Elena rose and, sweeping into a graceful curtsy, looked up at Shane and laughed. ‘Remember the night you dried stone dead, and I had to improvise iambic pentameter?'

‘What's iambic pentameter?' asked Cat, and then wished she hadn't because it reminded her of being schooled by her dad. Shane started droning on about Shakespeare and something called accentual syllabic verse, and saying more stuff in that funny voice: ‘Yet mark'd I where the bolt of Cupid fell: it fell upon a little western flower, before milk-white, now purple with love's wound, and maidens call it Love-in-idleness.'

‘We were cast together in
A Midsummer Night's Dream
,' Elena told Cat, ‘as Oberon and Titania in a production on Broadway.'

‘Who's Oberon and Titania?'

‘I thought you knew Shakespeare backwards?' said Shane.

‘Only the tragedies.'

‘Oberon and Titania are king and queen of the fairies,' Elena told her. ‘I got to wear some fabulous gowns.'

What a weird job for grown men and women, thought Cat, poncing around all dressed up in fancy garb, spouting crap about Cupid and flowers and maidens!

‘But you also got to wear no clothes at all,' Shane reminded her.

‘You did a nude scene?' asked Cat.

‘I did, believe it or not. I was in better shape back then.'

‘I think you're in fantastic shape now,' said Cat, loyally.

‘Thank you, darling! Aren't you kind!'

‘I'm not saying it to be kind. It's true. Look at her! Look at her, Finn and Shane!'

Shane smiled as he allowed his eyes to roam over Elena's body. ‘She's right, Ms Sweetman. You are still in fantastic shape.'

And then it struck Cat that – now that Shane was no longer betrothèd (as Shakespeare would have put it) to Río – wouldn't it be great if Elena and Shane got it together? They'd be a perfect couple, like a storybook prince and princess, or the ones you see on the covers of Mills & Boon books.

But Cat wasn't sure that anybody really did live happily ever after, the way they did in the stories her mother had used to read her. And that didn't really surprise her because, apart from Paloma, all women were monsters and harpies in Cat's experience. Her schoolmistresses had mocked her, her fellow boarders had bullied her, the local girls had beaten her up. Since her mother had died, Elena Sweetman was the first woman Cat had met who actually deserved to live happily ever after. Hm. She wondered if there was some way of arranging a love match between Shane and Elena. She vaguely remembered a production of
A Midsummer Night's Dream
that the sixth formers in school had done, and how one of the characters squeezed some magic juice from a flower into the eyes of one of the fairies so that the fairy in question ended up falling in love with the first person she saw, who just happened to be a bloke with a donkey's head on him. Some of that juice would be handy enough now, to squeeze into Elena's eyes and make her fall in love with Shane.

‘Let's have more champagne!' said Cat, jumping to her feet.

‘It's two thirty in the morning, Cat,' said Finn.

‘My mother always said that, while drinking alcohol before six o'clock in the evening was reprehensible, it's perfectly acceptable to enjoy a glass of champagne at any time of the day,' said Cat, quoting what Keeley had said to her just the other day.

‘And my body clock doesn't have a clue what time it is,' said Elena, ‘since I'm on a different longitude.'

‘And I seem to be on another planet,' remarked Shane.

‘That's because you've been drinking too much, bad boy,' Elena reproved. ‘You're going on the wagon tomorrow.'

‘Am I?'

‘Yes. That's one of the reasons I flew over – to set you back on the straight and narrow.'

‘Straight and narrow's no fun.'

‘And neither's drinking yourself to death. I'll allow you a couple more glasses of champagne, and then you're detoxing. Now. How about another game of poker?'

And Elena sashayed back into the house. The way she moved made Cat wonder how any man could resist her, and indeed, she saw that Shane was checking out her rear view with interest. Hm. Maybe they could make it a game of strip poker, thought Cat. Maybe if Shane saw Elena in the nude again, his desire would be inflamed, and they'd end up in bed together. It would be a very acceptable set-up, Cat decided, Shane and Elena and her and Finn together under the same roof. Like playing Happy Families. Happy Families! Now there was a card game she had never mastered. Maybe it was about time she did.

Chapter Seventeen

‘How much do you actually know about oyster farming?' Río asked Adair.

The pair were strolling through the grounds of Coolnamara Castle, being bombarded by birdsong. They were having to take things at a fairly leisurely pace, since Adair's toe was still giving him grief. Río had managed to get a run in earlier, while her new husband was still asleep: she'd pelted at full tilt around the lake, running as though her life depended upon it. She would have loved a swim, too, but swimming in the lake was frowned upon. The last time she'd done it, some years ago, it had been after midnight, naked, with Shane. That had been the night he'd given her the ring . . .

She wondered what Shane was up to now. Was he still in Lissamore, or had he gone back to LA? She'd heard nothing from Finn, and had decided against phoning him for news, because as long as she and Adair were holed up in Coolnamara Castle, she wanted no real-life complications to spoil their time here. This honeymoon period would be beset by no worries, no stress and no regrets. It was a week for relaxing and eating and getting pampered and making love. It was a week for her to get to know her new man better.

And what a new man he was! Adair was courteous and kind and respectful. He had a sense of humour, a lust for life and a genuine curiosity about people – and he worshipped her. He was attentive to Río's every whim, but he also sensed when she needed space to herself. He was altogether an ideal husband, but for one thing. He wasn't Shane . . .

No! Río mustn't allow herself to go there. Ever. No regrets.
No regrets!

‘How much do I know about oyster farming?' mused Adair. ‘Not a huge amount, it has to be said. But I'll have the two lads helping me out. And it's not rocket science.'

The ‘two lads' were part-timers who had worked for Madser in the past. Río knew them both. They were village boys, unafraid of hard work, reliable, glad to be in employment, and they'd been keeping the farm operational since Adair had bought it.

‘It's hard work,' Río pointed out. ‘Turning and shacking those oyster bags is backbreaking.'

‘It is,' he conceded. ‘But the lads'll be doing most of the hard graft. I'll man the shed and take charge of the tractor.'

‘Crushed oyster shells are a great slug repellent,' Río told him. ‘I'll take all your cast-offs for my orchard.'

‘And if you find any pearls while you're at it, you might make yourself a fine necklace.'

Río remembered the double string of pearls belonging to Izzy. No seed or cultured pearls for Isabella, she conjectured, only the real thing would do for Adair's princess, bought as they had been in the days when Adair had had money. She knew well that there'd be no money to be got from his oyster business. She'd heard that Madser turned over somewhere in the region of twenty thousand a year, even though his oysters had routinely won awards in Ireland's Oyster Oscars. But of course, for Adair it wasn't about money. He was doing this for love; he was doing it so that he could die a happy man. And, sneaking a sideways glance at him now, it was happy he looked.

‘What are you thinking about?' she asked.

‘I'm thinking about you, and that lovely dress you had on last night. And I'm thinking about you, and that lovely dress I took off you last night, after dinner. And I'm thinking about what we might have for dinner tonight.'

‘Dinner, Adair? What are you like? We've only just had breakfast!'

‘And some breakfast that was! That black pudding has got to be the best I've ever tasted . . .'

And as Adair waxed lyrical about the black pudding and the potato cakes and the rashers he'd demolished that morning, Río couldn't stop thinking about the proverbial condemned man, and the hearty breakfast he'd consumed.

Some days later, the honeymoon period was over, and the newlyweds were back in the Bentley. It was Adair's first day in his new job as oyster farmer. Río watched as he donned his waterproof bib and brace trousers, his heavy-duty wellington boots and his baseball cap, and then she kissed him goodbye and watched him clamber happily aboard his shiny new tractor and trundle off down to the shore.

What to do now? What to do, now that she was a married woman, after seeing her husband off to work? She supposed that she ought to think about what to cook for his dinner. He'd be hungry after a day spent outdoors: there was nothing like Lissamore sea air to give a man an appetite. So, what to cook? Something substantial, something special. All her cookery books were in her apartment; she'd have to go online.

Outlook Express beckoned: not having bothered to check her email while she was on honeymoon, Río had a rake of new messages waiting for her. The usual spam suspects, something from Dervla, a circular from Fleur (Fleur was a complete sucker for them!), a message from Shane.

Subject: WTF??? she read.

Well, she knew what WTF stood for: What the Fuck. So what the fuck did Shane want to know the fuck about? What the fuck was she doing, getting married to Adair Bolger, that's what the fuck he wanted to know. She didn't want to respond to his email, she didn't even want to open it. Instead, she typed ‘Hearty Meals' into her Google search bar and hit ‘enter'.

Brisket with Stone-Ground Mustard Sauce; All-American Beef Stew; Bacon and Tomato Mac 'n Cheese; Barbecue Beef with Cornbread Topping . . . Oh, God. There was something so dispiriting about this. She pictured women in kitchens all over the world click-click-clicking on recipes, and then posting reviews such as the following: ‘Yum yum yummy!!! I had already marinated pork medallions cut from a whole pork tenderloin in a marinade I found on the bottle of Montreal Steak Seasoning, decided I wanted a sauce & went searching. I cooked them quickly to med-rare & made the sauce in a flash in the pan drippings. Thx for sharing this keeper recipe w/us
'

Or this one: ‘Very tasty and easily made. I was a little confused over the inclusion of dinner rolls AND pie crust until I figured out that you only need one or the other. Didn't have cream of celery so subbed cream of mushroom and added a little Velveeta to augment the cheddar.'

Or this: ‘I added a dollop of ketchup in with the cheeses, I had also debated sweet chilli sauce, which I think would be quite yummy too! I ALSO debated (such a lot of debating!) slicing a tomato in there, but didn't, perhaps another time. Or fried onions . . . yum, the possibilities are endless, lol!!'

Maybe Río should write something along the lines of: ‘I debated adding a pinch – or maybe two! – of salt. Hubby who is dying of cancer asked for second helpings, so it must be good!! Thx for sharing! LOL!!!
'

In the end she decided to opt for Italian Chicken Pie because she was assured that even ‘picky eaters will go back for seconds', and wrote a shopping list to take into the village later. But what to do now? Housework? The Bentley was spick-and-span. Ironing? She rarely ironed any of her own clothes, and now that Adair wasn't going to be attending board meetings and think tanks and such, there wouldn't be any Thomas Pink or Russell and Hodge bespoke shirts to press. She could go home to her apartment and get some painting done, but if she were to abandon the Bentley on her first day of proper married life, Adair might misconstrue it as a kind of betrayal or belittling of her new home. She'd go for a swim, that's what she'd do.

Unfortunately, her favourite place to swim was in the bay, directly under Coral Mansion. What if Shane was there, still? Well, bollocks to him! She couldn't allow him to stymie her life style. If her ex was going to carry on residing in Lissamore, he'd just have to get used to the fact that she lived there too. Río helped herself to a towel, and then remembered that – now that Coral Mansion was occupied – there could be no skinny-dipping in the environs: with a vexed ‘Tch!' she grabbed the swimsuit she'd bought in Coolnamara Castle to wear in the hot tub there, then hit the beach.

The ‘lads' were at work on the oyster beds, shifting bags of shellfish before the tide turned.

‘Where's Adair?' she called to them.

‘Up beyond in the shed,' came the response.

‘Save me any pearls you find, will you?' Sending them a smile, she continued along the beach, thinking back to the first time she'd ever laid eyes on Adair. It had been here on this very stretch of shingle, and she marvelled now at the extraordinary train of events that had led her to marry a man, who – back in that faraway time – she had completely taken agin. She remembered how she'd thought him arrogant and bumptious, a real
Fianna Fáil
-er, a Galway tent merchant, a bit of a
sleveen
. Maybe back then he had been all those things: it had taken Río many years to overcome her an tipathy for him. But the man she knew now was so very, very different. She guessed that that's what happens when you find yourself coming face to face with your own mortality – he'd said it himself, in his letter to the Saudi doctor:
It's funny how you get your priorities right when the Big C comes calling
. . .

Arriving at the slipway she used to dive from, Río looked across at where the new galvanised steel gate was lying open, like an invitation to stray sheep to come and help themselves to what her husband would call a ‘slap-up feed'. She supposed she couldn't expect Adair to be perpetually getting up and down from his tractor in order to shut gates behind him, but still . . .

The hardcore track leading to the main road was, as she'd known it would be, an eyesore. Four of her apple trees had been cut down to make way for it: she'd have to hire someone with a chainsaw to come and saw them into logs. And two of the trees had been damaged, she saw now, their branches dangling limply, like broken arms. With a sigh, Río set her beach bag down on the slipway, and took off her sunglasses; as she did, she heard a voice from above shout, ‘What the
fuck
is going on?'

Squinting against the sunlight, she shaded her eyes with a hand to see Shane standing on the sea wall of Coral Mansion, looking down at her.

‘I'm going for a swim, that's what,' she told him.

‘I don't mean that. I mean, who authorised some prick in a dozer to come and lay a hardcore track at the bottom of my garden?'

‘Don't shout at me, Shane. Come down here if you want to talk.'

She watched as Shane leapt from the wall and started to stride down the orchard towards her, dust rising from the hardcore with each step he took.

‘So? What's the story, Río?' he said, as he drew abreast with her. ‘I came back from lunch the other day to find an access road running through my garden.'

‘If you take a look at the title deeds, I think you'll find that that tranche of land belongs to me,' Río told him, coldly. ‘It was necessary to lay a track through it to facilitate my husband's business.'

‘His business?'

‘His oyster-packing shed is up on the main road.'

‘So how many times a day is your
husband
likely to be chugging along my boundary belching fumes from his tractor?'

‘You'd need to ask him that.'

‘There are laws about this kind of thing,' Shane told her. ‘It's an infringement of my privacy, for starters—'

Río dismissed him with a baroque gesture of her hand. ‘Build a wall. Grow a hedge. Erect a fence.'

‘And then there's the pollution aspect.'

‘Pollution?'

‘The engine noise. The petrol fumes.'

‘You're living in the country now, Shane. I think you'll find that the tractor is a fairly commonplace mode of transport here.'

‘So I'm expected to relax on my deck with that buffoon perpetually trundling through my view, am I?'

‘How dare you call Adair a buffoon! How
dare
you, Shane Byrne! He's ten times the man you are!' Río raised her hand to smack him, but Shane grabbed hold of her wrist.

‘What happened, Río?' he hissed. ‘Why did you do it? Why did you marry him?'

‘I love him.'

Shane shook his head. ‘I don't buy that. I don't buy that at all.'