Deceptions (21 page)

Ralph answers the phone. He talks about a seminar. Virginia won’t be home until tomorrow afternoon.

“So sorry to have missed you.” Virginia’s voice does not sound in the least apologetic when Lorraine rings her mobile number. “Leave a message and I’ll return your call as soon as I’m free.”

She hangs up without speaking and returns to the bar.

Over the following weeks Lorraine listens for words, for meanings behind words, for gestures that display little but convey much. Denial is still an option. If there is something going on then surely Ralph, so worldly-wise, so perceptive and possessive, will know. She is unable to utter her suspicions aloud. If she is right – what then? The destruction of her marriage, the breaking of a friendship, never to be renewed. The severing of a business partnership that has stretched their finances to the limit.

She does not find them kissing in hidden corners or making love on the marital bed. There are no unexplained Visa payments, hotel receipts, lipstick marks on shirt collars, no silent phone calls. Instead, on a dull morning in November, shortly after she returns from New York, Adrian lifts his briefcase from the kitchen floor and balances it across his knee. He is searching for something, car keys or his mobile phone, his movements growing more impatient as he rustles the documents. The briefcase slips from his grasp. Sheets of paper scatter across the kitchen tiles. Lorraine picks up a report which contains a five-year development plan for Strong–Blaide Advertising. A jagged rust-coloured stain has smeared the cover. Beside it lies a press release. Virginia’s distinctive company logo is visible on the front, a logo which Lorraine designed for her the previous year. The press release has “Sheraton Worldwide Travel” written on the top with “Confidential” stamped in bold print above the headline. It is in draft stage. There are handwritten notations in the margins. Lorraine glances down at the same faint but unmistakable stain. Blood, she realises, smeared and splattered.

“Why is this in your briefcase?” She hands it to him and awaits his reply. She is curiously disconnected from the question, an unnatural calmness descending on her as she watches him scrutinise the document before tearing it into pieces.

“Virginia ran it by me once. I thought it was fine as it was but you know how fussy she can be. If the ‘i’ is dotted she wants a second dot to be on the safe side.” His gaze slides away and his voice – persuasive, drawing her inwards to share the joke – sounds as empty as his explanation. He flings the press release into the rubbish bin with the swivel lid and slaps his hands together. “I must have forgotten to hand it back to her.”

He leaves the house in a hurry, his waxed coat flapping open against his legs. He is a busy man with a business to run.

For the opening night of
Painting Dreams
a large crowd gathers in the gallery. Journalists arrive, tabloid diarists, critics from the arts pages, the television crew from
Artistically Speaking
. Virginia sails effortlessly through the crowd, a bird of paradise in her bright colours, her short black hair brushed upwards and highlighted in a titian quiff that would look outrageous on anyone else.

“You’ll get the coverage,” she whispers, gliding past. “It’ll be serious and salacious. Keep smiling.” She has organised the publicity and is delighted by the ripple of shock that reaches from one guest to the next as they view the exhibition.

“Sold” stickers are already on some of the paintings when Lorraine faces a television camera and the crew from
Artistically Speaking
gather around her. As the interview continues she glances beyond the spot where Adrian and Virginia stand together. Adrian’s body language alerts her, the rapt concentration on his face as if he wants to block out every other sound in the gallery. Virginia touches his hand, a warning pressure, and he moves away, just a step or two, to stand before one of the paintings. A casual drifting apart that has been played out many times before Lorraine’s eyes but this time she recognises the casual touch a husband gives to a wife, a wife to a husband, as if they are flesh on flesh, so familiar to each other that such gestures are exchanged with thoughtless ease.

She struggles to concentrate on the interview, to see only what is there before her eyes – an interviewer whose voice seems glazed with honey and whose every question is delivered like a speech from the dock – but all she can see is Adrian, his back now turned to her as he stands before a painting, intrigued, perhaps, by the flaunting impression of Cherie exposed on canvas. She watches him engage in conversation with the man standing next to him. Why does his laughter ring false and the set of his shoulders look tense rather than relaxed? Virginia is now at the opposite end of the gallery yet, in the beat of an eyelid and the touch of a hand, everything has changed and Lorraine knows with chilling conviction that her husband and her best friend are bound together by an unbroken thread that stretches back to another era when the air around her trembled with every breath she took, and how, standing in the doorway, the ceiling spinning above her, the floor swaying, she saw them, his supple back arched like a bow that will snap if not released, the dew of sweat on his shoulders and, as she moved closer, Virginia’s upturned face, ecstatic. Her slender legs wrapped him secure and – before he reached for a cushion to press against her mouth – a cry soft as cat’s purr crept across the room towards Lorraine. Dawn washed over the ceiling and in the milky light of a new day she left them, flitting from the room as silently as she entered. She closed her eyes on the tableau she had witnessed, allowed it to vaporise, to fade into the ether of oblivion.

But it was not oblivion, nor a frozen tableau: there had been much thrashing of limbs on the old four-seater sofa and that memory, quiescent for so long, is powerful enough to weaken her knees and cause her to wonder if she will collapse in front of the assembled gathering who have lifted the level of noise so that they too can be part of the televised proceedings. She pushes her hair from her forehead, the lighting is too hot, her face burns, she must concentrate. When the filming ends, she shakes hands, accepts congratulations, moves through the crowd – but she is a young girl again, lost in the summer of ’82, and the pain is unendurable.

“How long has this been going on?” When they return home she confronts him. Her voice takes on an unfamiliar cadence. “I want the truth, Adrian.”

“What on earth do you mean?” Of course he sounds perplexed, quizzical, his forehead wrinkling in bemusement. She feels nothing – that will surely come later when she has time to absorb the enormity of what is taking place.

“How long have you been having an affair with Virginia?” She links into his gaze, holding it. “Don’t ask me to repeat myself. Just answer my question.”

“Jesus Christ!” Colour floods his face. He draws back as if he can feel her fury blasting him. He will argue, bluster, fight for survival, tell her she is crazy, possessed, neurotic – but in the involuntary twist of his mouth she has seen the truth.

“How long?” she screams. She has never screamed before, not as far as she can remember. As a cherished only child it was not necessary to do battle with siblings or fight for parental attention.

“The apple of my eye,” her father used to say, lavishing her with love, just as Adrian had placed his own daughter at the centre of his world. Or so she had believed. Emily, whey-faced, hearing her mother scream, refuses to leave her bedroom for two days and is finally coaxed from her retreat by Donna, who tries to explain what is taking place.

Adrian too attempts to rationalise, to talk his way through the myriad emotions swirling around them. He has always loved two women. It is as simple and as complex as that. The eternal dilemma, the cruel triangle, and so he agonised, prevaricated, fought with his conscience. Impossible to make decisions. She, in turn, drifted through the summers of Trabawn, through the airless streets of London, through the years of marriage, floating high above the scent of his betrayal.

“When did it start?” she demands again and again. When, where, why, how often, how could you … tell me … tell me! Her voice rises to a pitch that would normally horrify her. There should be power and energy in an unsuppressed scream but her screams are weighted with defeat and the knowledge that forgiveness is impossible. Perhaps if he had skulked in shadows with a stranger whom she would never know they could have managed a painful journey back together. Their marriage might have been secured with forgiveness and a wisdom that comes from understanding the dangerous underbelly of deceit. But as she reels back from her husband’s confession, she understands only that her perception of the past and her expectations of the future have changed utterly. How can mere words bring about a reconciliation? What gesture can repair such a rupture to the heart?

How quickly decisions are made, driven by a manic energy that has taken possession of her. In the turmoil following her discovery, Donna rings with the news that Celia Murphy is dead. At the age of ninety-seven, she sold her field to Frank Donaldson and died a week later. Her demise is marked by a notice in the
Irish Independant
and a well-attended funeral.

Lorraine is among the mourners who fill the small church and walk behind the coffin to the graveyard. After the funeral, she sups on soup and sandwiches in O’Callaghan’s pub, its dust and upright benches replaced by well-sprung maroon armchairs and stained-glass partitions. Celia’s nephew, Eugene Murphy, introduces himself to her. He has seen her on television, something to do with an exhibition. He knows little enough about art, he admits, but he recognised her at once and remembers playing with her on the beach when they were children. His aunt’s house, which he inherited, is now on the market. It will sell cheap and need refurbishment. Lorraine leaves the hotel and drives with him to view it. When she expresses an interest in buying the house, Eugene assumes she intends using it as a holiday home. On hearing she is moving permanently to Trabawn he makes no attempt to hide his astonishment. “That’ll be some lifestyle change.”

In the kitchen he stands back from her, his hands clasped behind his back, puzzlement written across his face. She knows he is summing up her lacklustre eyes and strained expression but she is beyond caring what people think. They shake hands on the deal.

And so she comes to Trabawn. A flashback to childhood summers when pain was confined to stubbed toes and jellyfish stings. Ralph visits her before he leaves for London.

“Virginia always demanded more than I could give her.” His emotions remain hidden behind his hawkish features. “But I was arrogant enough to believe she would never betray me with my best friend. They’ve moved in together.”

Lorraine paces the floor, unable to stay still. Every part of her gnaws, burns, shivers and the weeping, she is convinced, will never stop. The business partnership of Strong–Blaide Advertising is over. Virginia will keep Blaide House. Their house in Howth now belongs to Ralph. The spoils of war, he calls it. His matter-of-fact acceptance of all that has happened diminishes her grief.

“I wish you wouldn’t be so calm,” she cries. “You’d discuss the break-up of a failed merger with more emotion.”

He gathers her against him, forces her to a standstill. “Believe me, Lorraine, it’s hatred that keeps me standing upright, nothing else.”

But the person Lorraine hates most is herself, poor deluded, pliable, pitiful, gullible fool, hiding in the hidey-hedge, hiding behind the sand dunes while Virginia skipped over the rocks and away with the prize.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY
-F
IVE

Ferryman

(an extract from Michael Carmody’s memoir)

The phone call from Bozo Daly came two nights after my last meeting with Killian. “F-f-
erry
man’s d-d-down on the wa-wa-
wall.
Better co-come, mate.” As usual, there was much stammering and puffing of breath. But I got the message. He hung up before I could ask questions. I wanted to roar into the silence that followed, strike the nearest object with my fists. I was weary of my son’s endless destructive games.

I drove along the quays. The peak traffic had long dispersed but the trucks still headed for the ferry terminals. I drove towards the South Port and into the industrial zone. Boulders positioned on sections of the road prevented travellers parking their caravans. But a few defiant families had managed to penetrate this fortress and closed their curtains against the settled world. I passed empty warehouses. Bulky containers and giant oil drums were visible beyond high walls. Outside the gates of the ESB generating station, a row of cannons offered a silent salute. My headlights swept over the pier, hoping I’d find Killian running wild, chasing the moon, perhaps. I walked the pier, searched the shadows. Apart from the silver car parked close to a shed, the place was deserted. I drove to a small car-park overlooking the bay and removed a torch from the boot. Its beam was a feeble light in the vast abyss my son had created between us.

The last car was leaving the car-park when I climbed over the rocks banking one side of the South Wall. Seaweed squelched beneath my feet. I slipped, my foot wedging between rocks, and imagined Killian sliding, falling, his mind lost, wandering back to his childhood when he had my steady hand to guide him back to safety. He played my emotions like a mandolin, strumming my love with brutal fingers. Yet I remembered those same fingers clasped in mine as we explored the murky green depths of rock pools, coaxing crabs from under the cover of seaweed and following the rippling flow of minnows.

From the pier I heard a car door slam. Footsteps sounded, voices argued. On a quiet night sounds carry. I saw them walk out of sight behind the high walls of the shed. I left them to their pleasure. If only I’d stayed a while longer. If only … only … ten minutes more could have made a difference. Two hours later the guards came to my apartment.

Since that night, medical terminology has become a familiar language. Killian’s neuro-surgeon uses words with a casual ease that terrified us at first; CAT scans, trauma, brain-stem damage, occipital lobe, Glasgow coma scores, the remote possibility of a “reawakening”. We’ve become attuned to the nuances of meaning, the pitch of his information. His skill at breaking bad news into small digestible pieces is well honed. Temporal-parietal subdural haematoma. How’s that for a mouthful? Killian was operated on in Beaumont Hospital and transferred to the Hammond Clinic when he was stable.