Deceptions (34 page)

Shocked, he stared at the broken shards. “I lied because I knew this was how you’d react. I’d no intention of seeing Lorraine but I had to mend bridges. Emily is all I care about. You have to trust me, Virginia.”

“No more weekends apart,” she said when their anger finally subsided. “You’ve signed O’Callaghan’s upmarket register for the last time. If Emily wants to see you she comes here. Otherwise, you don’t come home to me.”

In bed, she waited for him to join her. We should be making love now, she thought, banishing angry words, finding the energy to keep going.

At last, unable any longer to endure the empty space, she entered the living-room. He was slumped in front of the television, aimlessly changing channels. The stations flicked in rapid succession, weather forecasts, shoot-outs, political debate, war zones. She removed the remote control from his hand and switched off the television. Without a word he rose and followed her.

C
HAPTER
F
ORTY
-T
HREE

On Christmas Eve they left Trabawn in the early afternoon and headed for Dublin. Emily, who had cried leaving the horses, fretted whenever Lorraine drove over a pothole in case the jolt caused the collapse of the Christmas cake she had made in her domestic-science class. They stopped at Sophie’s house where she exchanged presents with Ibrahim. This changeover took such an inordinate length of time that Sophie was forced to bang on his bedroom door and order them out. It was dark when an exhausted Lorraine finally reached Dublin.

Her parents’ house was filled with determined good cheer and the smells of herbs and spices. Christmas Day passed in a haze of activity. Adrian rang, maudlin, reminiscing. She handed the phone to Emily and returned to the kitchen to baste the turkey. The annual party in Ruanes’ was well underway when they went next door to join the festivities. A crowd had gathered around the piano where Eoin was playing Christmas songs for the children. Meg and Lorraine slipped into one of the bedrooms to talk. Meg had put on weight since New York. It added a stateliness to her neck and shoulders. She had tied a headband with coloured stones around her forehead and this ornate bandanna shimmered every time she shook her head. The friendship that followed after Meg commissioned her husband’s portrait needed little more than an occasional meeting between the two women to sustain it and Meg listened without interruption while Lorraine talked about the previous year. When she admitted her suspicion that she was probably the last to find out about her husband’s affair, Meg shook her head.

“I never suspected anything was going on or spoke to anyone else who did.”

“But I
did
know.” Lorraine gave her head thee hard knocks. “In here I had a sense that everything wasn’t right. It was intuition rather than suspicion, the inner voice ordering me to wake up but I simply wasn’t prepared to listen. What does that make me? Deaf, blind, stupid, pathetic – or all four?”

“The inner voice is always loudest when it sings in hindsight.” Meg laughed as the sounds of familiar carols floated upwards. Mary banged on the bedroom door and ordered them down to join in the singing.

“We’re throwing a party at the end of January,” said Meg before they went downstairs. “It’s a chance to see our friends in one fell swoop. We’d love you and Emily to come.”

“If we can make it we will. But you and Eoin have to come down some weekend. I’m getting the house in order at last. The girls can bring sleeping-bags. Emily would love to show them around Trabawn.”

“It’ll be summer before Eoin has another weekend free.”

“He’s obviously in demand as much as ever.”

“More than ever.” Meg sighed. “I thought New York was busy but this is manic. Mary, God bless her, has offered to move in and mind the kids when Eoin is touring the UK so I’ll be able to accompany him for a change. It’s so long since we’ve had a chance to be alone together.”

The friends rejoined the party. They stood in a circle and sang carols, as they did every year, and if anyone missed the fine tenor voice of Adrian Strong, the deeper baritone of Ralph Blaide and the perfectly pitched soprano notes that poured so effortlessly from Virginia’s throat, no one commented. Lorraine, as always, sang rapturously inside her head, but softly mouthed the words. The frog in the school choir, she knew her limitations.

C
HAPTER
F
ORTY
-F
OUR

Brahms Ward
10 p.m.

Harriet phoned before I left, Killian. She scolded me for being alone. A social indiscretion on Christmas Day. She’d been partying on a house boat for two days and sounded tipsy from some home-made Maori brew; rot-gut, I would imagine, but she has a stomach like an ox. She sends her love by the armload.

She was trekking through thermal springs, bathing in New Zealand mud, when she heard about your accident. She flew home immediately. A leathery existence with her home in a rucksack leaves little space for tears yet she shed them freely as she willed you to respond. You were still sleeping when she flew away again. Like me, she has a deadline to keep. Dear Harriet, journaling … journeying, eccentric as a road runner.

I didn’t have to spend the day alone. Many invitations came. Roz and Meg and your mother. Didn’t she look lovely when she was in earlier? And Laura? From gawky to gorgeous in one fell swoop. Jean worries about the belly stud and the pierced tongue. I reminded her that she once wore jeans with a slashed backside. For the first time we were able to look back on the weekend that made you and smile, remembering.

The city is empty tonight. Except for the illuminations. Trees dressed in silver, shooting stars above the bridges, even the cranes are festooned with flashing lights but there is silence everywhere. I rang her before I left the apartment. I couldn’t stop myself. Like a mad fool I rang her house and listened to her voice on the answering machine. Twice. I won’t do it again.

We’ll sit out the late shift together and sing carols. O the holly bears a berry as blood it is red. And Mary she bore Jesus who died in our stead …

I didn’t die … didn’t die … didn’t die … hear me!

C
HAPTER
F
ORTY
-F
IVE

When the phone rang, startling them from their sleep and jerking Virginia upright, she answered it with a sense of dread. Edward was calling from London. Their father had suffered a massive aneurysm and been pronounced dead on arrival at the hospital. Josephine had accompanied him in the ambulance. Edward spoke sombrely, still in deep shock, then handed the phone to his mother.

“Time and tide wait for no man,” announced Josephine. Her voice quivered, sobbed. “I need my family around me. How soon will you be able to get a flight?”

Still unable to believe that her father should die so effortlessly, Virginia was already calculating which business meetings could be postponed or delegated. “I’ll have to cancel a business trip. I’m supposed to fly out to Madeira in two days’ time. I’ll ring back when I’ve more definite information.”

Bill Sheraton was understanding when she rang. A family bereavement was first priority. He would cancel their flights and rearrange the trip. Sheraton Worldwide Travel wanted to launch a media promotion of their winter holidays and Madeira was one of the chosen destinations. Virginia had intended visiting the island and drawing up an itinerary that would appeal to a select group of journalists whom she would bring over at a later date. She was skilled at summing up locations, her intuition honed to the story that would trigger interest, create a colour feature, inspire enthusiasm. He phoned her back a few minutes later and told her he had organised a flight for her to Heathrow Airport that afternoon. A strange man, she thought, putting down the phone. An irascible bully yet capable of kindness when the occasion demanded it.

Edward was waiting in the airport to drive her to their childhood home in Forest Hill. They had no sooner left the airport than he assumed the lofty tones of the righteous and said, “You’ve been making a lot of mischief since we last met, sister mine. How long was it going on before Lorraine had the good sense to kick him out?”

She ordered him to mind his own business and he retorted, “As I happen to be closely acquainted with all the parties involved, this is my business. Dare I ask if you and Adrian are happy?”

“Of course we are.”

“Liar, liar, dirty –”

“Shut up, Edward.” They always fell back into childhood roles, bickering and teasing each other within five minutes of meeting. If he had nudged her with his elbow and told her to shove over in the seat she would not have been surprised.

“Will Lorraine be at the funeral?” he asked.

“I haven’t the faintest idea. We’re not exactly in close communication these days.”

“Don’t be so defensive. It’ll be an extremely difficult occasion for everyone involved. Mother is distraught enough without this added tension.”

“Distraught! She wanted to turn his head into a bowling ball when he left her.”

“Which should give you some indication about how Lorraine feels about you.”

“We never wanted to hurt anyone, especially Lorraine.”

“Well, as mother would say, you can’t make a omelette without breaking hearts.”

“Give me a
break
.” How pompous he sounded, in his gold-rimmed glasses and Caribbean tan, sitting like a proud chubby child behind the wheel of his Mercedes. He dyed his hair, not a hint of grey anywhere, but she could see tell-tale red tinges when it caught the light. Adrian was going grey, just a smattering and difficult, as yet, to distinguish among the blonde – but it remained a disquieting reminder of all they had been through.

Instead of the discreet and private cremation she had anticipated, Des Cheevers had left specific instructions about the type of funeral he wanted. Death notices had to appear in the Irish newspapers. His body was to be flown to Dublin and buried in Glasnevin Cemetery. Certain hymns for the burial service and, afterwards – when the clay was finally flung over his bones – he had left money to pay for a slap-up feed for his relations and childhood friends.

“I can’t believe Mother is going through with this ridiculous charade.” She ranted at her brother who agreed it was appallingly tacky – but they should be thankful their father had not also requested a gun salute from men in balaclavas.

“Everybody wants to go to heaven but nobody wants to die.” Josephine wept in Virginia’s arms and continued to repeat this truism whenever anyone called to offer their condolences. Virginia had no sooner stepped over the threshold when she was led upstairs to inspect the bedroom where her errant father had breathed his last.

“He was sitting up in bed eating a boiled egg when it happened. He just keeled over in front of my eyes.” Josephine managed to look both grief-stricken and coy in the same instant. “He always liked a boiled egg after –”

Virginia’s expression prevented any further discussion on the subject and Josephine contented herself by pointing to a stain on the yellow duvet. “That’s where he knocked over his mug of tea.”

Horrified to think her parents had been sleeping together, Virginia refused to ask the obvious question. She hurried from her mother’s bedroom, resolving to wash the duvet cover as soon as Josephine’s back was turned. Perhaps that was the reason for his aneurysm. Over-exertion. Her mind skidded away from the image. His sexual capers had finally killed him in the arms of his ex-wife. Funny old thing, life. As Josephine would say, “Truth is stranger than friction.”

Adrian rang every day. It was impossible for him to get away from the office. A slight hiccup had occurred, nothing to worry about, everything was under control. The dismay in his voice when he heard the funeral would take place in Ireland was palpable.

“Josephine is determined to carry out his last wishes.” Virginia sighed.

“But the funeral will be horrendous. When is he being buried?”

“No date yet. It depends on when the undertaker is ready to release his body and how quickly it can be flown over. I’ll ring and let you know as soon as I’ve more information.”

“Do you think Lorraine will attend?”

“She will,” Virginia replied. “She’ll do it simply to prove she can. And so will Ralph.”

Rigor mortis had set her father’s lips into their thin final position, banished his smile, so embracing and mercurial, and placed, instead, a slack-jawed incredulity on his face, as if he had been caught unaware when death crept up behind him. But Virginia saw also in his raddled mouth the weakness of a man who had lied with conviction, charm and utter sincerity.

She had betrayed him when she was seventeen. Betrayed. The word sounded strange on her tongue. She repeated it again, a breathless-sounding, sly, Judas word. Disconcerting to speak it now when he was stretched cold before her, reposing grandly on purple satin.