No Way to Say Goodbye (4 page)

3. The new neighbour

Four days had passed since Sam Sullivan had emerged from rehab and made a call that would hopefully change the course of his life. It had been a long flight, New York to Dublin, followed by another shorter and more uncomfortable flight, Dublin to Kerry, followed by a thirty-mile drive to Kenmare.

The man at Avis had given him a map, which would take him onto the Cork road rather than over the mountain pass. “Safer,” he’d advised. “The mountain on a night like this is a killer, especially for you tourists. Sure you’re not able for it at all!” He chuckled.

Sam thanked him and left. He should have asked some questions because a mixture of confusion, exhaustion and a bad map meant he ended up on the mountain. The rain continued and the road was turning into a stream. He crawled along but the water was rising and the large potholes and dips in the road were becoming more and more water-logged and dangerous. The locals were obviously using the Cork road because he was alone.

Despite the weather, though, he couldn’t help but stop to absorb the surrounding bleak beauty. He had never been a picture-postcard kind of person, and couldn’t remember having been touched by a beautiful beach or a field of flowers but now, on this cold and miserable evening, he looked out onto the jagged grey rock above the winding road, which wove through drenched and dripping woods, and it captivated him.

Even so, after two hours’ jolting through potholes the scenery was getting old.

When he arrived into the town it was after seven and the rain kept coming down. A small black-and-white signpost revealed that he had reached his destination and he sighed with relief. The cliff-top twists and turns had been an unexpected challenge and he felt he’d run and survived Nature’s gauntlet. The town opened up before him, and even through the endless drizzle he found its quaint charm, coloured walls and jagged stone alluring. Despite his exhaustion, and because he had no idea where he was going, he circled the town twice, driving slowly so as to soak it all in. Large windows revealed warm rooms with candles placed on tables, the flicker of log fires in open bars, restaurants with low lighting, a chef and waitress sitting opposite one another, a bottle of wine between them.

He reached the top of the town for the second time and flagged down the only man on the street, handed him the address on a page printed from the Internet and asked for directions. The other grinned widely, showing his gums, and before Sam knew it, he was sitting in the car beside him. “You’re nearly there now – I’ll take a ride with you. I’ve a boat to check on,” he said, and put out his hand. “Jerry Letter.”

“Sam Sullivan,” he replied, shaking the man’s hand.

“Then we’re both Sullivans!”

“I thought you said your name was Letter?” Sam was confused.

“I did, and it is and it isn’t,” he answered.

“OK,” Sam agreed, and drove in the direction that Jerry was pointing.

Jerry laughed to himself. He liked Americans. They were a lot better to banter with than the Germans. Germans never seemed to have much time for Jerry. “I’m the postman,” he said, after a moment or two.

“Excuse me?”

“Jerry Letter – I’m the postman.”

“Oh. OK. That should make sense.”

“Ah, but it does. You see, you and me, we’re not the only Sullivans in this town. There’s plenty more. In fact, the place is full of us, and as for first names you couldn’t throw a pint in any direction without hitting a Jerry, a John, a Jimmy, a Robert, a Peter, a Frank or a Francie. So, you see, to tell one Jerry Sullivan from another, we just call each other by what we do or what we wear or what we’re into.”

Sam laughed.

“Take the right.” Jerry nodded.

Sam took the right and looked to his left at the boats wrestling with the high tide. Hills rose behind the dark blue water, the heather casting a purple hue on the sky, and to his right he saw a line of little cottages built of rock, standing firm against the battering wind. “That’s you.” Jerry gestured.

Sam stopped the car directly in front of the cottage. “Looks good,” he said, supremely glad to have arrived.

“It may look good but the place has been empty for a year. I hope to Christ she’s not damp.”

Before Sam could respond Jerry was helping him remove his bags from the boot and waiting for him to produce the house keys.

Once inside, Jerry took a good look around. “She seems fine. Lucy’s been taking good care of her.”

Sam just shook his head – as entertaining as Jerry Letter was, he wanted him gone.

Jerry was no fool, and once his American friend was settled and he’d ascertained the man was a New Yorker, unmarried, some sort of executive, and had travelled alone, he took his leave. “Well, we’ll see each other around so, Uncle Sam.” He tipped his hat and walked out into the rain, as relaxed as though it was a fine day.

Sam scratched his head.
Holy shit, that guy should work for the CIA!

Without stopping to assimilate the ground floor of his new home he went straight upstairs, stripped off and got into the large brass bed that was waiting to envelop him. His head hit the pillow and he was asleep. Even the rain beating against the window couldn’t wake him.

He didn’t wake in the morning either, even though the sun broke through the clouds and glinted on his window-pane. He slept on as the chirping birds taunted Mr Monkels, barked as he attempted to run up and down the back garden, while they perched on their feeding table, snacking comfortably, savvy enough to know that unless the mutt grew wings he was no threat. Sam would spend his first full day in a foreign country asleep – as a lifelong insomniac, he’d have thought it impossible. During the next day he woke once or twice, but for just long enough to remember where he was and that he was free.

While he was asleep, Sam didn’t have to think or worry about the commotion he’d left behind. The past four days since his release had been eventful. On day one he had planned his escape hastily from the back of a limo. He had spent day two in the office with Leland, who had been shouting, waving his finger and actually spitting, as he roared about his
protégé
’s ingratitude, disloyalty and betrayal. “What the hell are we supposed to do with those goddamn British pretty-boys?” he had screamed, referring to their latest signing, his neck reddening and a vein pulsing in his temple.

“You do what you do best, Leland, you promote them,” Sam said, as calmly as he could.

“You’re not leaving!” Leland had threatened.

“Yes, Leland, I am,” Sam had responded, steadfast despite his mentor’s menacing demeanour.

“If I’d known you were just going to disappear, I’d have left you to rot!” Leland ground out, once he’d realized that Sam was not to be intimidated.

“I’m glad you didn’t. By the way, did I thank you for picking up the bill?”

Leland glowered.

Sam turned to leave.

“You’ll never work in the record business again!” Leland said predictably.

“I hope not.” Sam smiled. “See you around, Leland.” He closed the door behind him and a part of his spirit soared.

Walking through the office, he felt like Jerry Maguire without the embarrassing fall, the stolen fish or a girl called Dorothy – but his head was held as high and his dream of a different kind of future was just as real. Those around him had said hasty goodbyes, caring no more about him than he did about them. He took the lift to the lobby, saluted the latest doorman and promised he’d never enter the building again.

The saliva shower aside, his second day out of rehab had been a good one.

On day three he had visited his mother, despite his reservations and the barring order. She had cried when she saw him, pulling him in from the street quickly so the neighbours wouldn’t see. His dad was out, as Sam had known he would be. She’d brushed the hair from his face and sighed. “You look good for a corpse,” she said, attempting to smile.

“I’m OK now, Mom,” he said.

“It’s over?” she said.

“I promise.” He begged himself silently not to mess up.

His mother sobbed while she made coffee, and he looked around the kitchen he hadn’t seen since he was last caught shooting up in his brother’s bedroom on Christmas Day last year. That day he had punched his dad, breaking his nose, called his mother a whore and refused to leave until his brother threatened him with the police.

“I’m sorry, Mom,” he said, biting back the emotion that, as a man, he’d learned to conceal.

She held on to his hand across the counter. “I’m just glad you’re back,” she said, tears tumbling.

“I won’t let you down again,” he promised.

“You said that before.”

“This time is different. I’ve left work.”

“You have?” She was comforted by that although she knew his job was only one of his problems. Long ago she had let him down when he’d needed her most.

“I’m leaving.”

“Where are you going?”

“Ireland.”

His mother was taken aback. “Ireland?” she’d repeated, shocked.

“I always promised Gran I’d go. So I’m going.”

“Wow!” was all she could say. Still, she was beaming. She’d never been to her mother’s homeland but she was happy that her son was to visit the country her mother had loved. “When?”

“Tomorrow morning.”

“And your dad?”

“Tell him I’m sorry about his nose. Tell him I’m well and it’s going to be OK.”

“You’re sure?” she asked.

“I am,” he lied.

“You were always your grandmother’s favourite,” said his mother. “She’d be proud.”

Sam had no doubt that, if she had been alive, she would have kicked his ass. Still, he was glad he’d seen his mother and, as hard as it was when she hugged him, he hugged her back. Perhaps his shrink had been right when he had simply advised: “Whatever it is, just let it go, man!” He desperately wanted to.

Later that night he had dinner with Mia in her favourite restaurant.

As soon as he had extended the invitation she’d known he was ending their relationship, yet she’d agreed that he could pick her up at eight. There had been technical problems with the video shoot and it had run on so she had just spent the fourth day in a row dancing on set for seven hours. Her ankle needed to be strapped and she’d have to take painkillers for her back. She’d left the studio with the set beautician, who would ensure that her hair and makeup were perfect. If she was going to be dumped by the love of her life, at least she’d look good while he was doing it.

Sam arrived outside her building at eight sharp. Building security escorted her to the limo. Sam kissed her cheek and they sat in silence until they reached the restaurant. Outside, paparazzi bulbs flashed as she made her exit from the car, careful that they didn’t get a shot between her legs. Sam walked in ahead, knowing they were only interested in a name. She felt like a lamb being led to slaughter, not that she showed it. She was used to facing the flashes alone, so what was different about tonight? She turned it on. She smiled and paraded, winked and waved, and when they’d got what they were looking for she joined Sam, who was ready to order. They discussed the problems with the shoot, the recording of her third album and the inevitable tour but he waited until they had ordered coffee instead of dessert to talk properly.

“I have to leave,” he said simply.

She nodded and asked him to pass the milk.

“Did you hear what I said?” he asked.

“You’re leaving.”

“You’re not surprised.”

“Well, if you’re going to break up with Leland the day before you break up with me, what do you expect?” she asked, even-toned.

“I didn’t think,” he admitted.

“You never do.” She forced a smile and waved at a fellow limelighter who was passing and reeked of Dior – they’d be forced to smell her long after she had left.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized, for the umpteenth time that day.

“You are,” she agreed. She was playing it tough but the façade was crumbling. “So are we really over?”

“I don’t know,” he said, unable to be honest with either of them.

“You don’t know?” she repeated, tears welling and all pretence gone.

“I just need time,” he said, and now she was crying openly.

“It’s not over,” she begged.
Please don’t leave me!

“No, it’s not.” He backed down.
Coward!
“Do you want to go home?” he asked, concerned that people would notice her unravelling.

“Yes,” she agreed.
Hold it together
.

“Waiter!”

And suddenly she broke down completely, even though they were in public and in a place where every waiter was on the razzis’ payroll. Sam found her loud sobbing deeply disturbing – the reason he’d taken her there was to avoid a scene.

Mia couldn’t help it because, as bad as he was, she couldn’t bear to lose him. The waiter dropped the bill and grinned, knowing he was going to earn some extra cash. She attempted to compose herself and Sam told her how amazing she was, how talented, beautiful, graceful and elegant. He sounded like a fan.

“You’re incredible,” he said.

“And yet you’re leaving.”

“I have to.”

She snorted, her pain turning to anger. “Take me with you,” she pleaded, as she picked up her handbag.

“I can’t,” he said, and watched her bottom lip tremble.

“So take me home,” she said, standing up. Her makeup was streaked.

“Do you want to wash your face?” he asked, aware that every cameraman in Manhattan would be outside, waiting.

“No,” she said, striding towards the door. “It doesn’t matter.”

He followed her out, but this time when the bulbs flashed into her bleary eyes, he stood right beside her as the vultures descended.

4. New town, new man?

The rain had stopped, the sky was bright blue and Mary was in work for eleven o’clock. She sat up at the bar while her dad, whose name was Jack, poured coffee. Pierre the French chef breezed past and grunted hello. Mary gave him the fingers.

“Oh, yes, Marie, so very sexy of you!”

“I try to please.”

“Well, try harder!” He gave her a prod, and her dad laughed.

Pierre was soon safely ensconced in the back kitchen blasting out MC Solaar. Mary’s dad sighed to illustrate his distaste of French rap, which was one step too far up the musical ladder for him. Mary liked Solaar, not that she would have admitted it to Pierre.