That Gallagher Girl (17 page)

‘It's a sad poem, but a happy one at the same time,' Finn told his listeners. ‘And I think that's fitting, because while weddings are occasions of great joy, tears are often shed. Tears of happiness, it has to be said. I know I'll probably end up crying into my pint later, and I can see that Ma has already started.'

There was some laughter at this, and Keeley could see that it was indeed true – Fleur had had to pass Río a handkerchief to mop up the tears that were streaming silently down her face.

‘I never dreamed that I would end up giving my mother away to another man,' continued Finn. ‘She's been mine, and mine alone since I was born. So, Adair, this has been a tough ask. All I need say now is that you had better take good care of her, or I will hunt you down and kick your ass. Joking aside, I know that you have admired Ma for many years, and I have to thank you for making an honest woman of her at last. I hope you will both be very, very happy together. Um . . . that's basically it.'

Finn stepped back, and Keeley watched as Río made an effort to recover herself. Her face was pale, apart from two hectic patches of red on her cheeks. Taking a couple of deep breaths, she reached for the groom's hand, then said, in a faltering voice, ‘You cannot possess me, Adair, for I belong to myself. But while we both wish it, I give you that which is mine to give. You cannot command me, for I am a free person, but I shall serve you in those ways you require and the honeycomb will taste sweeter coming from my hand.'

Admirable sentiments, thought Keeley. And barefoot on a beach certainly beat the mobile meringue thing. The last wedding she'd been at, she'd come across the bride in tears in the loo because her corset was so tight and her feet were hurting so badly that she hadn't been able to enjoy a single moment of her own wedding.

It was the groom's turn, now. In a voice that was as robust as Río's was weak, he said, smiling down at her, ‘I pledge to you, Río, that yours will be the name I cry aloud in the night and the eyes into which I smile in the morning. I pledge to you the first bite of my meat and the first drink from my cup. I pledge to you my living and my dying, each equally in your care. I shall be a shield for your back and you for mine, and I shall honour you above all others. This is my wedding vow to you. This is the marriage of equals.'

A marriage of equals! Keeley liked it. She watched as the priest took up his cue. Stepping forward, he reached for the couple's hands.

‘May the light of friendship guide your paths together, as one, in caring for the other above all else on your life's journey,' he intoned, winding a silk ribbon around their conjoined hands. ‘And when eternity beckons, at the end of a life heaped high with love, may the good Lord embrace you with the arms that have nurtured you the whole length of your joy-filled days together. And, today, may the Spirit of Love find a dwelling place in your hearts. Amen. Adair, you may kiss the bride.'

Very gently, the groom caressed Río's cheek with a finger. Then he tilted her chin, and lowered his mouth to hers, and as he did so, applause rang out, and cheers and whistles, and a man beat out a drumroll on a
bodhrán
, and children popped party favours and blew vuvuzelas, and firecrackers went off.

And when the newlyweds broke the kiss, the groom – Adair? was that his name? – smiled broadly at the assembled wedding guests and said, ‘The Milky Bars are on me! And the Guinness and the Veuve Clicquot. I hope I'll see each and every one of you in O'Toole's within the hour. Let's get the party started!'

There were a couple more whoops, and then the fiddle player launched into a lively rendition of ‘The Arrival of the Queen of Sheba in Galway', and rice was thrown as Río was claimed by her friends.

Adair. Adair . . . Why did the groom seem so familiar? And then Keeley remembered where she'd seen him before. It had been at a fundraising event in New York, in the days when the Celtic Tiger was running rampant, and when pressing the flesh was mandatory as deals were brokered on both sides of the Atlantic. Adair Bolger. Of course! He'd been one of the biggest, brashest wheeler-dealers of them all; and one of the ones who had crash-landed hardest, in spectacular fashion. How different he looked now, here on a beach in Coolnamara, linen-clad and stripped of the power suit that had been his armour for so long! He seemed shrunken, half the man he'd used to be. So that was what happened when you plunged, like Icarus, earthward. And, Keeley thought as she watched the guests disperse, he'd make a perfect subject for her final ‘Epiphany' . . .

Instantly, she made a beeline for him, across the sand. ‘Adair!' she said, extending a hand. ‘Keeley Considine. You may remember that we met at a fundraiser in New York, about five years ago?'

Adair had clearly lost none of his people-skills. ‘Keeley!' he said, shaking her hand warmly and segueing directly into full-on charm mode. ‘Of course I remember. That was a great night. And I've been following your career closely ever since. Your “Epiphany” piece is the first thing I turn to in the
Insignia
every Sunday. What brings you here to Coolnamara?'

‘I've inherited a very modest little cottage. This is actually my first time back in Lissamore since I was a child.'

‘Well, you're very welcome,' Adair told her, with manifest sincerity. ‘You'll join us, I hope, in O'Toole's? You may have realised that there's a celebration going on. I'm after marrying the woman of my dreams!'

‘Congratulations! And thanks for the invite. I'd love to join you. I don't know many people in the village yet, and it'd be a great way of getting to meet the locals.'

‘Well, boogie on down with us. Do you need a lift?'

‘No, thanks. I'll nip home first, and grab a shower – I've been spring-cleaning, which explains the state of me.' Keeley indicated her dirty jeans and elderly T-shirt.

‘You're welcome to join us at any time of the evening. We'll be there till all hours. I intend to throw a party that'll go down in Lissamore folklore!'

‘And I'm thrilled to be here for it. It's very kind of you to include me. I'll catch you later!'

Adair raised a hand to salute her, then dropped it suddenly, and sucked in his breath.

‘Are you all right, Adair?' asked Keeley.

‘I'm fine. Touch of heartburn is all.' He took a pill box from his pocket. ‘These mojos should do the trick.'

‘My granny used to swear by cider vinegar.' And Keeley flashed him her best smile and backed away down the beach, heading for home, humming the tune of ‘She Moved Through the Fair', knowing that it would be stuck in her head for the rest of the day, with that lyric on a loop:
The people were saying, no two e'er were wed, but one had a sorrow that never was said
. . .

Later, when she had showered and changed into something a little smarter, she took extra care when applying her makeup. It would work to her advantage to make a good impression at her first social event in the village, and the wild-haired guy who had played the fiddle had actually been rather tasty. Spritzing herself with a little scent and tucking a wild rose behind her ear, Keeley locked her front door behind her before heading in the direction of Lissamore village and the wedding party.

Chapter Twelve

Cat had been extravagant. In Fleur's shop yesterday she had helped herself to a new dress. She'd spent thirty minutes moseying around Fleurissima, inspecting – as well as the clothes – the paintings displayed on the walls that Finn had told her were the work of his mother. They weren't anywhere near as good as hers, Cat had decided. They were too . . . whimsical. Río's wishy-washy watercolours had none of the panache of Cat's acrylics, none of the vigour. But Cat could see why tourists would like them, as holiday souvenirs.

Now,
there
was a market worth tapping into! All those Yanks and Germans who spent a fortune hanging out in Coolnamara Castle Hotel. Maybe she could get Finn to send some JPEGs to the hotel manager? He'd had the cheek the other night to say that he should be charging agent's commission on any paintings she sold. After her slogging her ass off, sugar-soaping walls in preparation for the arrival of his dad!

She wondered if she could interest the French woman who owned the boutique in some of her work. They could put a sign saying ‘As Bought by Elena Sweetman'. Maybe Cat could get some business cards done up, with ‘Painter to the Stars' on. But the French woman had been kept busy by her customers, and Cat had resolved to approach her another time when the shop was less crowded.

In the end she'd hit on a dress that was reduced to half-price because it had some buttons missing. Cat didn't care about the buttons – she'd have left most of them undone anyway. It was a kick-ass little frock in black crepe de Chine that put her in mind of a Gothic Lolita. It wasn't dead kosher to wear black to a wedding, she supposed, but then Finn had told her that his mum was getting married in red, and how kosher was that? She supposed they'd play that cheesy Chris de Burgh song endlessly at the party.

Although, to be fair, it hadn't come on yet. In O'Toole's, Cat was tapping her feet in time to the rhythm of the fiddle player's upbeat version of ‘My Lagan Love', loving the feel of the silk against her skin for, beneath her frock, she was stark naked apart from her stay-ups. The fiddler had been joined by a
bodhrán
player, and Finn had said more musicians were arriving later. He was cute, the fiddle player – though not as cute as Finn.

She hadn't seen much of Finnster today, sadly: he'd been distracted – up to ninety with nerves about his speech. That poem he'd read had been a bit of a weird one to read at a wedding, Cat thought. All that stuff about getting old and grey. She was sure that Río didn't want to be reminded on her wedding day that she was well past it. No wonder she'd started crying. Still, if it had been her dad's favourite poem, maybe it was hers, too.

She wondered if maybe Finn's grandpa and Hugo were similar types: Hugo often droned out W.B. Yeats and Seamus Heaney poems when he was drunk. Cat had actually met Seamus Heaney at one of her dad's exhibition openings once. He was a gent, with the twinkliest eyes Cat had ever seen. Kind eyes. And he was rich, Seamus Heaney. Maybe he'd be kind enough to buy one of her paintings? Maybe she could get his email address from the Demeter Gallery woman and ask Finn to fire off a JPEG.

Izzy had wanted to read something at the ceremony too, Finn had told her, but she'd been held up by the roadworks that were a permanent feature on the N6 between Dublin and Galway. How did Izzy feel about her dad getting married again? Cat wondered. At least it was unlikely that she'd be landed with a baby half-brother or sister, the way Cat would be soon, since Río was a lot older than Oaf. Cat wondered if there'd be much bonking going on in the Bentley. The bride and groom were currently still stuck on Coolnamara Strand, having their picture taken. Cat hoped that someone had advised Río to repair her make-up.

‘Is this seat taken?'

Cat glanced up to see a woman looking down at her. She had an interesting face, and a friendly smile, so Cat said that no, the seat wasn't taken, even though she knew the old woman who'd been sitting there a moment before had only gone to the loo.

‘What lovely hydrangeas.' The woman indicated the massive bunch of mauve and white blooms on the banquette beside Cat.

‘They're a present for Río.'

‘Are they from your garden?'

‘No. I bought them in a flower shop in Galway.'

‘It's unusual to see hydrangeas in flower shops,' said the woman, sitting down beside Cat. ‘They must have cost a fortune. I'm Keeley Considine.'

‘Keeley Considine!' said Cat. ‘That's a great name. Isn't there a page three girl called Keeley?'

‘Yes. Keeley Hazell. She was voted one of
FHM
magazine's hundred sexiest women in the world, three years in a row.'

‘Where did she come?'

‘Second, third and fifth.'

‘Who came first?'

‘It was Cheryl Cole last year. And this year, too, I think.'

‘Cheryl Cole.' Cat considered. ‘Yeah. I suppose she is quite sexy. I must ask Finn.'

‘Finn? You're a friend of Finn Byrne's?'

‘Yes. I live with him.'

Cat saw a gleam of interest ignite in Keeley's eyes, and she took a guess as to what the next question would be. She guessed right.

‘So in that case you must know Finn's father, Shane?'

‘Yeah. Shane and me are good mates.'

‘Really?' The gleam intensified. ‘I was hoping to maybe set up an interview with Mr Byrne.' Keeley rummaged in her bag, and produced a business card, which she handed to Cat. ‘I'm a journalist – I work for the
Sunday Insignia
.'

The
Sunday Insignia
! That was the paper that Hugo said he'd rather use than Kitten Soft.

‘So, you could use an introduction?' said Cat, pocketing the card without looking at it.

‘That'd be great.'

Cat was wondering just how desperate this woman was, and how much an introduction might be worth to her, when she saw Izzy walk into the pub. She was decked out ladylike in a cream jersey dress, cream platform sandals and a double string of pearls, and she had a cream cashmere cardigan draped around her shoulders. She cast around, clearly at a loss, until she saw Cat.

‘Hello,' she said, making her way towards her. ‘I nearly didn't recognise you there.'

Cat guessed she scrubbed up well in black bombazine. The last time Izzy had seen her, she'd been wearing outsize overalls from B&Q.

‘Mind if I park myself?' said Izzy, perching on the arm of Cat's chair. ‘I don't seem to know anyone else here. Where's my dad, do you know?'

‘He and Río aren't here yet. They're having their picture taken on the beach by a bloke who thinks he's Mario Testino.'

‘And where's Finn?'

‘Upstairs, organising the seating for the meal.'

‘The
placement
?' said Izzy in a French accent.

‘No. The seating for the meal,' said Cat. Cat had already decided that she was going to shuffle around some of the name cards on the tables. She wanted to make sure that she'd be sitting next to Finn.

‘There's
placement
?' remarked the woman called Keeley. ‘I hope I won't be
de trop
.' What was this? A Francophiles' convention? ‘Adair invited me on the spur of the moment,' Keeley added. ‘I've just moved into the village, and he's the only person I know here.'

‘Oh – so you're a friend of Daddy's?' said Izzy, leaning across Cat and extending a hand to Keeley. ‘I'm pleased to meet you. I'm his daughter, Isabella.'

‘Keeley Considine. Pleased to meet you, likewise, Isabella.'

Cat noticed that the rose stuck behind Keeley's ear had some greenfly on it. She watched, fascinated, as one of the insects ambled into Keeley's lovely blonde hair.

‘How do you know Daddy?' asked Izzy.

‘We met in New York, at a fundraising dinner, a few years ago.'

‘Oh – was that the one at the Guggenheim, with the fashion show afterwards?'

‘Yes.'

‘I was there, too! That was a fabulous evening wasn't it? The Stella McCartney stuff in particular was blah blah blah . . .'

Cat zoned out, and instead looked around with interest at the people thronging into the pub. There was Mrs Ryan who owned the corner shop, and who was always nosing about asking questions any time Cat went in. She was even more curious now that Cat was buying for two people instead of just one, and her curiosity would go into overdrive, Cat suspected, when Shane arrived and Cat started shopping for three. Maybe she should start flinging intriguing items like pregnancy tests and Nuts magazine and Rizla roll-up papers into her wire basket next time she went in.

There was that woman who owned the boutique, Fleurissima, looking pretty snazzy in her party gear, passing around her baby to be admired. It was funny the way people went all googly-eyed over babies, and came out with coochie coochie crap. Cat had babysat once for a cousin, and had run out of the joint at the end of the evening feeling like the figure in the Munch painting. The baby had been monstrous – flailing its arms around and hollering like a mini version of that actor in
King Lear
that she'd gone to with her school once.

There was – hm. Interesting! – a guy she'd been on a sailing course with once, in Galway. They'd got on well – he owned a nifty Kawasaki, and riding pillion had been fun . . . But they hadn't got on well enough, Cat decided, to make her renounce Finn, who she had determined she was going to have to seduce some time soon. And it would have to be very soon, otherwise pretty cream and pinky clawed Izzy might wise up to what she was missing, and stick those manicured talons into her Finnster.

Across the crowded bar, the sailing course guy made eye contact, but clearly didn't make the connection between the girl sitting perched on the banquette in her kick-ass party gear and the hoyden who'd ridden bareheaded and barefoot on the back of his motorbike. That Galway sailing course had been one of a series she'd embarked upon every year since she was seven years old, when she had announced it was her intention of crewing her own ocean-going yacht some day. If she sold loads more paintings, maybe she could buy herself a neat little sloop-rigged sailboat. She hadn't been sailing since the last summer she'd lived in the Crooked House, when she'd spent virtually all day every day on the lake, in her dinghy.

And there was Finn now, coming in through the door of the pub. Funny. She'd thought he was upstairs helping to organise the seating arrangements. But then Cat looked again, and realised that it wasn't Finn standing on the threshold looking around with a thunderous expression. It was Finn's dad, Shane.

She smiled, and gave him a merry wave. Well, good show and good luck, chaps! Chocks away, and break a leg and all that! Cat almost wished she had a camera phone, because it looked like the shenanigans were about to begin, big time.

Keeley stiffened, and her small talk about Stella McCartney petered out. Shane Byrne had just walked into the pub. All around her, camera phones were going off like small-arms fire, and girls were nudging each other in the ribs and giggling. As Shane stood in the doorway, looking grim-faced, the bridal car bedecked with ribbons pulled up directly outside the pub window and Río Kinsella stepped out, followed by her new husband.

Keeley's journalistic antenna stood to attention. Murmuring excuses to Cat and Izzy, she rose from her seat and made her way through the crowd towards the entrance, where she would have a grandstand view of the scene outside. Río had clearly had her make-up retouched before her photoshoot, because she was looking less haggard than she had at the ceremony. Whatever brand of eyedrops she used had done exactly what it said on the tin, her foundation was dewy, and her hair was as swishy as a shampoo commercial. Her freshly lipsticked mouth was smiling (Clinique's Red Drama, Keeley thought abstractedly) and she was now sporting fabulous scarlet heels to match her bridal gown. She was laughing at something Adair was saying, and as she moved towards the door, Keeley heard the fiddle player launch predictably into ‘The Lady in Red'.

Keeley resisted the prurient impulse to take her phone from her bag, but she was the only one who did. Even as the events that followed unfolded, YouTube was waiting, open-armed, for camera phone footage to be uploaded.

And this is what Keeley heard and saw when she sat down in front of her iPad later that evening, courtesy of someone called ‘Lizzie Moore'. Simon Beaufoy couldn't have scripted it better.

We are CLOSE on RÍO's face. She is laughing, enjoying her day.

As the CAMERA pulls back, we find SHANE lounging in the doorway. There is a definite sense of danger.

Through the window, we see that O'Toole's is heaving with PARTY-GOERS and WELL-WISHERS. Pints are being pulled non-stop behind the bar, and there is a palpable feeling of celebration. Outside on the village street, the sun is shining and seabirds are wheeling joyfully in the cerulean blue sky. A FIDDLER is playing a reel, the rhythm picked out by a
BODHRÁN
PLAYER. As RÍO moves along the pavement, the FIDDLER changes his tune to ‘The Lady in Red'. RÍO starts to sing along, then freezes. Her expression changes.

 

RÍO Shane! How . . . how nice to see you!

 

SHANE
(
saturnine
)

Congratulations, Río.

 

ADAIR
(
jocular
)

Howrya, Shane! Glad you could make it, mate!

ADAIR's smile falters as SHANE declines to take his extended hand.

 

SHANE

Why didn't you invite me to the party, Río?

RÍO doesn't answer. A passing PARTY-GOER showers her with confetti.

 

PARTY-GOER

Yay!

 

SHANE
(
with menace
)