That Gallagher Girl (19 page)

‘You were home-schooled? By your mother?'

‘No, Finnster. My mother died when I was fourteen.'

‘Oh. I'm sorry, Cat.'

‘So was I.'

‘So you never got a chance to be teacher's pet. Poor Pusscat. You can be my pet, instead.'

‘I'd like to be your pet! I love being petted by you. What'll my pet name be?'

‘Pusscat, of course,' he said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear and kissing the tip of her nose. ‘So what was it your father home-schooled you in?'

‘In – among other subjects – the arcane art of opening bottles of champagne. Which is why I'd be rubbish at pub quizzes.'

‘I dunno. I think you're a pretty smart chick.' He smiled, and pulled her back against the pillows. ‘That was a pretty smart thing you did earlier, after all.'

‘What smart thing did I do?'

‘You seduced me, minx. Let's do it again. God! Look at you! I just
love
your naked loveliness!'

‘But I'm not naked,' Cat told him, twinkling her ring finger. ‘I'm wearing a small fortune's worth of jewellery.'

‘Take it off, Pusscat,' Finn told her. ‘I want you stripped bare. I've never had a woman before who was naked as the day she was born.'

‘What do you mean? You've never seen a woman naked? Don't make me laugh.'

‘Any woman I've ever had has had piercings somewhere on her body. Or tattoos. How come you have no piercings at all – not even for earrings?'

Cat wasn't about to tell him that she had a pathological fear of needles. So she said, ‘I think piercings are dead common.'

‘Posh totty! How I love classy girls,' said Finn, dropping kisses on her ears.

Hm. That was too true, if Izzy was anything to go by. Cat remembered the cream ensemble and the double string of pearls Izzy had been sporting this evening. Cream looked expensive because it was expensive to keep clean. Izzy's dad might be broke, but his daughter evidently had money of her own. Pah! If Cat ever had money, the last thing she'd be tempted to spend it on was designer clothes or jewellery. The diamond glittering on her finger caught her eye. How much, exactly, might it be worth, she speculated, as she slid it off her finger and set it carefully on the bedside table. Six figures? Seven? That anyone in their right mind would spend that kind of money on a ring for any woman struck Cat as being absurd. Shane Byrne must be totally cracked over that Río Kinsella.

But then she was distracted by Finn doing something so very delicious to her with his fingers that all thoughts of money went out of her pretty head. Which was no mean achievement, she conceded with a blissed-out smile, stretching luxuriously to allow him access all areas. Oh!
Oh!
Clever Finn! He seemed to instinctively know exactly what she wanted, and how, and when, and where . . . and Cat simply
adored
getting the cream. Double cream. Whipped. With a cherry on top.

Chapter Fourteen

In the Bentley, Río and Adair were watching
EastEnders
on Sky Plus. Río had made tea and was sipping it without tasting it, wishing it was laced with alcohol. She thought of all that surplus champagne, languishing in Coral Mansion. All those revellers in O'Toole's, toasting an absent bride and groom with forced cheer. The cake she had cobbled together from Mr Kipling Battenbergs waiting to make its entrance, the giftwrapped presents waiting to be opened, the bridal posy jettisoned on the village main street . . . She hoped that somebody had rescued it, and that it was now gracing some local mantelpiece, not lying trampled ignominiously underfoot by cavorting wedding guests.

Stupid Shane! What had he been playing at, ruining her wedding day? The eejit! The stupid, stupid eejit. On
EastEnders
, Phil and Shirley were screaming at each other. They did a lot of screaming in
EastEnders
. Was that a reflection of how the scriptwriters perceived marriage in real life? Trouble and strife and endless screaming matches? Did nobody in soap opera live happily ever after? Were there no Richard and Judys, no Barack and Michelles, no Darby and Joans to act as role models for disaffected viewers? When writers scripted weddings, had they nothing but disaster planned for the participants?

And then she remembered that her own wedding day had effectively been ruined, not today, but a week ago, when Finn had told her that Shane was coming back to Lissamore, to live. She should have been on high alert when she'd heard that; she should have expected Shane to swagger into her life again, in his usual inconsiderate fashion, without thinking of the consequences. In her mind's eye, she saw the haggard expression on her ex's face when he'd looked at her today, heard his voice say,
You stupid, stupid woman. What have you done?

He was right. She, Río, was the eejit, not Shane. She had plunged headlong into this marriage with Adair, propelled by some ill-considered altruistic impulse, with no regard for her own happiness and scant regard for the happiness of the other two men in her life – her son and his father. Why hadn't she listened to Dervla, who knew her better than she knew herself? If she had paid her sister some heed, she might not be sitting here now, watching
EastEnders
and drinking tea with a man she barely knew. She might be cosied up in her own nest, watering her roof garden or priming a canvas. She might be in her orchard, sweeping up in her little greenhouse or swinging in her hammock. She might be in Coral Mansion, laughing with Finn and his father . . .

To be fair to Adair, he had tried to keep her spirits up. He had joked about not being able to carry her over the threshold, and he had apologised profusely about the spat with Shane. He had made an effort to make love to her earlier, but his toe was giving him such grief that he had kept whimpering in pain, and they'd aborted the act.

She thought of Shane lying comatose in Coral Mansion, all on his own in the master bedroom that he had hoped to share with her.
I gave you everything you ever wanted, Río. I bought that fucking mansion for you
. . . How typically quixotic of him, to buy Río a dream home as a surprise present! But Coral Mansion had never been Río's dream home, any more than an ostentatious LA lifestyle had been her idea of the good life. Her dream home had been the modest cottage Coral Mansion had supplanted, and a simple life had always been her ideal. Goats and chickens and beehives and fruit trees and bean rows constituted Río's idea of a girl's best friend. Not diamonds.

On
EastEnders
, Shirley was in full-on rant mode.
Get a grip, Phil, who d'ya fink you're fooling, why d'ya fink your kids all ran a mile from ya
. . .

She and Adair were luckier than Shirley and Phil, that was for sure. Despite the catastrophic wedding, despite the banjaxed toe, despite the shit stirred up by Río's jealous ex, she and Adair had the love and respect of their kids still, and their regard for each other. And then Río remembered that there was a bottle of wine in the boot of her car, and that there were tapas in the fridge, and that
Mamma Mia!
was about to start on another channel, and hey – maybe they could salvage their wedding night and have a little fun after all, even though there was no champagne or cake or sex to be had. And just as she was about to suggest to Adair that they rustle up a little supper and switch channels and open a bottle of wine, a knock came at the door.

‘Our first visitor!' said Adair, struggling to his feet.

‘I'll go,' said Río. ‘The doctor said you were to rest your foot.'

She set down her mug (it had a silhouette of Sheikh Zayed on it – Adair's gift from Dubai), then found herself stalling a little before she opened the door, bracing herself in case it might be Shane on the other side. But it wasn't Shane. It was John-Jo Maloney, a local farmer.

‘Good evening, John-Jo,' she said.

‘A good evening, is it? It's well for some, so. There's nothing very good about this evening as far as I'm concerned, Río Kinsella.'

‘Oh? What's the problem, John-Jo?'

‘I'll tell you what the problem is, if you'll be so kind as to accompany me up the boreen.'

‘Sure,' said Río. ‘Just let me put on some shoes.'

‘What's up?' asked Adair, when she returned to the sitting room.

‘I don't know. It's our neighbour, John-Jo Maloney. You haven't met him yet, I don't think?'

‘No. I called in when I saw the damage that had been done to his gate, to offer to reimburse him, but there was no one in.'

‘What damage?' Río stooped to tie the thongs on her sandals.

‘The lads who delivered the Bentley accidentally knocked into one of Mr Maloney's gateposts on the way down the lane.' Adair aimed the remote at the television, to mute it. ‘Ask him in, and we'll have a chat.'

A chat? Something told Río that it was more than a chat that John-Jo was after. She wished the delivery men had seen fit to tell her about the accident, instead of Adair. Being familiar with locals taking territorial umbrage, she would have known better how to handle the situation. ‘I'll just nip up with him now to have a look. Maybe he can join us afterwards for a neighbourly cuppa.'

Oh, God, thought Río as she finished strapping her sandals. She fervently hoped that she'd be able to persuade John-Jo to join them for a cuppa. He was a notoriously belligerent man, who relished nothing better than stirring the shit. And Río really, really didn't want any more shit to hit the fan today. Adair had had more than his fair share of knocks; he needed some breathing space. She couldn't wait until they were in the car tomorrow, on their way to Coolnamara Castle and some badly needed R&R.

When she went back out on to the deck, it was to see that John-Jo was already trudging up the boreen that led to the main road. Río ran to catch up, plastering a pleasant smile onto her face as she drew level with him.

‘Were you away, John-Jo? I noticed your car was gone over the past couple of weeks.'

‘Yes. I was away. And you want to see what I came back to.'

‘Oops. Adair told me that there'd been a bit of damage done to your gate, is that right? He called in to have a word, but of course, you haven't been around.'

‘A bit of damage, is it? Divil a
bit
of damage.' John-Jo trudged manfully on. ‘My gateposts are destroyed.'

‘Oh . . . I'm sorry to hear that. I know they had some trouble getting the mobile home down the lane. But don't worry – Adair will be glad to cover the cost of repairing them.'

‘It's not repairing they need. It's rebuilding. And it's a brand new gate I'll be after.'

‘I'm sure Adair—'

‘Adair. Adair! The Bolger boy, with his grand notions and his big feckin' mansion! I remember well the days when I used to cut his grass for him, and feck manure over his flower beds.
Arra
– how the mighty have fallen, eh?' John-Jo gave an unpleasant laugh.

‘Well . . . you're neighbours, now!' she said, brightly. ‘
We're
neighbours, now, come to think of it!'

The smile he gave her was twisted. ‘I heard you got married. What got into you, Río Kinsella, marrying a blow-in like him? Were none of the local
gossoons
good enough for you?'

Río didn't like the turn this conversation was taking. On another occasion she'd have told John-Jo to mind his own bloody business, but something told her to tread carefully here.

‘Oh, you know, John-Jo, I just felt a change was as good as a rest,' she said, evasively. What the fuck did
that
mean? She could see that she was going to have to call upon her cache of useful clichés to help her through this contretemps.

‘A change is it?' said John-Jo, mirthlessly. ‘And a big change it will be, I'd say. From hobnobbing with the likes of film stars to slumming it in a mobile home. Pah! That gobshite! What made him think he had the right to haul that great monstrosity across my land? If I'd been here, I'd never have allowed it.'

‘Your land?'

‘That's right,' said John-Jo. ‘My land. This boreen belongs to me.'

‘But there's a right of way, surely?'

‘There's a right of way – within reason. No person has the right to go lumbering up and down over my land in trucks and trailers and what have you.'

‘But Madser Mulligan used to be up and down every day on his tractor, to get to his shed beyond!'

‘Ah, now, Río. Don't be calling poor Patrick names. Patrick Mulligan was a dacent schtick, and one of our own. That's why he had special dispensation to use the thoroughfare.'

‘Special dispensation?'

‘From me. I gave him permission to use it.'

‘So . . . Adair will need your permission, John-Jo, to use the boreen to access the main road?' Río was feeling panicky now. The shed where the oysters were packed was on the other side of the main Lissamore road, and the only way to get at it was via the boreen.

‘He will. And I can tell you now that there'll be no tractors or trailers allowed.'

‘But—'

‘No tractors or trailers or heavy plant will be allowed on my land, after the damage that's after being done to my gate.'

‘But, John-Jo! How will Adair get his oysters up from the farm?'

‘Arra, Río, isn't that a problem for Mr Bolger himself to be solving?'

‘You mean . . . you won't grant him access?'

He fixed her with a gimlet look. ‘I'm not an unreasonable man, Río. Yiz can travel up and down in your fancy cars as much as ye like. But cars is where I'm drawing the line. No plant. That's final.'

‘Oh, for God's sake, John-Jo! Have a heart! Adair's invested a lot of money in the farm, and in his equipment! He's bought a brand new Massey Ferguson—'

‘Didn't I see it? The big shiny yoke parked down by the shore? And isn't your husband the fortunate man to be able to afford a grand tractor like that, and a trailer to go with it?'

Oh, Jesus!

‘I'm not prepared to run the risk of another accident happening, Río Kinsella,' John-Jo resumed. ‘The next time, it might be more than a gate that gets in the way. There could be health and safety issues involved. And we don't want the authorities getting involved, do we now? Because if the authorities get involved, they might rescind planning permission for that oyster farm. It's in a designated area of outstanding natural beauty, so they say, and it's an unsightly blot on the landscape. It's a cumberground, so it is. There could be complaints. And then where would yiz be?'

‘But, John-Jo, don't you see that if Adair has no access to the road, he won't be able to work the farm?'

‘Ah, now, Río, don't be telling me that he has no access to the road. Isn't there a right of way not a mile along the beach?'

‘There is? Where?'

‘Down by Coral Mansion, Río, to be sure. Through the land there that's belonging to you.'

‘You mean through . . . through my orchard?'

‘That's the very spot that springs to mind. You'd just need to fell a few trees, and lay down some hardcore and ye'll be sorted. Now, take a look at that.'

John-Jo stopped, and pointed towards the gate that opened on to his farmyard. There was damage, yes, but nothing that couldn't be put right in a day. Río looked at her neighbour. There was a smirk on his face that the Mona Lisa might have envied. The bastard! The fucking malicious, bastarding bastard! Río knew now that he was privately delighted by the damage done to his gate, because it gave him a wholly plausible excuse to block Adair's access to the road.

She gazed numbly at the gate, and then she turned back to John-Jo. He was looking down at her with that malicious little smile on his lips, still. ‘You, John-Jo Maloney, are a nasty, vicious prick,' she said. And then she turned on her heel and stumbled back the way she'd come.

She didn't go directly back to the Bentley. Instead, she let took herself down onto the shore, where the sun had dipped below the horizon, rimming the ocean with crimson. Venus, the evening star, had already climbed high above Inishclare island, and the clouds that were making their way westward were big, puffy ones – the kind of clouds a child might draw – tinged with pink. Red sky at night, thought Río.
Red Sky at Night over Lissamore
was the title of one of her paintings. And she thought again of the canvases in her apartment that were waiting to be primed, and how, if recent events had not happened, she could be there now, taking a shepherd's pie from the oven and setting the table for herself and Finn, and then maybe Skypeing his father in LA, as they often did at this hour of the evening.

To the west, only the islands and the earth's natural curvature interrupted the view to America; to the east, Río's orchard glimmered, golden. Her orchard! Her most precious possession, her pride and joy, the solitary jewel in Río's nondescript crown! Her retreat, her sanctuary, her panacea for all ills: her very own private Eden, where peace came dropping slow between the beanstalks and the beehives.