That Gallagher Girl (25 page)

‘So, you're Caitlín? Hugo Gallagher's daughter?' said Keeley, taking a sip of coffee and making a face when she got a load of how vile it was. ‘I put two and two together when I heard you talking to Adair in the car.'

‘Yes.'

‘Why didn't you tell me, Cat? What made you keep it to yourself?'

‘We're kind of estranged since he married Oaf. And if I'm going to make it as an artist I want it to be because of what I do in my own right, not because I'm somebody's daughter.'

‘Well, you're doing that, all right. You've had amazing success. It looks like you can charge whatever you like for your paintings.'

‘Yeah. I don't know where to draw the line, though. Excuse the pun. I mean, sooner or later I'm going to want to exhibit here in Ireland, and Irish buyers aren't going to have the same spending clout as Elena's pals. I'll have to decide on a ballpark figure.'

‘That's when you're going to need an agent.'

‘But they take like fifty per cent commission! My father hates his agent, but he can't do without him now. He's painting again, by the way.'

‘Hugo is?'

‘Yeah. My brother Raoul told me.' Raoul had told her last week that during a visit to the Crooked House, Hugo had been ensconced in his studio painting up a storm – much to Ophelia's relief.

‘Does he often suffer from creative block?'

‘The odd time. “Odd” being the operative word.'

‘How does he get the flow going again?'

‘Creative Ex-Lax. Why are you asking me?'

‘Your father's very proud of you, you know,' remarked Keeley.

‘He is?' Cat gave her a sceptical look.

‘Yes. He told me he would have loved for you to illustrate Ophelia's book.'

‘Ha! She wouldn't have asked me in a million years to illustrate her fucking book. She hates me. She's the genuine article.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘She's the original wicked stepmother. I bet she was all sweetness and light when you interviewed her though. She ain't a half bad actress. She certainly performed well enough to fool my dad. Oh – look! There she is, on the cover of
RSVP
magazine. That must be the one that has the preview of her book in.'

On the other side of the room, the mother of the ADHD boy was trying to calm him by reading to him. Was it Oaf's story, Cat wondered? She strained to listen, and then she heard the following words: ‘“The macaw kept up a running commentary as she flew with Pussy Willow over the pleasure garden. ‘See, over there – that's where the king sits and plays Canasta. He cheats, you know . . .'”

Oh!
Oh!
‘“. . . but everybody pretends not to notice. The only person who stands up to him is the learned philosopher, Voltaire.”'Cat found herself automatically mouthing the words of the story that she knew by heart, the story her mother had told her all those years ago, the one that she told her still on those nights when Cat could not sleep and the yearning for her mother became so intense that she had to plug herself into the ancient Walkman on which Paloma had recorded the Sans Souci stories for her daughter. ‘“You'll get a load of the king playing his flute tonight in the music room. He plays really badly, but the lick-arse courtiers always ooh and ah. The monkey does a great impersonation of him . . .”'

‘Sorry?' said Keeley. ‘Are you talking to me, Cat?'

Cat didn't answer. She rose to her feet and crossed the room. ‘Excuse me,' she said, taking the magazine from the startled woman, ‘this is my story. It's mine.'

Keeley watched in astonishment as Cat rose to her feet and crossed the waiting room. ‘Excuse me,' she said, taking the magazine from the startled woman, ‘this is my story. It's mine.'

The woman clearly thought that Cat was mentally deranged, because – although her mouth went into an ‘O' of surprise – she declined to protest. Cat returned to her seat, and sat with her eyes closed, holding the magazine against her chest.

‘What's up, Cat?' asked Keeley gently.

‘This isn't Oaf's story. It's mine. My mother made it for me when I was a little girl.'

Keeley felt the excited stirring she always got when scenting a scoop. ‘Hang on. Are you telling me Ophelia has plagiarised it?'

‘What's plagiarised mean?'

‘Stolen.'

‘Yes,' said Cat. ‘She's stolen my story. I told you she was a wicked stepmother.'

‘But what made her think she could get away with it?'

‘Nobody else knows about it. Except me. Mama wrote the stories down in exercise books for me and me alone, but when it was obvious I was never going to be able to read them, she recorded them onto a Sony Walkman. I know them off by heart.'

‘You're dyslexic, Cat?'

‘I never learned to read properly.'

‘So Ophelia presumed you'd never be able to read her stories—'

‘They're not her stories!' hissed Cat. ‘How many times do I have to say it? They're my stories!'

Cat laid the magazine on her lap, and Keeley looked at the cover, at the image of Ophelia smirking up at her. What a duplicitous bitch! What a cunning cow! She remembered the spiel Ophelia had spun her, about writing the book for her inner child, and felt a surge of indignation. She, Keeley, who prided herself on her insightful journalism, had been taken for a ride by an ex-bit-part actress and topless model whose real name was Tracey Spence. She had been duped and made a fool of. How dared she think she could get away with it! Keeley Considine was
nobody's
fool, and Tracey Spence, Ophelia Gallagher – Oaf! – would rue the day she'd concocted her lie-fest!

Turning to Cat, Keeley said: ‘Doesn't your father know about the stories?'

‘Him? No no no! I told you. Mama made them for me and me alone. They were our secret stories, to get us through the time in Sans Souci.'

‘Sans Souci . . . you mean, the hospital?'

‘Yes.'

Something about Cat's tone warned Keeley not to probe further.

‘Ophelia's not going to get away with this, Cat,' she said, with assurance. ‘Mark my words. Plagiarism is a serious crime. Her publishers are going to be very, very angry with her.'

‘But how do we prove that she didn't write it?'

‘I have an idea. Listen . . .'

Keeley took the magazine from Cat, finding the extract easily. Spread across five pages, were big colour pictures of Ophelia taken in various poses in the Crooked House: Ophelia at the piano, Ophelia with cupcakes in her kitchen, Ophelia walking her Labrador . . . There was a cutesy illustration from the book, too, of Pussy Willow and the macaw.

‘Pah!' said Cat, curling her lip at it. ‘What a piece of crap. Catgirl doesn't look remotely like that.'

‘Catgirl?'

‘Catgirl is the star of the stories. Not Pussy Willow. Excuse me while I barf.'

‘Listen,' said Keeley again, choosing a random paragraph. ‘“Pussy Willow – I mean, Catgirl – was standing on the roof of the palace . . .” Can you finish the sentence, Cat?'

‘Of course I can,' said Cat, giving Keeley a disdainful look. ‘“Catgirl was standing on the roof of the palace, watching the monkey, who was today dressed in a little red suit and a fez.” A fez is a hat with a tassel, like they wear in Egypt.'

‘So, you really do know this book off by heart?'

‘Yes.'

‘Then we rest our case. Have you a lawyer, Cat?'

‘No.'

‘I do. We're going to take Ophelia Gallagher to the cleaners.'

‘I don't want her money,' said Cat. ‘I just want my story back.'

And I want to wipe that smirk off her face, thought Keeley, looking down at the magazine, and have one last
coup de théâtre
before I wave goodbye to the world of journalism and go looking for my first literary client. She smiled. She didn't have to look very hard. Her first client was sitting right here beside her. She was about to turn to Cat and ask if she had any qualms about exposing her father's wife as a con merchant, when a discreet cough made her look up.

‘I have bad news, I'm afraid,' said the young intern. ‘Your friend Adair Bolger didn't make it.'

And all thoughts of Ophelia Gallagher and revenge and money evaporated, as Keeley listened to the grave words that followed, and realised that she had just stared death in the face.

Chapter Twenty

Río didn't know why she had chosen ‘
The Song of Wandering Aengus'
to read at Adair's funeral, until Fleur explained her own subconscious to her.

‘The fire in Adair's head was the stress he had been under, when he went bust. He goes fishing – that's him buying his oyster farm – and the fish he catches becomes a glimmering girl. The glimmering girl is you, Río – his prize, with blossoms in your hair from your apple trees. You were his unattainable ideal, he never dreamed that you would marry him. And now he'll worship you until the end of eternity, and walk with you through your beautiful orchard. You did a wonderful thing, by marrying Adair Bolger, you know, darling. You should be very proud of yourself.'

‘I'm not proud of myself at all,' an anguished Río told her. ‘I should never have allowed him to lug those great heavy bags around without help. I should have stayed with him that day. I am wracked with guilt, Fleur. Wracked.'

‘But think, Río! If he was already terminally ill, wasn't it better that he went as he did, on a beach in glorious sunshine, doing the job he'd always dreamed of doing? You once told me that his real vocation in life was to be a fisherman. You wanted him to die a happy man, and that's exactly what happened. He'd achieved his ultimate dream of marrying you!'

Río and Fleur were in Río's apartment, waiting for Dervla to arrive. Río couldn't go back to the Bentley; she'd asked Dervla to pick up her things and bring them back here, where she belonged. The funeral was to take place tomorrow, in the graveyard where Río and Dervla had buried their parents. Río had liaised with Izzy on this, and Izzy had agreed that that was the final resting place her daddy would have chosen.

Río had invited Izzy to join them here for dinner tonight; Fleur had made cassoulet, and it was slow-cooking in the oven. Finn was due, too, and Río had asked him if he wanted to bring his new friend Cat, who had played such a blinder, helping Keeley get Adair to the hospital. But Cat had declined, and Río was glad about this because she didn't want to run the risk of Izzy being upset.

Poor Izzy! Her own mother wasn't going to be attending the funeral: her divorce from Adair had been acrimonious, and they hadn't spoken in years. Few of his old business associates would be attending either, according to Izzy. It looked like none of those threadbare, toothless Celtic Tigers could be arsed making the journey to the west coast to say goodbye to their erstwhile golf buddy. They were all soaking up the sun on some Costa somewhere.

Had Adair died happy? Río hoped so. She had found herself wondering, in the short time they'd lived in the Bentley, just how much longer he would have been able to continue masquerading as a well man. She'd noticed on occasion the expression on his face when he thought she wasn't looking – the expression that told her he was in considerable pain. And sometimes he had let a groan escape him, which he'd constantly claimed was merely down to heartburn. Pain made people tetchy, Río knew that from her own experience: in the months before her mother had died, she had become uncharacteristically irritable. Perhaps she and Adair might have started to bicker; perhaps his glass-half-full view of the world might have become skewed; perhaps the marriage would have gone pear-shaped, living as they were in such close proximity. You needed space, for a relationship to flourish. Maybe Fleur was right, and it was good that Adair had had a sudden, unexpected death.

Since their marriage had not been registered, he had left her nothing in his will. Not that Río cared. Everything had gone to Izzy – who had very decently volunteered to cover the cost of the funeral. Funerals were expensive and Izzy wanted the best for her daddy, who was now lying in a silk-lined Italian ash coffin in a funeral parlour in Galway, waiting to be transported to Lissamore in the morning. Río had arranged to travel into the city with Izzy: neither woman wanted Adair to embark upon his final journey alone.

The fire in Río's head had burnt out. Ashes were all that remained, and the embers of love.

As she reached for the wine bottle, the doorbell went. It would be Dervla, come to bring Río her belongings from the Bentley. Releasing the lock on the front door, Río went to the top of the stairs to welcome her sister. But when she looked down at the landing below it wasn't Dervla she saw climbing the stairs to her apartment. It was Shane.

‘
Acushla
,' he said, when he joined her at the top of the staircase. ‘I am so sorry for your trouble.'

And Shane enfolded her in his arms and allowed Río to cry like a little girl. It was the first time she had cried since her wedding day.

Cat didn't accompany Finn to the funeral. She had other things on her mind, and plans to hatch with Keeley. But first she wanted to check out a dreamboat.

She'd first seen her on the eve of Río's wedding, and had fantasised about her ever since. She was called
The Minx
and she was a classic twenty-nine-foot yacht. She'd been built in 1970, the present owner told her, and she had journeyed down from Stockholm seven years ago, and sailed on Coolnamara Bay every summer since.

‘Construction?' asked Cat.

‘Mahogany on oak ribs. Teak deck.'

‘Weight?'

‘Three and a half ton.'

‘Mind if I take a look around?'

‘Be my guest.'

Cat explored the little boat with mounting excitement, ticking things off on a mental checklist as she went. Autopilot? Check. Solar battery charger? Check. Navigation lights? Check. Sail furling system? Check. Satnav? Check.

Below, in the compact fore cabin, were two berths, and two more in the saloon, which also housed a galley with sink.
The Minx
was well fitted out with shelves, a folding chart table, and a chain locker. Her upholstery was pristine, she had been scrubbed to within an inch of her life: she was in shipshape nick.

Cat climbed back on deck with a fluttery heart, trying not to look too lovestruck.

‘How much?' she asked.

‘Twelve grand.'

‘The mast needs repairing above the spreaders.'

‘Consider it done.'

‘The price is still too high.'

‘I'm in no hurry to sell.'

Cat shrugged, and climbed back onto the quayside, expecting – as she sauntered off in the direction of the corner shop – to hear the man call after her, expecting him to drop his price. But the call didn't come.

On the noticeboard in Ryan's, more boats were on offer.
The Merlin
could be had for nine thousand,
Rum Runner
for nine and a half. But neither
The Merlin
nor
Rum Runner
did anything for Cat. She wanted
The Minx
so badly it hurt.

She was painstakingly deciphering the details of
The Gina
– 2 bat-ter-ies, amp-meter, sep-tic tank and toi-let, depth sound-er, v-d-o log-ic log, 2 an-chors, chain and warp – when Keeley came into the shop.

‘How was the funeral?' Cat asked.

‘Bloody awful,' said Keeley in an undertone, so that Mrs Ryan couldn't hear. ‘Loads of Río's friends came, but hardly any of Adair's. A journalist mate of mine wrote an article recently about ex-Celtic Tiger CEOs becoming social outcasts, and it looks like he was right.'

‘Oh! Poor Adair!' lamented Cat. Although she hadn't attended the funeral – Cat just didn't
do
funerals – she had dressed in black today, to honour the memory of the man who had died in her arms. It was the little black party frock she had bought to wear for Adair and Río's wedding, just last month. How ironic that she should be wearing it again so soon, on such a very different occasion.

‘Río tried to read a Yeats poem, but she couldn't manage it, and Shane had to take over,' Keeley told her.

‘Shane? Why Shane?'

‘Well, he is a professional actor. And you could tell that he couldn't bear to see Río in such a state: he just
had
to help her. He read the poem beautifully, I have to say. Are you thinking of buying something?' Keeley nodded at the noticeboard.

‘No. I'm thinking of putting up a notice myself, for a web designer. I'd like to be able to showcase my paintings.'

‘That's a bloody good idea, Cat. I can help with the wording, if you like. I'll write a lovely eulogy for you.'

Cat remembered the eulogy that Keeley had come droning out with the other day on the beach – all that crap about time and tide and behemoths (whatever they were), and said, ‘No, thanks.' And then, when Keeley looked put out, Cat felt a bit sorry for her, and added by way of improvisation, ‘I like to think the paintings tell their own story. Didn't someone say something once about a picture being worth a thousand words?'

‘Napoleon said it.
Un bon croquis vaut mieux qu'un long discours
. Talking of stories, I had a word with my solicitor. He says you're going to have to act fast, to get an embargo put on Ophelia's book.' Cat gave her a look. ‘
Your
book,' Keeley amended.

‘OK,' said Cat. ‘Let's go there now.'

‘Go where?'

‘To the Crooked House, to confront Oaf. You'll take me, won't you? It would mean another scoop for your paper. I'm responsible for giving you a lot of them, aren't I?'

‘Don't you . . . well, don't you think we should have a solicitor with us?' suggested Keeley.

‘What do we need a solicitor for? It's what they call an open and shut case, ain't it? Oaf doesn't have a leg to stand on. Solicitors cost money, and I'm not about to spend a load of my hard-earned dosh on one.'

‘But when you go to court—'

‘Court? Who said anything about going to court? I'm not going to a court of law. That would be a complete bore and a waste of time and money. I told you before, I just want my stories back. I don't want Oaf to have them.'

‘But you could sue Ophelia for megabucks, Cat!'

‘She doesn't have megabucks. Presumably she's gonna have to pay back her advance to her publishers when the shit hits the fan. And then she'll be poor again, and Hugo'll have to sell a load of his new paintings to pay for the court case, and that doesn't make sense. I don't need my dad's money any more. I can make my own way in the world. Plus they've got a new baby coming, and babies are expensive.'

‘That's very generous-spirited of you, Cat.'

Cat laughed. ‘I don't know about that. I'm just not prepared to stoop to Oaf's level, you know? Let's go.'

‘Where?'

‘To the Crooked House, of course. Fancy an ice?' Cat marched up to the counter, where Mrs Ryan was shaking her head lugubriously.

‘Dreadful business about Adair Bolger, wasn't it? I understand you took him to the hospital.'

‘Yeah, I did. Two 99s, please, Mrs Ryan. And a pack of Pleasuremax Durex.'

Cat asked Keeley to go via Coral Mansion. She wanted to pick up her Walkman and the cassette recordings of her mother's story, as evidence of Oaf's plagiarism. There was no one around: Shane and Finn were at the post-funeral party that Río was throwing in O'Toole's. Before leaving the house through the kitchen, Cat wrote a note for Finn, which she propped against the fruit bowl. ‘GON ON A JONT' it read. She didn't care to elaborate about her jaunt. It was nobody's business bar hers. And Keeley's, she supposed. It was good of Keeley to offer to help, but she reckoned the journo wasn't doing it out of the goodness of her heart. She was just after another world exclusive story.

The drive to the Crooked House took more than an hour, during which time Keeley listened to political pundits droning on the radio, and Cat visited her favourite places in her head. The Planet Zog, the coral reef, that Greek island . . . As they approached the house, Cat saw to her surprise that there were cars parked all along the driveway. Posh cars, mostly.

‘Seems there's a party in progress,' remarked Keeley. ‘Wow. There's some dignitary in attendance, by the look of things. That's got to be a government Merc. It's unlikely we'll get a parking space anywhere.'

Cat looked in the direction indicated by Keeley. A sleek black Mercedes was pulled up outside the entrance, a chauffeur in the driver's seat.

‘I know where you can park,' said Cat. ‘Go on round to the back of the house.'

As Keeley manoeuvred her Ka past the Merc, a goon with a security badge stepped forward. ‘I'm sorry, Miss,' he said, when Keeley pulled down the window. ‘You can't go that way.'

‘Why not?' asked Cat, leaning over from the passenger seat.

‘Parking's restricted to the main driveway. And may I ask if you have an official invitation?'

‘I don't need an invitation to anything in this house,' Cat told him. ‘My dad lives here.'