That Gallagher Girl (27 page)

She had found Cat sitting in the kitchen of the Crooked House, drinking lemonade and talking to the catering staff. She didn't appear at all fazed by the showdown in the marquee, and had been amenable to Keeley's suggestion that maybe it was time to hit the road. But when they were halfway down the drive, Cat had suddenly said: ‘Stop.'

‘What's up?' Keeley asked. ‘You go on. I'm going to stay here.'

‘You're going back to the house?'

‘No. I'm staying here.' And Cat had pointed at a tree.

‘I'm not sure I understand . . .'

‘It's my old treehouse. I'm going to spend the night in it.'

‘Oh. OK. You're sure?'

‘Yes.'

‘How will you get yourself back to Lissamore?'

‘I'll hitch.'

Keeley had been about to say, ‘You'll do no such thing!' but had stopped herself just in time. She wasn't Cat's mother, and she wasn't Cat's keeper. Instead she said, ‘Give me a call any time if you want me to come and pick you up.'

‘No. I won't do that,' replied Cat. ‘Goodbye. Thanks for the lift.'

‘You're welcome.'

And Keeley had watched as Cat slid out of the passenger seat and put her foot on the first rung of the rope ladder that would take her high into the branches of an ancient cypress.

‘Wait!' Keeley called, reaching for the copy of
Pussy Willow and the Pleasure Palace of Peachy Stuff
that she'd left lying on the passenger seat. ‘Your book!'

‘I don't want it,' said Cat. ‘I've got the real thing.' And she held up a brick-like Walkman and gave Keeley a hawk-like look from those astonishing Armada eyes before disappearing into her treehouse.

What an extraordinary girl Cat was, Keeley thought now, as she sipped her wine in the gloaming, listening to a bee doing overtime in the lavender. And how very, very marketable. She had read random pages of
Catgirl
, and knew that it passed more than muster. That, and the fact that the story behind the story was so compelling, meant that it was destined for bestsellerdom. She would set her alarm for early the next morning and speed-read the book from cover to cover before phoning Camilla Featherstonehaugh. She would have read
Pussy Wil –
Catgirl
tonight, if she hadn't been so wired to the moon by today's events. Right now, she just needed to regroup.

Cat, of course, would illustrate the book herself. That was axiomatic. She wouldn't need an image overhaul because her look was so fresh and funky. She clearly had no problems with public speaking or she couldn't have done what she had done today in front of an audience of such scarily illustrious individuals. She was talented, articulate and beautiful in a
jolie-laide
way. She was a PR's dream, she was her own USP, and Keeley was very, very lucky to have found her.

And as for the wicked stepmother? Keeley had phoned the Crooked House an hour earlier and spoken to one of the catering staff, who had told her that Mrs Gallagher was well, thank God, and that the premature arrival of her baby had been a false alarm. Why am I not surprised? Keeley had thought. Going into premature labour had been a convenient way for Ophelia to sidestep the fan when the shit hit it. But tomorrow she was going to have to face up to the in convenient truth about the authorship of her book. Keeley almost felt sorry for her.

Beside her, her phone sounded. ‘Leo' lit up in the display. Keeley relented, and answered.

‘You've been stonewalling me,' he said.

‘I've been busy.'

‘Let me guess. You've bought chickens and you're growing your own veg.'

‘I haven't become completely countrified, Leo. There's still a lot of city girl in me. And I'll be back in the big smoke next week.'

‘I'm glad to hear it. What's bringing you back?'

‘I'm setting up a business.'

‘What class of a business?'

‘I'm sold on the idea of setting up a literary agency. What do you think?'

There was a pause while Leo considered. ‘I think it's a great idea,' he said. ‘I think you'd make a very good agent. Aside from the fact that you're an omnivorous reader, you have contacts in the publishing world – that's invaluable – and you're smart, you're ambitious, and you drive a hard bargain. I suppose you haven't reconsidered my last offer?'

‘Sorry, Leo. I need a change. And working with you is
so
not a good idea.'

‘You know I'd leave Rachel tomorrow if it weren't for the kids, Keeley.'

‘I know you would.'

Actually, Keeley wasn't at all sure about that. It was the perennial excuse trotted out by married men: it had been the excuse that her editor in New York had come up with too. She wondered how many times women all over the world had heard it. Now that she thought about it, it would make a good title for a novel.
If It Weren't for the Kids
. . .

‘Can I see you when you're in town?' Leo asked.

Oh, God. This was going to be tough. ‘No.'

‘Not even for old times' sake?'

‘That's facile, Leo.'

‘Yeah. I guess it is.' He sounded uncharacteristically down-beat. ‘But you'll stay in touch?'

‘Of course. I need brains to pick, and yours are the best brains I know.'

It was true. Leo had the brains of a
Mastermind
champion and the nous of Simon Cowell. He'd been right when he'd said that connections were invaluable: Keeley was exceptionally lucky that Leo was so extremely well-connected.

‘I'll help you in any way I can. Have you spoken to Tony Baines?'

‘Yes. He's been very helpful. He compares the slush pile to panning for gold. It can be tedious and frustrating and time-consuming, but when you come across a new talent it's like hitting pay dirt.'

‘I'll let you have my novel when it's finished.'

Keeley smiled. Leo had been writing a novel for the past five years. ‘Thanks. I won't hold my breath.'

‘Are you going to actively seek clients, Keeley, or do you want to discourage no-hopers?'

‘I'll encourage submissions to begin with. Once I'm established I can afford to be pickier. I've actually already got my first client.'

‘Who's the lucky man or woman?'

‘It's a girl.'

‘Good looking?'

‘Very.'

‘That's one of the first questions publishers ask agents now, did you know that? Marketability is almost more important than talent.'

Keeley felt ineffably smug. ‘This girl has both, in spades,' she told him.

‘Who is she?'

‘I'm not saying anything just yet. I don't want to hex myself – she may decide to go with someone more established. But we've a good rapport, so, fingers crossed.'

‘Who are you approaching first?'

‘Camilla Featherstonehaugh.'

‘Wow! I am impressed, Ms Considine. You're taking aim at the big guns.'

‘I might as well start at the top.'

‘What about practical considerations? You're going to need premises.'

‘I know. I'm being very brave and going for an upmarket address.'

‘City Centre?'

‘Yes. Dame Street. I'm recceing an office on Monday.'

‘Expensive.'

‘I want to keep up appearances. This is going to be a classy set-up.'

‘Maybe you should put an ad in one of the trade papers to trumpet your arrival.'

‘Good idea.' Keeley checked out the level of her wineglass. She'd have one more before bed, she decided.

‘Are you going to hire a PA?' Leo asked.

‘I thought about poaching Donna.'

‘Hands off my Donna, Keeley! She's the best PA in the business.'

‘Relax. I only said it to annoy. I'm interviewing some people next week.'

‘We could do lunch next week. There's no harm in that.'

‘Leo! Stop it.'

‘Keeley. Lovely Keeley.' The timbre of Leo's voice had changed: it became lower, darker, more dangerously charged, and Keeley knew what was coming next.

‘What are you wearing this evening, darling? That underwear I bought you for your birthday? That bra with the rose buds? Those knickers with the ribbons?'

‘Leo. No dice.'

He laughed – a laugh that Keeley found way too seductive – and then resumed his siren song. ‘Lace-topped hold-ups? And what about those love eggs I gave you, hm? I bet your pelvic floor muscles are in pretty good shape now, baby. Don't you just love it when—'

Keeley pressed ‘End Call' with a firm thumb. She couldn't allow Leo to insinuate himself back into her life. She needed to make a fresh start.

Turning off her phone, she got to her feet and went back into the cottage to replenish her wineglass. She was hugely excited now about her brand new career. She'd taken a virtual tour of the office space in Dame Street, and it certainly looked the business. It was in a restored period building, fully modernised with CCTV camera coverage, an air-conditioned meeting room and state-of-the-art IT systems. It was carpeted in cream, with cream suede sofas, and floor-to-ceiling display units in pale sycamore and glass. Keeley imagined the books of all the authors she was going to represent lining the shelves, covers facing out to show them to their best advantage.

She wondered what Cat would come up with as the cover look for
Pussy Willow and the Pleasure Palace of Peachy Stuff.
(Oh! That title
had
to go!) Something as vibrant and eye-catching, she hoped, as the painting she was looking at now, the one Cat had finally agreed to sell her for six hundred euros. Keeley had made a bloody good investment, she realised. In the not-too-distant future, this painting would be worth substantially more. Like her father, Cat would be able to name her price.

Wandering back out into the garden, she activated her iPad, and Googled ‘literary agents' for the second time that evening. She routinely checked out other agents' sites now, and had found that a lot of them seemed rather dull: old-fashioned and lacking in imagination. She'd have to get a cracking web designer on board. Keeley knew she wanted something different, something that said, ‘Choose Me!' She'd also have to get some really classy business cards designed, something along the lines of Camilla Featherstonehaugh's.

Picking up a pen and a notepad, she began to word her ad using an established agent's blurb as a template. ‘Keeley Considine, literary agent. I can help you devise a strategy at every stage of the writing process, from conception, to editorial, to publication. I am seeking long-term relationships with writers and illustrators whose career paths I can forge and whose talent I can nurture.'

Nah. Ditch that. Scribbling it out, she substituted: ‘Keeley Considine, authors' agent. I kick ass, and I take no prisoners.'

Then she leaned back in her chair, reached for her wine-glass and smiled into the gloaming.

In the gloaming, Cat was lying on the floor of her treehouse, listening to her mother's voice. Paloma had included lullabies on the tape, and snatches of songs and nursery rhymes. ‘Hey diddle diddle'. ‘Old King Cole'. ‘Star light, star bright'. All the classics. But the one that was playing in Cat's head now was ‘Rockabye Baby'.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Cast a cold eye on life, on death. Horseman, pass by
.

Those were the words that were carved on Yeats' tomb-stone. Her father had used to utter those eleven words lugubriously when he was in his cups: unsurprisingly, therefore, they were words that Río had heard frequently while she was growing up.

The words that were to be carved on Adair's tombstone had not yet been finalised, but Río would allow Izzy to make the ultimate decision. She felt she had no claim on either Adair's life or his death: she felt she had barely known him. She felt like a faux wife, an impostor, a selkie. Oh, God! That was what Adair had called her once, years before, when they had first embarked upon their on/off courtship.
You're beautiful, Río. A goddess. A selkie
. . .

The selkie shed her seal skin in order to seduce men. Legend had it that if a man could steal a selkie's pelt, he could prevent her from ever returning to the sea. Without her pelt, trapped on land, the selkie swims forever in the shallows, yearning to return to her ocean home. That, now, was how Río felt. She had a yearning for home, but the hellish thing was that she didn't know where home was. It certainly wasn't the Bentley, and while she loved her little eyrie on the main street of the village, it bore no relation to the home she had dreamed of living in as a child, the little house with a ticking clock and speckled china on the dresser and a fire burning in the hearth and a pile of turf against the gable wall.

Right now Río was in the home that had been bought for her by Shane, the home that would never be hers. It had gone through so many incarnations. Coral Cottage. The Villa Felicity. Coral Mansion. A motley crew had taken possession of the house this evening: Río, Finn, Shane and Izzy. Wanting to keep herself occupied, Izzy had cooked up a storm in the state-of-the-art kitchen earlier – roast chicken with new potatoes and summer herb dressing courtesy of Rachel Allen – and now the four of them were sitting on the deck, nursing wineglasses.

Shane had been a rock. After Adair's sendoff in O'Toole's yesterday, he had gone to Río's apartment and packed a bag for her, and then he'd driven her in his hire car to Coral Mansion. He'd allowed Río to cry herself ugly, he'd given her a foot massage, he'd made her cheese on toast, and he'd tucked her up in bed. ‘You'd make somebody a great husband,' she told him as he'd kissed her on the forehead, and they'd both laughed until the tears came. Shane had slept beside her in the bed, but there had been no question of amorous activity. It was purely so that Río did not have to lie there alone.

She'd hoped he would come. And in a way, she hadn't been surprised when she'd opened the door to her apartment and found him there on the stairs, because Shane had always been there for her when she'd needed him. And when she'd asked about Elena, and how his new wife felt about him jetting off halfway round the world on a mercy mission to an old flame he had said, ‘Elena told me she'd respect me more if I came than if I stayed away. She knew what a lonely time you were in for, and that you needed more men in your life right now than just the one.' And when Río had looked puzzled, Shane had reminded her that Finn was a man now, not a little boy.

And now Río was lying alone with her thoughts on the recliner at the far end of the deck, listening to Shane and Finn and Izzy hatching plans for the future. She knew that Izzy was the type to just get on with things: that was why she'd insisted on cooking for them all earlier. Izzy had been solely responsible for organising the funeral, and the aftermath in O'Toole's, and she'd already talked to an auctioneer about the viability of selling the oyster farm as a going concern. She'd done her homework – Adair's business had been doing better than expected. He'd been selling oysters not only locally to eateries like O'Toole's and Coolnamara Castle, but had been exporting them too, to the UK and France, and Izzy had announced with pride that her daddy had been hoping to take part in the famous oyster festival in Clarenbridge later that year. Busy Izzy was all go. It was her way of coping with grief.

Río, on the other hand, just wanted to die.

‘This place would never have been viable as a scuba-dive venture, Iz,' Finn was telling Izzy on the other end of the deck. ‘It would make more sense to refurbish the old place on Inishclare. The visibility's much better there – you sometimes get a red tide on this side of the bay, and there's too much weed.'

‘But there's a pool here for confined water training,' Izzy pointed out.

‘C'mon, Iz! Let's face it – how many people are going to come to the west of Ireland to learn to dive? The kind of diver we're after is the seasoned one, who can handle dry suits, and who's into wrecks and deep dives. Kids nowadays go to warmer climates to train. We'd never have attracted amateurs. What do you call them? Debutantes?'

‘Dilettantes.'

‘And if you were going to turn this joint into a dedicated dive resort you'd have to hire staff. Gardeners, chefs, cleaners,' observed Shane. ‘Chambermaids in frilly frocks with petticoats.'

‘Yeah,' concurred Finn. ‘Can you imagine the cost involved? It just wouldn't make financial sense, Iz. And we'd have had to buy Ma's orchard—'

‘Nobody's buying my orchard,' Río told them.

‘I know, Ma. And I wouldn't dream of asking you to sell, now your market garden's established.'

There was a pause, and then Izzy said, ‘I could do the food, if we set up a scuba centre. I have my cert from Ballymaloe. That could be a real selling point, Finn. Divers are always starving after a day spent blowing bubbles.'

Río heard Finn laugh. ‘You're talking about it as though we were really going to do it,' he said.

‘Well, why not?'

‘Hello? You have a job in Dublin. And Dad's promised to line up more stunt work for me in LA.'

‘Lucky you, to have a challenging job.' Izzy sounded glum.

‘Don't you enjoy what you do, Izzy?' asked Shane.

‘No. I'm good at it, but I hate my job. I just
hate
it. And I saw what doing a job that you hate did to Daddy. It killed him. And I have no intention of dying without having a little fun in my life. It could be fun, Finn, couldn't it?'

‘Could we afford it?' Finn's voice was dubious. ‘I have no money.'

‘I have,' said Shane. ‘I'm fucking loaded. I'll buy shares in your dive outfit.'

‘Would you, Shane?' said Izzy. ‘Maybe you could go guarantor, or something? We won't be entirely without capital. I'll have money from the sale of the oyster farm—'

‘
If
you can sell it,' said Finn.

‘Oh, don't be so negative!' Izzy told him. ‘And I have a trust fund that Daddy set up for me, that kicks in on his . . . on his death.'

It was brave of Izzy to use the ‘D' word, Río thought. Most people who had spoken to her yesterday at Adair's funeral had used euphemisms like ‘passing' or ‘at rest', or that one that she especially hated – ‘gone to a better place'. But then, Izzy
was
brave. She and Río had had their run-ins in the past, but beneath the spoilt princess façade, Izzy reminded Río of a little bantam cock, feisty and full of fighting spirit. She and Finn had been good together. Maybe they
should
have a stab at setting up a business. A business here, in Lissamore, meant that Río would have her son near her indefinitely. And Finn was the only man in Río's life, now and forever. Had been since he was born, and would be until the day she died.

She wondered what had happened to his current girlfriend: Finn had said something about Cat going off on a jaunt, and that he didn't know when she'd be back. Río wondered how the girl would feel if she came back to find Isabella ensconced in the house. Finn had invited Izzy to stay when he'd learned that she was holed up in a local B&B, not in Coolnamara Castle, as he'd assumed. A B&B was no place for a girl who'd just lost her daddy.

‘A trust fund? I thought your dad was broke,' said Finn, cautiously.

‘You know Daddy. He had ways and means.'

Izzy said it with great pride. Ways and means, thought Río, like the ways and means of numerous other developers who'd prospered during the years of the Celtic Tiger and who were now residing in their villas in Spain and Portugal, thanks to NAMA and the put-upon Irish taxpayers who had had to bail out the big boys, the bankers and the builders. Just how legit had Adair's business dealings been? Río realised now that she really, really hadn't had a clue about the man she had married. Had there been shady stuff – offshore accounts and tax breaks and all the kinds of nefarious goings-on that Joe Citizen wouldn't have a clue about, but which were standard behaviour for the kind of movers and shakers that Adair had fraternised with? And then Río remembered that none of those movers and shakers had bothered to attend their buddy's funeral yesterday. Izzy was right.
Gather ye rosebuds while ye may
.

‘We could go over tomorrow,' Izzy said.

‘Go over where?' asked Finn.

‘To Inishclare, and check out the old dive centre. I wonder why nobody snapped it up before now?'

‘Because nobody's mad enough to plough money into the leisure industry in the current economic climate,' said Shane.

‘You are,' Izzy pointed out.

‘That's true. But then, I have money to burn.'

‘There's a pun there somewhere, Shane Byrne,' said Izzy, ‘but I'm too knackered to go looking for it.'

‘I'm knackered too,' said Finn. ‘Maybe we should call it a day. Beddy-byes! Come on, you. You deserve some sweet dreams.' And Finn held out a hand to Izzy, and hauled her to her feet.

‘There's a pun there somewhere, Shane Byrne, but I'm too knackered to go looking for it.'

‘I'm knackered too. Maybe we should call it a day. Beddy-byes! Come on, you. You deserve some sweet dreams.'

Then there was silence, apart from the hush-hush lullaby wash of the waves on the shore.

Below the sea wall, Cat was sitting motionless, legs hugged against her chest, chin on her knees. She'd been there for some time, listening to the plans being hatched above, about reinstating the old scuba-dive joint on Inishclare island.

So. Izzy and Finn were going into business together – and by the sound of it, they were going beddy-byes together as well. Oh, well. All good things come to an end, and she'd known that Finn wasn't forever: Finn was just for fun. And it had been fun, while it lasted.

Cat had walked the last mile of the journey back to Coral Mansion along the shore, having said farewell to her lift in the village. A dude had picked her up, and made it clear that he was interested. She'd allowed him to key her phone number into his Nokia, making sure that she substituted a ‘6' for ‘9'. Nobody had Cat's number, except Raoul. And – now that she thought of it – Keeley Considine had it, too. But that was no bad thing. Keeley might be useful at some time in the future, if Cat wanted publicity to sell more paintings.

Cat was hungry, not having eaten since the breakfast she had taken with her father in the Crooked House. She'd moseyed up there from her treehouse at around eight o'clock that morning and, having ascertained that Ophelia was tucked up in bed after her baby scare, had accepted Hugo's invitation to join him in what he'd called his ‘repast'.

Her father had done the thing he was so good at – scrambled eggs with cheese and bacon on toast: the breakfast he'd used to cook for her as a child. And they'd had a grand chat. They'd talked about their mutual loathing for conceptual art, and they'd talked about Raoul, and they'd talked about Paloma. And Hugo understood – of course he did – why Cat had had to do the thing she'd done yesterday.

‘It was your story, baby, and no one else's. It was really stupid of Ophelia to think that she could get away with it. She underestimated you – and nobody should underestimate my Catgirl.'

‘That's not what you thought once upon a time,' Cat had told him. ‘You didn't have a very high opinion of my intellect when you were home-schooling me.'

‘Oh, Catkin! That's because I'm not a teacher. I don't have the patience for it. I should never have taken on the responsibility of educating you, but somebody had to do it. And I was scared – so scared that if you went to a state school you'd have ended up on drugs – a corner girl, lost, a loner. That would have been textbook, given your circumstances, given all the shit you'd gone through. And given the fact that your father's a substance abuser. Jesus Christ!' Hugo had slumped so much his face had almost hit his scrambled eggs. ‘I've been a crap father.'

‘Yeah, you were pretty crap all right,' said Cat. ‘But you were good about sending me money, when you had it. Thanks for that.'

‘I'm painting again. I'll have a show soon – I'll send you a bonanza.'

‘Nah. Don't worry about me, Hugo. I'm managing. I've sold a few paintings myself.'

‘That's my girl!' Hugo rose to his feet and fetched a tea caddy from a cupboard. He opened it and took out a wad of cash. ‘How much do you charge?'

‘Three grand per canvas.'

‘I'll commission two,' said Hugo, peeling off banknotes.

Cat accepted them, then handed some back. ‘Special price. Family discount. I'll get them to you as soon as they're finished.'

‘Done deal.'

And Cat had said: ‘One day, maybe we'll show together.'

And Hugo had said: ‘Let's shake on it. Here's to our first group exhibit.'

And now Cat was sitting on the beach, hatching plans of her own that would rival those of Izzy and Finn. Rising to her feet, she made for the gate that led into Río's orchard, vaulted it, and set off up the slope towards Coral Mansion. On the deck, Río was lying fast asleep on a recliner. Shane was sitting at the table, wineglass and bottle in front of him, smoking a joint.