by Sharon Owens
‘Ever the domestic goddess, that's my Betsy. I'll be in touch,’ Liam called from the doorstep.
‘Get out and don't ever come back,’ she screamed. ‘I hate you.’
But the door banged shut and he was gone. She ran down to the hall and pressed her face to the glass in the side panel. In a daze she watched his black sports car speed out of the garage and down the avenue. Then she turned around and looked at the stairs going up and up, and at the delicate glass chandelier swinging slightly in the draught. There was a feeling of unreality about the house, she thought. Like when you went to the cinema in the middle of the day, and it was still daylight when you came out, though you thought it would be dusk. She went to the kitchen and made some bacon sandwiches and a tall mug of cocoa for breakfast, still wearing her baby-doll pyjamas. For the next three hours she went from room to room, packing all of Liam's possessions into bags and boxes, and stacking them in the garage ready to be collected. The last thing to be dumped in the cobwebbed gloom was Liam's author portrait.
‘Leave me, then, if you must,’ she told his picture. He'd had it taken in a fancy studio in Lisburn. He was wearing reading glasses that he didn't need. ‘But sell my home out from under me? Oh, no. It's your fault I have no career, because you wanted me to stay at home with you. It's lonely being a writer, you said. Oh! I'll see you in court, you disgusting little maggot.’
She lifted the telephone and called her favourite brother, Ted.
‘Ted, he's left me… Yes, he has. I'm not pulling your leg… There now. No, it's serious. It's not just a row… He's flipped or something. Insulted me like you wouldn't believe. He called me a tart… Yes, he did… It's this new book he's been working on. It's driven him over the edge… He's at it day and night and he won't rest. He's drinking constantly… Can you help me to keep the house if he divorces me? Three o'clock tomorrow? I'll see you then. Bye, Ted.’
Betsy went upstairs, ran a hot bath and got in. She lay there for a long time, thinking up lots of different ways to hurt her husband. Was he famous enough for a kiss-and-tell story, she wondered. Would the media be interested in the fact that Liam Bradley based the character of his so-called maverick detective on his own pathetically adolescent sexuality? And then she cried her eyes out when she saw Liam's old razor lying on the window sill in a small puddle of soapy water.
In a fourth-floor room in the Hilton Hotel, Liam plugged in his laptop and went on typing. He would deal with the fallout from his failed marriage later. When he had finished the book. He might hire a detective and have Betsy followed to get some evidence of her adultery. His most recent infidelity had been only in his dreams. She couldn't use the plot of his book against him because it was a work of fiction. In the meantime he had to get on with his writing. Maybe Perry would fly over from London soon and pick up the manuscript in person? He'd said he had a couple of interested parties lined up already. Was the first half nearly finished? The first twenty thousand words even?
Liam was working on two versions of Boom, Boom. One for Perry, and one for himself. In Liam's personal version, the death-wish detective was coming in from the cold, giving up casual sex and becoming a pillar of society. Perry was cross with him for wasting time. He said it was madness to change Slinger in any way but Liam was a very stubborn writer. He said he had a feeling that the politically correct Slinger would prove very popular with the publishers.
‘Look at all the playboy celebrities in Betsy's magazines,’ Liam had told his agent. ‘Boasting and bragging about getting a few dozy models into bed. Nobody's impressed with that malarkey any more. It's only because they have a few bob in the bank that the girls will have anything to do with them. Aren't we all having sex, all the time?’ (Well, Liam wasn't, but that wasn't the point.) ‘What's the big deal about a couple of minutes of fornication? They're a laughing stock, all over the Western world. These Himbos! It's cringe-worthy. No, it's time for a change and Slinger will be symbolic of that change. Women will love it. I'll reach a whole new readership. You'll see.’ Perry wasn't convinced but he said he would put out feelers, see what the publishers thought. And if they didn't like it, Liam would just have to accept it. They reached an uneasy compromise.
Perry began a round of business meetings with a summary of both books in his briefcase, and Liam booked the room in the Hilton for a month. He realized with a heavy heart that he would be living in a rented room over Christmas. But then he consoled himself with the thought that he wouldn't have to spend any more time with Betsy's boring relatives. He wouldn't have to eat Betsy's dried-up turkey dinners or buy her a romantic present or have, sex with her while wearing a Santa hat. (Her idea.)
He poured himself a gin and tonic from the minibar and ordered a plate of assorted sandwiches and a pot of coffee from Room Service. He told the hotel receptionist to withhold all his telephone calls. Only Perry Shaw was to be put through. And only after nine at night, he added. Liam knew that if he went at his new novels like a man possessed, he could write five thousand words a day. And he was going to finish them both by Christmas, even if it killed him. It was his tribute to Lily Beaumont. And when the books were finished, and Liam had a few months to himself before the PR marathon began, he was going to tell Lily Beaumont how he felt about her. He was going to tell her he loved her. Of course, it was doomed. In his heart he knew that it was doomed to end in a broken heart - his - and probably a broken nose as well, when Jack found out. Jack didn't say much but the man was built like a brick wall. Yes, Liam was going to give the women of the world what they maintained they'd always wanted, and that was honesty. He was going to tell the truth for once in his life, and just let fate take its course. He'd already been honest with Betsy. He'd actually done her a favour, telling her those home truths about her gaudy appearance. Now she could tidy herself up and snare another man, someone as uncultured as herself. They'd be very happy together.
There was a knock at the door, twenty minutes later.
‘Room Service,’ said a husky voice. Liam dashed across the room, yanked open the door and grabbed the tray. He shoved a five-pound tip into the hand of the startled young man and closed the door in his face. Then he took off his watch, threw it across the carpet, and began to type. He was going to write until he had five thousand words completed, and he wasn't even going to check the time until that happened.
11. David and the Witch
Friday, 17 December
It was lunchtime. Daisy stood at the bar counter with her art folder, her portable sewing machine and a big bag of clothes on the floor beside her. She looked very shaken and there was masonry dust in her bright red hair.
‘What happened to you?’ asked Bridget. She was standing behind the bar with a tea towel slung over her left shoulder. Daisy thought Bridget looked ridiculous, as if she had worked in the tavern for years already.
‘Would you believe it, the ceiling in my student house collapsed?’ Daisy said, scratching a piece of concrete out of her collar. ‘I never heard of that happening before. Have you?’
‘No. Was it terrible?’ Bridget stifled a yawn.
It was bloody loud. I'll say that much. We thought it was the Second Coming of Jesus. You could see the sky from the ground floor. It was totally freaky. And the dust was unreal.’ Daisy began to shiver gently. Bridget thought Daisy was in shock and she called for reinforcements.
‘Yo! Daisy's house fell down,’ Bridget yelled up to the kitchen. ‘She's here now, shakin' like a leaf. Traumatized, she is!’
‘I am not traumatized, Bridget. I'm just cold, that's all,’ Daisy snapped. Bridget O'Malley was hardly bigger than a flowerpot, but she could be a massive pain in the arse, thought Daisy crossly. She didn't want a drama made out of the whole thing, just somewhere else to live for a little while.
‘What caused the collapse? Was it a gas leak? Are you hurt? Was anyone else hurt?’ asked Lily, rushing downstairs. ‘Was it the heavy rain last night?’
‘I think that's what it was, yeah,’ croaked Daisy and her shiver
ing intensified. ‘The roof was sagging anyway. It was a flat roof.’
‘A flat roof in a wet climate like this?’ Lily shook her head. ‘Builders! Are they all crazy? Did you not have any inkling the house was dangerous?’
‘No. The bathroom ceiling was dripping water all night but we thought it was nothing serious and just put a bucket underneath. Then, this morning at breakfast, the lights flickered and went out. And the next thing there's this weird cracking noise in the rafters and the whole lot comes crashing down into the bedrooms.’
‘You could have been decapitated,’ gasped Bridget with fake horror in her voice and she turned away to polish the optics. Daisy ignored her.
‘There were clouds of dust everywhere. I was coughing. The other girls were coughing too and we couldn't open our eyes. We were in the kitchen at the time, eating some leftovers from a Chinese takeaway and we never got to finish the chicken balls.’
‘Give her a double brandy, Bridget, and stop laughing,’ scolded Lily, trying not to laugh herself. ‘Daisy and her friends could have been killed. Thank God you were on the ground floor at the time, Daisy.’
‘I know. Well, one of the girls was upstairs in bed when the roof came in.’
‘My God. What happened?’ Lily said, genuinely shocked.
‘Her boyfriend's back took the worst of it. They're both being treated for shock.’ Daisy shook her head sadly.
‘I bet they are. Well, they can't say the earth didn't move for them,’ said Bridget with a wicked glint in her eye. And she served the double brandy then went running to the bathroom to have a good giggle to herself.
‘Most of my artwork was ruined,’ moaned Daisy, rubbing her dusty eyes with her sleeve. ‘And I've nowhere else to go.’
‘Your parents?’
‘Divorced. Remarried. New families to care for. No room for me.’
‘Couldn't they squeeze you in somehow?’
‘Not easily. Anyway, they both live miles outside the city. I'd never be off the Citybus. And they'd have me babysitting on a permanent basis.’
‘You can stay here, Daisy. Get that brandy down you,’ said Lily, and she took her mobile phone out of her pocket. She tapped in the number quickly. ‘Hello, is that the Perfect Pine store? Lily Beaumont here. Is it too late to change my order?… Oh, good. Could you bring me a set of bunk beds instead of a third single? I'd like English traditional pine, please? Although Mexican style will do, if you've no English pine left… Oh, you have? Lovely! Thanks a lot. I really appreciate it.’
‘What was all that about?’ Daisy asked.
‘I ordered another bed an hour ago, for Marie. Her parents were repossessed this morning so she's homeless too.’
‘That's awful. Poor Marie.’
‘I know.’
‘What happened?’ asked Daisy, momentarily forgetting her own problems.
‘Her parents were both laid off from a textiles factory six months back, when the contract went overseas. They're very depressed, which is hardly surprising.’ Lily held another glass to the brandy optic, and took a sip. ‘It must be a terrible thing to be homeless. Especially at this time of year.’
‘Yeah. That's the global economy for you.’ Daisy sighed. ‘God look down on them.’
‘Well, we must try to struggle on, I suppose. You and Marie will have to bunk up with Bridget and Trudy. And I do mean literally bunk up. We're running out of space.’
‘I was hoping you'd say that. Thanks, Mrs B. You're a brick. Where's Marie?’
‘She's upstairs in the kitchen, making beef stew. Her poor parents are staying in a bed and breakfast in Rosetta for the time being.’
‘What will Bridget say about me staying in her room? We're not the closest of friends, Bridget and myself.’
‘She'll say nothing. The glazier has been here all morning, hammering and banging. Such a racket for a new window! And I've had to buy her new blankets for the bed. We couldn't take the risk of a stray splinter.’
‘I see.’
‘Go on up and have a shower and a rest, and we'll fit the bunks in when they come. We might have to rearrange the entire room, though.’
Lily went to serve some customers and Daisy trailed her belongings up the stairs. Bridget's face was like thunder when she saw Daisy stacking her things in a corner by the door.
‘Not you as well? Holy sugar! It's going to be like the bedroom of the seven dwarves in here tonight.’
‘Believe me, this wasn't planned,’ said Daisy. ‘I like having my own room. I'll be out of here just as soon as I can.’ And she went gingerly into the bathroom to have a shower, as Lily had suggested. It felt weird taking off her clothes in a strange bathroom and she was tempted to get dressed again and throw herself on her mother's or father's mercy. But then Daisy thought of all the chores they would ask her to do. So she stepped into the plastic bath and turned on the hot water. God knows she didn't want to share a bedroom with Bridget O'Malley but she didn't want to spend Christmas babysitting, either. At least here she was getting paid for her services.
Jack spent the entire afternoon assembling the bunk beds and Lily had to make yet another trip to the department store for bedding. They wondered what they would do with all the extra furniture when and if the girls moved out again, but then they reminded themselves that excess furniture was the least of their worries. After much deliberation, they decided to place the two single beds on either side of the window with the chest of drawers in the middle. The bunk beds went to the left-hand side of the door and there was enough room on the right-hand side for the sofa, the TV and a small coffee table. Lily gave them the rug from her own bedroom, to make the sofa area more comfortable, and the girls tidied away their clothes as best they could, under beds and on Trudy's door-hooks. Daisy chose the top bunk and Marie was happy with the bottom one. She said it reminded her of being a little girl again, and she laid her pyjamas on the pillow. There was a school-dormitory air about the room when they were finished, and all the girls except Bridget were very happy with the new arrangements. There was even time for a quick cup of tea and a slice of apple pie before the catering for an emergency booking resumed in the kitchen. Bridget and Daisy worked all afternoon behind the bar and, at six, Marie and Trudy joined them, bearing many trays of delicious nibbles for the local Rugby Club's annual bash.
At seven, the Devaneys arrived, squeaking in their leather trousers, and took up their positions beside the chimney. Daisy wasn't in any way animated by David's arrival that evening, and Marie wasn't too excited by Michael's shy smile either. They were both still in shock at losing their homes and tired with all the recent late nights they'd had in the tavern. Even when David dedicated the final set of the evening to the lovely barmaids, they barely noticed. The boys were slightly deflated.
At ten thirty, Liam Bradley called in for a spot of social contact. He was starting to talk to himself in the hotel room and thought he would take a short break and walk to Beaumont's for a change of scene. He looked awful, with dark purple shadows round his eyes and he hadn't shaved for a few days. His mobile rang but he switched it off without answering it. Liam sat down in a dark corner at the end of the counter, away from the centre of the party, and offered to buy Bridget a drink.
‘I'll have a cola, thanks,’ she said, pulling off the top and drinking it by the neck. ‘What can I get you?’
‘Double vodka and diet lemonade. I'm celebrating,’ he told her.
Oh dear, thought Bridget. Now that he's bought me a bottle of fizz, he expects me to be his listening post.
‘The new book?’ she asked politely. ‘It's going well?’
‘Indeed it is,’ laughed Liam. He sounded very drunk already. ‘It's the biggest pile of rubbish that ever graced a computer screen but it's going to make me rich. I tried to convince Perry that Slinger should be a nice guy but he wasn't having it. So it's business as usual, and big bucks here I come!’
‘Congratulations,’ said Bridget and yawned in his face. She served his drink and moved away fr
om him. She was so tired by now, she didn't care about observing the niceties any more. All those late-night phone calls to Gerry Madden had finally caught up with her body clock. Bridget didn't know who Perry and Slinger were and she didn't care either. Ever since she'd found out Liam Bradley had a sexy wife, she had lost all interest in him. Married men could be mean enough with money, she'd discovered. Divorced men could be even meaner. So that road was going nowhere. She'd been kidding herself to even think that it could work. Gerry Madden was already off her hit list. Now Liam Bradley was off it too.
Liam's neck blushed as red as Daisy's hair when he saw how bored Bridget was with him and his great book. She didn't ask him a single question about it. His male pride was badly dented. He held his hand up to attract her attention when she came to his end of the bar a few minutes later.
‘Same again, love?’
‘Surely.’ She thought the writer looked close to collapse but that wasn't her problem. If he fell off the stool, Jack could just shove the old bore in an ambulance. Men! And they think they're better than we are, Bridget thought sadly. She began to load empty glasses into a rack, aware that Liam's eyes were boring two holes into her back.
‘Do you not bother with crime-fiction much?’ he asked her, when the other drinkers were busy clapping for the Devaney brothers. They had just completed a rather good session of U2 songs.
‘Do you want me to be absolutely honest?’ said Bridget, steadying herself on the counter. She was so tired she was near to fainting.
‘Yes. Be totally honest,’ he slurred.
‘I haven't read a book for years, crime-fiction or otherwise. I'm not in the least bit cultured and I don't care who knows it,’ she said, looking straight into Liam's narrow, grey eyes. ‘I'm twenty-five and I have my whole life ahead of me, and I'll have plenty of time for reading books when I'm in a rest-home sixty years from now, with my knees under a tartan blanket.’