by Maggie Finn
Tessa would have blushed, but she was feeling too sick. ‘Is he?’
‘Never seen him so smitten.’
‘Gosh,’ she repeated, feeling foolish and exposed.
‘You look after him, Tessa Drake.’
‘Oh, I… well, I don’t think… we only went on one date and I’m not sure it’s going to be repeated. It didn’t go so well.’
‘That’s a shame.’
‘It is. Because I really think I l…’ she stopped herself just in time. ‘Well, I really like Danny. But I messed that up, along with everything else.’
‘What did you quarrel about?’
Tessa opened her mouth, then closed it again. She felt as if she was having an out-of-body experience. How had she got here, discussing her budding romance with Danny Brennan’s mother?
‘Bishop Ray.’ It came out before Tessa could stop it. The old woman seemed to turn a shade paler.
‘The Bishop? What about him?’
Tessa knew it wasn’t her place to tell the woman, but then perhaps it was better she hear it now than when it was on the front page of the Examiner. Maybe Diana could even do something about it.
‘Danny… well, I think he’s going to write a story about Bishop Ray,’ she said haltingly. ‘About how he had evidence he’s drinking.’
She watched the older woman’s face closely. She saw concern, then relief, then she seemed to settle on ‘resigned.’ In that moment, Tessa realized that Diana Brennan’s devotion to the Bishop went far beyond the church.
‘You knew?’ said Tessa as the penny dropped.
‘I knew. I couldn’t very well miss the signs. I have experience, you see.’
Tessa swallowed. She most certainly was in ‘none of your business’ territory now, but suddenly she very much wanted to hear about it.
‘Was that Danny’s Dad? Did he drink too?’
Diana nodded, her eyes sad.
‘He was a proper drinker, not like Ray. Graham – that’s Danny’s da – he’d drink up the whole paycheck, disappear for days, then come back and take it out on us.’
She looked off out to sea.
‘The irony is that it was Ray who was there to pick up the pieces when Danny’s da finally left – he was a real father to my kids. Whatever Danny thinks, I’ll always be grateful for what Ray did for our family. We owe the Bishop much more than Danny will ever know.’
‘Danny gave me the feeling that he had a difficult relationship with Ray.’
Diana gave a light laugh.
‘You could say that. There were mistakes on all sides, I suppose. Ray didn’t know how to deal with kids, Danny resented Ray trying to fill his da’s shoes and I… well, I was too strict. Over-compensating, isn’t that what they call it?’
She fell silent for a moment.
‘He’s really going to write about it in the paper?’
Tessa nodded. ‘I tried to talk him out of it, but he thinks…’
‘…he thinks the public has a right to know.’ Diana nodded in recognition. ‘I suppose that’s my fault too. I raised Danny with a black and white view of the world. Things are right or wrong, no grey in between.’
‘That doesn’t sound so bad,’ said Tessa. Simon Drake had been the opposite of course, a permissive liberal who thought anything was acceptable as long as you were prepared to argue the toss. He didn’t really believe in rules.
‘So what do you think will happen?’ asked. Tessa. ‘To Bishop Ray, I mean. Will the church kick him out?’
Diana smiled.
‘They’ll probably promote him again.’
‘Again? What do you mean?’
The woman sat down next to her.
‘Tessa, the church already know about Ray’s drinking. That’s why they moved him from the church in Clover Cove and made him a bishop.’
‘Was this when he was picketing the pub?’
‘Exactly. The church felt it was better to “kick him upstairs” than risk the scandal. And it was a wise decision too. Bishop Ray has done a great deal for the whole county, not least with this Ross Oil business.’
Tessa thought for a while.
‘So who else knows about Ray’s drinking?’
Diana laughed.
‘This is Kiln County. Nothing stays a secret for very long.’
Tessa nodded and looked down at her hands. Secrets. She’d lived with hers for far too long and now, thanks to this woman’s son, it was about to come out. The strange thing was that she wasn’t angry with Danny, in fact she admired him for it. Keeping secrets didn’t help, it only caused pain. And it took strength and bravery to speak the truth.
‘Something else troubling you?’ asked Ma Brennan.
Tessa gave a weak smile. ‘Is it that obvious?’
‘Darling, it’s your da’s big exhibition and you’re sitting up here on the cliffs looking like your cat just died.’
Tessa couldn’t help letting out a sob. She covered her face with both hands, embarrassed and ashamed.
‘Hey now…’
To Tessa’s surprise, the woman reached out and pulled her into a tight hug.
‘Don’t you take on so,’ said Diana soothingly. ‘It can’t be all that bad.’
‘It’s just…’ Tessa began, her voice thick. ‘It’s just I’ve messed everything up so badly. I thought I was helping, but I’ve only made things worse.’
Diana pulled back and looked at her.
‘And I take it this is to do with your da, not my Danny?’
Tessa snorted. ‘Both.’
Diana nodded as if that was the answer she had expected, then handed Tessa a handkerchief, waiting while she dried her tears.
‘One of the things life has taught me, Tessa Drake, is that forgiveness is the most important thing. I can forgive Ray for straying from the path because Ray has been a father to Freya and Danny. Not perfect perhaps, but far better than their real one.’
Tessa nodded, passing the handkerchief back.
‘Whatever your father’s done, look in your heart to forgive him, that’s my advice. Make the best of it, because we’re not around forever. And try to forgive yourself too. If you did something for the best reasons, then you can’t be too hard on yourself, even if it goes rotten in the end.’
Diana stood up and bent to pick up her basket.
‘And that goes for Danny too. He’s a good boy. Lord knows he can be stubborn, but he’s decent. He can be like a bull in a china shop, but he’s only doing what he thinks is right. We could all do with a bit of that, don’t you think?’
Tessa nodded as she watched the woman walk away. ‘But that’s what’s so hard,’ she said to herself.
And that’s what frightens me to death.
Chapter Twenty
Danny looked around the restaurant and smiled. He needed more lunch dates like this. The Line was the most expensive restaurant in Kilmara and by far the grandest. High glass atrium, carrot-shaped chandelier, dark wood tables. People talked about The Line in the office, but apart from Ciaran, Danny didn’t think anyone had actually been here.
‘Sir?’
The Maitre’d looked him up and down.
‘Do you have a reservation?’
Danny paused for a moment, savoring the moment. ‘Not sure if I do,’ he said, putting on his thickest Irish accent. ‘Can you check for me? Might be under ‘Danny Brennan.’
The man gave the thinnest of smiles and glanced at his laptop screen.
‘No, I don’t have that name.’
‘Oh, well maybe it’s in the name of the fella I’m meeting. Patrick Keen.’
Boom.
The Maitre’d’s eyes flicked up at Danny, then down at the screen, but Danny could tell he didn’t need to check.
‘This way sir,’ he said with a pained expression. ‘Your party is already here.’
Patrick Keen was a solid-looking man with a checked sports jacket and no tie. Silver hair and a chunky gold watch both shone as he stood to shake Danny’s hand, hard.
‘Great to meet you
Dan, heard a lot of good things. You got a hell of a cheerleader in Ciaran O’Neill. Come, sit, sit.’
They settled down at their table and Patrick poured Danny a glass of wine.
‘So how do you know Ciaran?’ said Danny in an attempt at small talk.
‘Ha! He never tell you?’ roared Pat. ‘Back in the nineties, we worked together on the Chronicle news desk.’
‘The Evening Chronicle in London? I thought he’d always been here.’
‘Uh-uh. The man’s a legend. You know how newshounds are supposed to sleep under their desks and pour whiskey on their cornflakes? It was Ciaran they’re talking about.’
He flipped out his napkin and placed it on his lap.
‘But you don’t want to hear about washed up has-beens like us. You want to hear about what plans I got for you in New York, am I right?’
Danny gave a modest shrug. ‘Okay,’ he said.
Keen laughed.
‘Just “Okay?” – you crack me up Danny. I like that, I don’t mess around either. Let me lay it out for you: I want you over on my news team. We’re one of the few big papers still doing in-depth investigative work and I know you’ve got what it takes to join us. I’ve been following this whole Ross thing and your instincts are solid gold, son.’
‘Thanks,’ said Danny modestly, but Keen was still talking.
‘And you’re ruthless too. I like that. You’ll stand up to these big corporations. You need to have cojones for this job, otherwise we might as well be printing those dumb press releases they shower us with.’
‘Couldn’t agree more,’ said Danny.
Pat Keen winked at him. ‘Music to my ears, Dan.’
So Danny continued agreeing with everything Pat Keen said through three courses and an impressive cheese board. He thought it was the best policy to nod and smile and laugh in all the right places, plus he didn’t want to put a foot wrong when the man seemed intent on giving him a glamorous job in Manhattan. Danny didn’t have to do much else anyway: Pat Keen was a man who liked to talk, regaling him with war stories about him and Ciaran on the town, peppering it with celebrity gossip and industry insider titbits that had Danny open-mouthed.
Finally, over coffee, Danny plucked up the courage to bring up the subject that had been on his mind since Ciaran had first mentioned Patrick Keen and The New York Globe.
‘Can I ask a question, Mr. Keen?’
‘Sure, no secrets here. Fire away.’
‘Why are you so keen to bring down Ross Oil? I mean I know Ross has its headquarters in Manhattan, but…’
Keen’s eyes twinkled.
‘You heard Leo Stein is schtupping my wife, right?’
Danny looked down at his desert fork, but Keen boomed with laughter.
‘You haven’t met my wife. Leo’d be doing me a favor.’
He laughed so hard he began to cough.
‘Don’t look so serious, boy,’ said Keen when he had finally regained control. ‘I’m yanking your chain. Ross Oil? It’s no big deal.’
‘It’s not? I thought you might be here to see what Ross Oil is planning in Clover Cove?’
‘Nah. I got hot newshounds like you for that, don’t I Dan? Truth is I’m over here mixing business with pleasure, catching up with Ciaran, doing a little light business and gonna pick up a couple Simon Drakes at that exhibition tonight. Rachel, my wife? She loves his stuff and I got an anniversary coming up.’
Danny frowned.
‘So I don’t understand, I thought you had a personal grudge against Leo.’
‘Leo’s my buddy, we play poker together. I’m just doing this to annoy him.’
Danny gaped at him.
‘Annoy him? But what about the environmental story?’
Pat chuckled and drained his wine glass.
‘Get real, son. There is no story.’
Danny swallowed.
‘No story?’
‘Well sure, human interest, all this David versus Goliath shtick you’ve been rolling out, the readers lap that up. But in pure hard news? Not a story.’
Danny’s confusion must have shown because Keen leant forward, patiently explaining.
‘Ross Oil makes over 200 billion US dollars a year, right? That’s 200 billion. From oil. Not waves. The clue’s in the name: Ross Oil.’
Danny knew this of course; he’d done the research. Eco projects were notoriously expensive. You needed complicated equipment – wind mills or turbines – and then you had the huge problem of converting the energy. Oil just pumped itself out of the ground; oil was easy money.
‘But the La Rance tidal array project in France has been generating enough to power a city for decades. I know it’s not the biggest power generator in the world, but it’s clean energy. That has to be good, doesn’t it?’
‘Sure, but it cost 100 million Euros to build,’ smiled Pat. ‘And it makes about 5 million a year. I did my research too: I like to break Leo’s balls when we play poker.’
He chuckled.
‘Listen, Ross Oil is a global concern and a public company. It operates on fluctuations in its share price and the share price depends on how well the investors think it’s doing. Five million to those guys, for that much effort? Doesn’t touch the sides.’
‘So if it’s all so negligible, why are Ross fighting so hard to stay in Clover Cove?’
‘Because renewable energy grabs headlines, Dan-boy. It’s one big smokescreen for these guys. They want to distract us from the fact they’re burning the planet from the inside.’
‘But renewable energy is booming, it’s…’
Pat keen clucked his tongue impatiently.
‘A PR nightmare, is what it is.’ He ticked the points off on his fingers. ‘Wind farms? Pug-ugly and ineffective. Solar: no one wants those stupid panels on their house. Hydroelectricity, yeah, that works a little. But dams cost zillions to build and often lead to wholesale deforestation. And for what? About 5% of Ross’s energy output.’
‘5% of 200 billion is still 10 billion,’ Danny replied. ‘That’s a lot of poker chips.’
Keen grinned.
‘That’s what I like about you Danny. Always see the angles, just zoom straight in on the story.’
He laughed and clapped Danny on the shoulder.
‘But seriously, this Clover Cove thing? It barely makes it onto the Ross Oil spreadsheets. Waves? Never gonna make a dent. Why are they doing it? Because it looks good in the media – and actually, the fact they’re fighting for it is also a positive, like ‘Ross Oil is committed to eco-blah-blah.’ The reality? It’s just a game. But it’s a game Leo wants to win, so that’s why I’m running your stories; I just love watching him squirm.’
Keen laughed and Danny turned back to his coffee, running a spoon slowly around the inside. He knew he should join in the laughter, but inside he was disgusted. Clover Cove – his home – was just something to amuse these men, a prank, a punchline. People’s houses bulldozed, historic views ruined, communities torn apart – it was all one big joke.
‘So on the subject of winning,’ said Pat, ‘Much as I’m enjoying your Ross Oil story, it’s old news already. Ciaran tells me you have something for me? Some brand new kick-ass headline?’
He thought of Bishop Ray. He thought of his mother. Then he shook his head.
‘Can’t do it.’
Keen looked at him for a moment.
‘Can’t or won’t?’
Danny shrugged.
‘Won’t.’
The editor sighed and raised a hand to the waiter, mouthing the word ‘check’.
‘You disappoint me son. I had high hopes for you’.
‘Oh don’t worry,’ said Danny, his mind flashing back to Tessa Drake in the Palace corridor, back to the gut-shot revelation that she had been playing with him like her cat Ghost would play with a mouse.
‘I have something bigger,’ he said.
Pat Keen looked back, his interest piqued.
‘Ross Oil big?’
‘Oh it’s bigge
r than that.’
Danny found himself smiling.
‘Much, much bigger.’
Chapter Twenty-One
Tessa felt as though she’d had Botox. Her face was rigid from the fixed smile she had been wearing since she had walked through the door of the gallery two hours ago. Not that anyone was paying much attention to her: everyone was watching the Simon Drake show.
The Great Reclusive Artist had arrived half an hour into the show to a standing ovation and was now in full charm mode, shaking hands, slapping backs, swapping jokes with his adoring fans and buyers. At the far end of the gallery, Tessa could hear her father telling an anecdote about Andy Warhol to peals of delighted laughter. And why shouldn’t they all be happy?
Business was good – for everyone. Simon was selling his paintings: last time she looked, nearly all of the paintings had the tell-tale red dots on them to signify a sale. Ted was getting his commission, as well as an address book packed with high-level art players. And the collectors? Well, they were getting lovely paintings, of course. But as an added bonus, they were making money too. That was one of the odd things about the art world in the upper echelons. Assuming the artist stayed fashionable, the value of their artworks just kept rising. So someone who had paid ten grand for a Simon Drake today could reasonably expect to sell it for double that in five years, perhaps even three. And you couldn’t say that about many other investments. All the smiles and all the laughter couldn’t lighten Tessa’s mood however. She rubbed her fingers against her temples, hoping it might stop the pulsing headache which was growing right behind her eyes.
‘Darling!’
Tessa turned to face a tall woman in her forties, making sure she kept the perma-smile in place.
‘Janice, how are you?’ she said, ‘So wonderful that you could come all this way.’
Janice VanStiel was the wife of wealthy industrialist Marshall VanStiel. Marshall had the money – and the private jet to get them here – while Janice had a long-standing passion for Simon Drake’s work. And, Tessa suspected, a long-standing passion for the artist himself, not that Simon would be so indiscreet, even if he did ever leave Trew Point. She remembered her father as an outrageous flirt and an expert at subtly flattering society women, but he had been devoted to Stella, however much they might argue. Many other artists – Picasso, famously – took full advantage of the allure of their fame and talent, but Simon Drake was never quite that vain. Plus Tessa was sure that the torch he had carried for her mother was, if dimmed by the years, still hot enough to keep other women at arm’s length even now.