by Mary Malone
She struggled to keep still, refusing the temptation to open her body for him or shudder in orgasm and betray the pleasure she received during her weekly hour-long sessions in the massage parlour on Yonge Street in downtown Toronto.
Six months had passed since she’d discovered the expensive treatment centre quite – and literally – by accident. Aching from a slip on an icy footpath during her first winter in Canada, Charlotte had learned a valuable lesson about altering her style to include clumpy (and ugly in her opinion) footwear as a means of keeping upright in the snow. Her first few weeks in a new country hadn’t been easy. She’d disembarked at Toronto’s Pearson Airport filled with battered self-esteem and little confidence, her decision to leave Ireland one of urgent necessity. Settling into a new job and coping with extreme climate conditions had been tough, but with determination and persistence (not to mention a new wardrobe filled with the most fashionable thermals she could find and an array of colourful padded ski jackets), she’d adjusted and survived, time serving to dilute some of her embedded knots of tension and push the disturbing circumstances leading to her departure from home to the back of her mind.
Following her fall on the ice, the nagging ache in her upper body persisted long after she’d ended up on the flat of her back on Bloor Street West as she hurried to her job in the HSBC Bank Canada. Finding it particularly painful following a stressful afternoon at a boardroom meeting with disgruntled lawyers, Charlotte had run out of painkillers and anti-inflammatories and was paying yet another visit to the late-night pharmacy when she noticed a masseuse advertisement in the window. ‘Specialises in new manipulation technique to ease backache and muscular discomfort’ flashed in bold print from the eye-catching notice.
Whipping her iPhone from her purse, Charlotte tapped in the phone number and connected the call.
“When would you like an appointment?” she was asked after she’d explained her ailment.
“Right now,” she replied, absently rubbing the base of her spine to ease her discomfort.
To her disappointment, but not surprise, it was a few days before they were able to fit her in – a promising sign that their business was thriving, she thought in retrospect.
And now, six months on, she no longer needed the therapy to ease her back. But she continued her visits, savouring the feel of Giovanni’s expert hands exploring her soft, smooth skin every week.
Her impromptu move to Canada had lived up to all of Charlotte’s expectations, surpassing them in certain aspects. Toronto’s sprawling city offered space, independence and safety. Yielding now to Giovanni’s expert touch, she guessed her life would be the envy of others: living in a spacious apartment in an exciting city, a few minutes’ walk from her well-paying job in a thriving investment bank and working with dependable colleagues who were ready to celebrate lucrative deals as the occasions arose.
“Turn over, Charlotte.”
Giovanni’s soft Italian lilt was a timely interruption. She smothered a devilish grin and obeyed his instruction, rolling onto her back while he held the soft white towel aloft. Close to perfection, she thought, her nipples tingling as his fingers trailed her skin. If only I could transpose some of this temporary magic into the rest of my life, she thought, her smile fading as Philip Lord’s threatening grimace forced its way into her consciousness as her masseuse traced the jagged scar on her chest. Will I ever banish my attacker from memory, she wondered, fighting against the familiar feelings of despair and forcing herself to relax, keeping her eyes tightly shut, a deliberate decision on her behalf to regain the gentle momentum in her daydream. Managing to banish bad memories, not wanting anything other than Giovanni’s touch and voice to cut in on her thoughts, she drifted into fantasy once more.
While he moved his hands in circular movements on her thighs, Charlotte’s imagination was shifting into a higher gear, progressing into overdrive. It took all her willpower to stay still as she felt the sensation of his fingers – still damp from the massage oil. She licked her lips, the roof of her mouth dry as he took her right foot in his hands and pressed her heel against his waistband, kneading each toe in succession.
But, as ever, she maintained stringent self-control. Keeping her sexual release strictly under wraps was part of the scintillating excitement. Her private and very intimate affair with Giovanni – so private that even he didn’t know about it – was untarnished by expectation, jealousy or justification. He was her masseuse, she his client. Any move from that would destroy the magic. By Charlotte’s estimation, the relationship was as near perfect as she could hope to achieve.
“I’ll leave you to relax a while before getting dressed.” Giovanni’s soothing voice brought a natural end to her pleasure, leaving her relaxed and satisfied in the afterglow of her precious sixty minutes.
As the door closed behind Giovanni, she reluctantly let go of her fantasy and opened her eyes. She allowed a few moments for her eyesight to adjust to the soft lighting before reaching for her purse and turning her phone back on. Reality prevailed. Several beeps later, she scrolled through her text messages, quickly scanning the numerous business ones to ensure nothing required immediate attention. Seeing a message from her mother, she raised an eyebrow. Marian Dulhooly detested text-messaging, preferring direct conversation – lengthy phone calls usually.
Skipping over a few others to open her mother’s message, Charlotte sat upright on the plinth and swung her feet over the side as she read the brief text, smiling at her mother’s letter format and perfect grammar – no text shortcuts for Mum!
But the content was intriguing, her suggestion jaw-dropping.
“No way,” she muttered under her breath, a vision of Aunt Polly coming to mind. They’d never really gelled, Polly forever criticising her love of books and pushing her out into the fresh air.
“Who’d have thought she’d be so damn conniving?” Charlotte muttered now, amused more than annoyed at her aunt’s final wishes. She reread the text to be sure she’d interpreted it correctly.
Charlotte, I thought you should know that Polly left everything to Kieran in her will, providing he lives in the house for a year and leaves her multiple bank accounts untouched until then. Beth needs your support to contest this ludicrous decision. It should have been divided equally and not designed to break up our family.
Charlotte snorted. As if Polly was breaking up a tight unit!
Contact home to discuss what can be done. Mum.
Mulling her mother’s words and instructions over in her mind as she dressed in a khaki green jumpsuit and long over-the-knee brown-leather boots, Charlotte perfected her lip-liner and added a smear of gloss plumper, refraining from smacking her lips together to allow the plumper to take effect. Next, she outlined her large green eyes – a constant reminder of her striking resemblance to her father and brother – with dark-brown kohl pencil, smudging a little beneath her lower lid to accentuate a sultry look. Freeing her hair from its ponytail, she turned her head upside down and ran her fingers through it to add volume, part of the preparation for the final stage of the game she played on these visits. Leaving Giovanni’s massage parlour with a little swagger of her hips and her head held high, she sensed his dark smouldering eyes on her body. Silly, she knew, to pay it too much attention. Considering he has seen me without my clothes on, there’s little left to his imagination, she thought . . . but she loved the way his eyes followed her until the door snapped shut. The perfect conclusion – enough to keep her going for the seven intervening days until her next appointment.
Sipping a whiskey and soda in her Harbour Square apartment before bed that evening, she stared at the light-filled view over Lake Ontario, her thoughts returning to the request in her mother’s text. She still hadn’t responded. Contest the will? Why? To what avail? Last thing she needed was the headache of a messy legal battle – particularly against her only brother! She sympathised with her sister. That went without saying. Working in a bank, she witnessed plenty of money-related stress. But surel
y Beth had other options?
From her twenty-first-floor residence, she watched the late-evening roller-bladers weaving around other pedestrians. Smiling at her mother’s choice of words in the message, Charlotte didn’t need any graphic explanation for her instructions. This wasn’t about denying Kieran the chance of putting down roots. It was a last-ditch endeavour to get one over on Polly one final time. Polly Digby and her sister-in-law, Marian Dulhooly, had been arch enemies long, long before Marian married her brother, Frank Dulhooly.
Chapter 10
Beth stirred her cappuccino, licked the spoon and dropped it on the table beside her unread newspaper. She sipped the frothy liquid from her cup. She had wasted an entire morning in the grant section of Cork County Council and, before making the 100-kilometre trip back to Goleen, she’d decided to treat herself to a decent coffee.
Her day had started badly. Reading the note Carl had left on the kitchen table had ruined her appetite and been the main cause of her missing breakfast and chipping her favourite rose-petal mug when it smacked against the ceramic Belfast sink. “Blast and damn!” she’d screamed, her voice echoing in the empty house. Her former Ryanair colleagues had given her the mug for one of her birthdays, insisting she drink the Chablis they’d poured into it once their last passenger had disembarked.
“Whatever possessed me to leave that job?” she muttered under her breath, massaging her temples with her index fingers to ease her thumping headache.
“Would you like a menu?”
Beth shook her head and smiled at the smart young waiter who approached her table. Not unless you want me to pay by washing dishes, she felt like saying. His smart appearance reminded her of the Council guys she’d tried and failed to impress.
Justifying the country-home potential for her farmhouse hadn’t impressed the grant department. They’d actually laughed aloud when she’d outlined her plans to combine a lucrative guesthouse business with a retreat for writers and artists. Admittedly her business proposal lacked a definite income guarantee but surely it was at least worth consideration?
“The market is there,” she’d insisted, relieved she’d had the good sense to leave her jacket on as she felt the material of her shirt sticking to her skin. She could imagine the rings of underarm perspiration on the white polyester. “Our changing climate is encouraging people to holiday at home –”
“In their own homes or a cottage by the coast with ample amenities,” the council employee had insisted. He wasn’t for turning. “Not in a farmhouse in the middle of nowhere where there isn’t even a decent cab service or playground for children. What do you propose to offer bored toddlers and teenagers in your country home? I’m sorry but it’s a ‘no’ from us on this occasion.”
A lump rose in Beth’s throat. She felt like crying and knew she was out of her depth. She didn’t have the business-speak required to outwit them. “What if I reduced the amount being requested?”
“It’s low priority. Council funds are depleting and only crucial and guaranteed projects are afforded grants these days. And your financial projections lack evidence-based figures. Maybe if things improve or if you conducted a three-month trial and resubmitted your business plan we could bring it to the board but as it stands I’m afraid there’s no point in proceeding.”
“Can I offer you a top-up?”
The waiter was hovering near Beth’s table again, a coffee pot in his hand this time.
She shrugged and accepted the coffee refill, disregarding the fact that it wasn’t topped with smooth white froth or sprinkled chocolate. “Thank you,” she said. In the line of a tip for the pleasant waiter, her gracious smile was as much as she could offer.
A drop of milk spilt onto her royal-blue skirt. She took a napkin from the table and dabbed it dry. As she searched her handbag for her car keys, Carl’s note came to hand, the sheet of notepaper crumpled in a tight ball. It took careful handling to uncurl it without ripping it. She smoothed it on the table, her husband’s scribbled words every bit as infuriating as they’d been earlier but this time minus the surprise. She presumed his use of capitals was deliberate. She took a gulp of coffee and reread the note.
ED WANTS US BOTH TO VISIT TONIGHT. BE READY TO LEAVE AT 7.45.
Beth pushed back her chair, leaving the crumpled page right-side-up on the polished table beside her empty cup. Even if somebody bothered to read the two brief sentences, their meaning would be insignificant. The threatening undercurrent in Carl’s message was designed specifically for her, playing on her sympathies and daring her to refuse. Who did he bloody well think he was? From now on, she decided, I’ll visit Ed on my terms instead of being forced to accompany Carl and support his ridiculous pretence that all is well between us. And furthermore, she thought, as she left the restaurant and walked towards the car park, I’ll be doing it out of respect and sympathy for Ed, not to appease Carl.
Chapter 11
Marian Dulhooly sat in the gazebo in the centre of her large back garden, blowing smoke rings into the air, disgusted with herself for giving into her addiction so easily. The self-control she had exercised in quitting the deathly habit two years before had begun to unravel the moment Kieran returned in Frank’s Mercedes and told them about the details of Polly’s will.
“I’ve decided to give it a go,” he’d told his parents after he’d given them a full account, arms folded across his chest, his gaze moving from one to the other as he waited for a response. “I’m going to move into Number 5 and give staying there for a year a decent shot.”
“Polly would be pleased, Kieran,” his father said, patting his son on the shoulder and nodding his head in approval. “Did it come as a complete shock or had she ever hinted at her plans?”
“Shock doesn’t begin to describe my reaction,” Kieran answered honestly. “She hasn’t made it too easy for me though. I’ve never heard of anyone having to live in a place for a year before getting rightful ownership. Have you?”
Frank smiled. “The number of years I’ve spent in a courtroom, son, I’ve heard it all before. And some of it made the hair stand on the back of my neck! What Polly’s requesting is mild by comparison.”
“You’re quiet, Mum. In fact, you look a bit shocked. Everything okay?” Kieran turned to his mother.
Sitting ramrod straight, her expression was difficult to read. It wasn’t like her to hold back her opinion.
Marian merely nodded. “I guess it’s a good opportunity for you but it would have been fairer if Beth and Charlotte were included too.” She eyed her son, trying to gauge his reaction to this admission.
“Might have been but Polly had other ideas.”
“Even so . . .”
“Ah Mum, if either of the girls had got the whole lot, I’d be happy for them. I’d wish them well and get on with my life. Any food going? I’m starving.”
Marian had painted a smile on her face, her stomach sinking. In typical Kieran-style, he’d moved on quickly. His dismissal had left little room for argument. But it wouldn’t stop her making another attempt. It would have to be spelt out for him. First she needed to speak to Charlotte and make sure she was on side. Until she’d managed to convince her eldest daughter to go along with it, she wouldn’t say any more about it to Kieran. There didn’t seem much point.
“I can throw on a mixed grill if you like. There’s some homemade brown bread to go with it?” she’d offered instead.
“Sounds great. With real butter too! Thanks, Mum.”
Over a week had passed since then and Marian was still waiting for Charlotte to make the time to talk to her in detail about things. Her attempts so far had been cut short for one reason or another and, with the time difference and her busy work schedule, Marian hadn’t been able to do anything about it. Although she had a sneaky suspicion that her daughter was avoiding her and the thorny subject of inheritance. She took a last drag of her cigarette and stubbed it out on the ground with the heel of her boot.
“How was your game, Frank?” she croak
ed when she went back inside. She broke into a fit of coughing, her throat tightening once she opened her mouth to speak.
“Good. Yeah, I enjoyed it, got plenty of fresh air,” he replied.
His emphasis on ‘fresh air’ wasn’t lost on her. His disdain of her ‘filthy smoking habit’, as he referred to it, was an old argument in the Dulhooly household.
“Frank – about Beth? Don’t you think we need to do something?”
He ran his hand across the back of his neck. “We’ve been over this, Marian.”
“But something has to be done.” It wasn’t her first attempt at coaxing him to approach Polly’s solicitor and suggest contesting his sister’s decision.
Frank shook his head, weary from her incessant nagging. “Good God, woman, my sister was entitled to give her entire estate to the dogs’ home if that’s what she preferred!”
“The dogs’ home would have been fairer than the choice she has made!”
“I thought you’d be delighted Kieran’s staying around?”