by Sarah Webb
“He remembers you, Sean,” I say.
“What? Why did you call me that?” Matt’s eyes flash and he sits up bolt straight.
“Because it’s your real name. Kit said the hair and the teeth have changed, but that he’d recognize those eyes anywhere.”
Matt drops his eyes to the floor and shifts around on his chair uncomfortably. “I’m sorry, you’ve made a mistake. I’ve never even been to Ireland.”
I try one last time. “Strange, because Kit could have sworn it was you. He sends his regards. You used to help his mum, May, in the garden at Haven House. He does her job now. Lives on the island too.”
Matt looks confused. “On his own? What about his family?”
“I’m afraid his mum died a few years ago in a boating accident. Apparently he didn’t take it very well.”
Matt gasps. “May’s dead?”
Finally, a proper reaction! But I’m not surprised – if Matt and May were as close as Kit said they were, it must be very sad news. “Yes,” I say gently. “I’m so sorry.”
Matt looks genuinely distraught. “No, I’m the one who should be sorry. Lying to you like that. Ach, I’ll come clean with you, girls,” he says, his perfect Miami accent melting away. He has a beautiful Cork singsong lilt, tinged with Miami smoothness. “Frankly, it’ll be a relief to finally talk about it. May was an amazing woman. Poor Kit; he adored her. How’s he doing?”
“OK, I think. He seems to like working in the garden.”
“Good. Tell him I was asking after him and that I’m sorry. May was very good to me. Kept me in pocket money for years.” He sighs, blowing air out noisily, then leans back in his seat and stares off into space. “I told Gabe it was only a matter of time. People aren’t stupid. Especially Cork people. And Mum hates all the lies. It was Gabe’s idea. He said if I didn’t go along with it I’d have the shortest movie career in the history of Hollywood.”
“Go along with what?” I ask.
He leans forward, his gaze intense. “Can I trust you both?”
We nod eagerly, dying to hear his secret.
“I’m not sixteen. I’ve just turned twenty-one.”
I gasp. And then I look at him again. The slight stubble on his cheeks, the tiny, fine crinkles round his eyes, the knowingness: of course he’s not sixteen.
“My real name’s Sean Whooley,” he continues. “I grew up in Tragumna, near Skibbereen. My dad died when I was three. He was a fisherman. He had a heart attack when he was working, and by the time the crew got back to shore it was too late.”
“I’m sorry,” I murmur.
“It’s OK – I don’t really remember him, to be honest. Mum worked in a hotel while I was growing up, but it closed just after I turned seventeen. She was offered a good job in Dublin, so we all moved up – me, Mum and my brother, Ed. We lived there for a while and then Mum met Donnie at a hoteliers’ convention. He’s from Miami. They did the whole long-distance thing for a while before he asked her to marry him and move over here. I was nineteen – Miami sounded cool.
“I got a job in this bar on South Beach and that’s where I met Gabe. He was sitting outside smoking a big fat cigar. He gave me his card and said to come for a screen test. I’d done some acting back in Dublin. Nothing serious – but he made it sound so attractive I thought I’d give it another go. I had nothing to lose. So he put me forward for a few parts, but I never got anything.
“Then this high-school soap opera came up. They wanted a thirteen-year-old. Gabe told them I was four-teen, but could play thirteen, no problem. I’ve always looked young for my age and I’m pretty short, which also helped. I did the audition as a Miami teenager, and Gabe gave me a new stage name: Matt Munroe. They fell for it; I got the part, and the series became pretty popular.”
“No kidding!” I say. “West Dream High was huge in Ireland too. But didn’t your Irish friends recognize you?”
He smiles. “Sean Whooley had mousy brown hair and wore glasses. Plus, he had wonky teeth.” Matt taps his teeth with his fingertip. “Veneers. And I didn’t have all that many friends in Dublin, to tell the truth. I missed West Cork, so I kept myself to myself while I was in the capital. But now, it’s all got out of hand. I spend my free time taking famous girl teenyboppers to movie premiéres to raise my profile. It’s horrible.” He pauses. “No offence, Amy.”
I smile at him. “None taken.”
“I want to stop being a fake teenager and get on with my life. But what can I do? I’m stuck being Matt Munroe and hanging around with my brother, pretending he’s my best friend. I like Ed, but he’s so immature.”
“He’s fifteen!” I laugh.
“Exactly.” Matt says. “I want to make some twenty-something friends. Go to bars, listen to bands. Get my own apartment. At the moment I have to live with Mum and Donnie and Ed. How lame is that?”
“You could come clean,” Clover says. She nods at her Dictaphone. “We could help.”
“Gabe would murder me. He’s already signed me up for another teen movie after Life Swap – the one Rex is casting now. He says if the industry finds out I’m twenty-one, I’m toast.”
“But Zane Danvers is in his twenties and girls like him,” I point out. (Zane is the star of a hugely popular series of movies set in a performing-arts school in New York.)
“For how much longer?” Matt says gloomily.
“Is that all you want to be?” I press. “A teen idol?”
He shakes his head. “Of course not. I want to do other things.”
“Like what?” Clover asks.
“Don’t laugh.”
“We won’t,” I promise.
“I want to write screenplays. Comedies. When I was working as a waiter I was writing one about an Irish waiter who falls in love with this famous American movie star but has no idea who she is. Anyway, after I met Gabe things got a little crazy and I never finished it.”
“You have to take control back,” I say, “or else you’ll go mad. What does your mum say?”
“She’s with you. She wants me to tell the truth; she reckons I’m living a lie. Donnie says I have to decide for myself but that if I keep going another three or four years I’ll earn enough to retire. He’s practical that way.”
“But what about you? Can you really live like this for another few years? Won’t you crack up?” I ask.
Gabe bursts into the room. We all look up guiltily. “So how’s the interview going, guys?” he says.
“I think I’ll need a few more minutes,” Clover says, waving her Dictaphone. “I forgot to switch this on.”
Gabe shakes his head. “Too late for that, missy. Movie Emporium are outside. Use the press release; it’ll be just fine, I’m sure.”
“When are you going back to Ireland?” Matt asks us, his Miami accent flawless again.
“Tomorrow night,” I say. Is it my imagination or does he look a little panicked? Maybe he thinks we’re about to divulge his secret to the international press camped downstairs.
“In that case,” he says, “I’m taking you all to a restaurant-opening tonight. In South Beach. Mills too. I’ll pick you up at seven. Where are you staying?”
“Twin Palms Hotel,” I say.
“Matt,” Gabe cuts in, “you have more interviews tomorrow, remember.”
“Come on, Gabe, I need a night off.”
“OK, but it’s important to maintain your image,” he says sternly. “Remember who you are, Matt.”
Matt sighs. “How could I forget?”
I catch his eye and give him a gentle smile while Clover stands up. “Sounds good. He’s all yours, Gabe.”
As Gabe shows Clover out, Matt grabs my arm. “I need your help,” he whispers urgently. “There’s someone I need to—”
“Miles Gaynor, Movie Emporium,” a tall man with square glasses bounds towards Matt, his hand out.
“See you later, Amy,” Matt says, letting go of my hand and giving Miles a polite smile – one that never reaches his eyes.
* *
*
“No way!” Mills squeals when we tell her Matt’s story. “Betty, stop splashing your brother. Marlon, stop teasing your sister.”
We’re lounging beside the Costigans’ pool, still reeling after our bizarre morning.
Mills turns back to us. “Twenty-one!” she whistles. “Ancient. No wonder he isn’t interested in me. He’s more your age, Clover.”
“I think he’s looking for someone even older,” Clover says. “And I have Brains, remember?”
We both stare at her.
“But he’s Matt Munroe,” Mills points out.
“Sean Whooley, actually.” Clover shrugs. “Brains is good-looking too and at least he knows who he is. Sean’s one mixed-up soldier.”
“Do you think he’ll come clean about his age?” I ask her.
“Doubtful. He seems to be firmly under Gabe’s fat sausage finger.”
“But what about the Goss interview?” I ask. “What are you going to write? There’s nothing on your Dictaphone.”
“I’ll think of something, Beanie. There’s always tonight. Mills, where’s South Beach? Matt’s taking us all to a fancy-smancy restaurant launch.”
Mills’s eyes goggle. “South Beach? Ha! Fabarooney! Girls, you’ll love it. Brush down your best bikinis.”
“Bikinis?” I ask. “For a restaurant launch?”
Mills smiles smugly. “You just wait, Amy Green.”
Where have I heard that before?
Chapter 33
It’s 7.45 p.m. Miami time and the best night of my life is only just getting started. I’m sitting on butter-soft white leather in the back of a spanking new midnight-blue Rolls-Royce Phantom convertible (or “Drophead”, which is the correct term, according to Ed, who’s a bit of a car geek). Matt’s driving, and even from behind his dark Gucci shades he’s causing quite a stir: “OH MY GOD; isn’t that the guy from West Dream High?” “Hi, Matt, I luuurve you! I’m your biggest fan.” “Blow me a kiss, Lucas!” (His character in the show is called Lucas Luck.)
I’m wearing brand-new Jimmy Choos – also courtesy of Matt. Isn’t he a sweetie? Gabe’s assistant rang this very posh shop and asked for shoes for Matt’s female friends, promising they’d be photographed at the red-carpet restaurant launch this evening. A girl from the shop arrived at the Costigans’ place with bags and bags of shoeboxes. We had such fun trying them all on – we were like three Cinderellas.
Clover chose a pair of silver snakeskin peep-toes with dagger heels while I went for a pair of red satin strappy sandals with kitten heels. (I didn’t want to be tripping over all night and making a complete fool of myself.) Mills picked court shoes in a deep forest green with cute diamanté hearts on the front.
We’re crawling down Ocean Drive now, the beach dipping down to the sea to our left, and music pumping out into the street from the hopping bars and restaurants along the front. But none of it is as loud as our music. We have fifteen speakers (Ed has counted them) and we’re singing along to “The Galway Girl”, an old Irish song. It’s Matt’s favourite – which is kind of funny, if you think about it. He’s supposed to be this big, cool movie star and yet he listens to diddly-eye Irish ballads.
Ed has a great voice; the rest of us are just belting out what we know of the words, waving our arms in the air, clapping and cracking up laughing.
“And I ask you, friend,” Ed sings to Mills, “what’s a fella to do? ’Cos her hair was black and her eyes were blue…”
Mills beams at him. Ed seems to be seriously growing on her.
There are people everywhere – walking, skating, cycling, dancing. Some of the women are in teeny tiny bikinis and heels; others are in poured-on Lycra dresses, their curvy bums doing a Marilyn Monroe-style va-va-voom as they walk.
We spot a bunch of teenage boys in matching shorts, runners and pristine white vest tops, with strings and strings of what look like real pearls round their necks, worn proudly like medals in a swimming gala.
Teenage girls parade up and down the strip in unzipped shorts, showing off their brightly coloured bikini bottoms. Scooters nip in and out between the cars, driven by muscular boys, with long haired girls behind like must-have accessories, arms tightly octopussed around the boys’ waists.
The air smells of adventure: musky, tinged with expensive perfume, cigar smoke and the tang of the sea.
And the buildings – the buildings are amazing. Sleek, stylish Art Deco architecture and all painted in ice-cream pastels: pink, yellow, pistachio green.
We pull up for a few seconds outside a house that looks as if it’s straight out of a fairy tale. It’s lit up with twinkling lights, like a Christmas tree.
“One of the South Beach sights – the house where Versace was shot,” Ed says, all matter-of-fact. “Killed at the gates of his own mansion. Casa Casuarina. It’s a members-only club now.”
“Poor guy,” Clover whispers.
I shiver. It’s all a bit macabre.
Matt drives on, then stops about three minutes later outside a bustling restaurant. He gets out of the car. (In his damson Prada shirt, he’s definitely Matt Munroe tonight and not Sean Whooley.)
A man in a shiny navy suit runs towards him, beaming. “Mr Munroe,” he says, “we’ve been expecting you. I’m Tulio, manager of Cafe Maximus. I’ll have your car parked for you immediately. If you and your guests would like to come this way…”
We’re ushered on to a red carpet, and then FLASH, FLASH: I can’t see a thing. Dozens of paparazzi are buzzing around Matt. Clover stumbles in her Choos. Matt seizes her arm and helps her up.
“Who’s the girl? Anyone special?” a photographer demands. “What’s your name, honey?”
Clover straightens her dress and composes herself. “Clover Wildgust. That’s spelt W-I-L-D-G-U-S-T.” She gives him her best Hollywood smile. “I’m a close friend of Matt’s.” She touches Matt’s arm and pouts a little for the camera. She’s shameless.
Mills enters into the spirit, seizing Matt’s other hand. “But I’m Matt’s special friend.”
“And me,” I add, cracking up and taking his elbow. “Don’t forget me. I’m his extra-special friend.”
The photographer grins. “That right, Matt? You have three girlfriends?”
Matt just laughs.
Ed is walking along behind us, looking a bit put out. I put my hand on Mills’s arm. “Ed,” I whisper. She nods and drops back to join him.
“So this is what it feels like to be a movie star,” Clover gasps as Tulio leads us inside.
“I can see why Matt doesn’t want to give it up,” I say. “Must be addictive.”
“If I could only learn to walk in these darned heels.” She laughs, slipping again.
* * *
Later that evening Matt, Clover and I are sitting on a low wall outside the restaurant, our backs to the beach. It’s still balmy, and if you listen carefully you can just about hear the swish of the waves over the sand. Mills and Ed have gone for a walk down the beach to “go paddling”, according to Mills.
“Paddling, my posterior,” Clover says with a grin, watching them stroll off together, their shoulders bumping. “Is that what they call it these days?”
“Mills loves paddling,” I say, eager to defend my friend. “And she has this thing about collecting a stone from every beach she’s ever visited. She labels them with nail polish and puts them in a shoebox.”
Clover snorts. “I still think they’re snogging.”
Matt laughs. “Snogging! That’s not a word you hear in Miami. God, I miss Ireland.”
“With all this?” Clover waves her arms in the air, taking in the beach and the restaurant. “I bet it’s raining at home.”
“Yep, but I even miss the rain. It gets so hot in Miami. Look, before I chicken out, I need to ask you both a favour.” He drags a hand through his hair. “I need you to find someone for me and give them a message.”
“An old girlfriend?” I ask.
He smiles at me. “You don’t miss much, do you, Amy. She
’s probably forgotten all about me by now. But I owe her an explanation. I left Ireland without saying goodbye. It nearly broke my heart.”
“You just ran away?” I ask. “But why?”
He clicks his tongue. “I wanted to travel. To have an adventure, get out of Ireland. At the time it felt so small, like one big village: claustrophobic, you know. I thought I’d meet other girls – but I haven’t, not like Martie.”
“What did you just say?” I ask.
“Martie. That’s her name. Martina Coghill. She lives near Lough Ine. She used to know Kit Harper, so you might be able to find her through him. She got me the job with May in the first place.”
No wonder Martie froze when she saw Matt’s photograph. Clover is staring at me. I give her a little frown to stop her saying anything. “Don’t worry,” I tell Matt. “We’ll help you.”
An hour later Matt is driving us back to the hotel. He’s already dropped Mills and Ed off. It’s one o’clock in the morning and I can’t stop yawning. Mum would have a fit if she knew I was out so late.
As we pull up outside our hotel my phone rings. I answer it. “Hello?”
“Amy, it’s Gramps. I’m in Esther’s house and we asked Martie to call over urgently, just like you told me to. She’s standing right here beside me. Now what?”
“When I say, ‘Now!’ hand Martie your phone.”
“Roger that.”
“OK, Gramps – now!” I hand the mobile over to Matt and pray I’ve done the right thing. “Someone wants to talk to you,” I tell him.
“Who is this?” Matt says into the phone, bemused. After a brief pause his eyes widen. “Martie, is that you? Martie.” He starts to cry.
Oops, what have I done?
“Let’s give him some privacy,” Clover says. She opens the passenger door.
“It’s a convertible, you dummy,” I say. “We can still hear.”
“Not if we go inside.”
“Clover!” I’m dying to earwig on their conversation – but Clover’s right.
We wait in the lobby, glancing out of the window now and again to see if Matt’s still there.
After a few minutes, Matt walks inside and hands me back the mobile.