Larry took his cigar from between his lips. He had not smoked in years, what with his asthma and his allergies but he was really enjoying the cigar.
“He’s one guy. Don’t lay all the blame at his door. The storm was a force of nature, don’t forget,” Larry said good-naturedly.
Pat shrugged.
“Some say him and that Marianne-one are the force of nature. A lot of people think there’s been nothing but bad news since they turned up,” he muttered.
Larry frowned at him under the porch light.
“Hey, that’s only bar-room talk. I need Ryan back on my side of the pond right now, but he and Marianne want to make Innishmahon their home, they’ve made real friends there.”
“The problem is he brings too much attention to the island, there’s always a spotlight on him, the media and such, people can’t go about their business,” Pat said, blowing a smoke ring upwards.
“What business? Fishing and tourism is all I see?” Larry tried a laugh.
“There’s more to the island than that, much more, the island has always played an important role in the running of the nation, the job’s not done yet,” Pat eyeballed Larry.
Pat had never been so articulate in his presence: it was clear he had a message to impart. They were quiet for a long moment.
“Are you saying there are people who want him out of the way, want to scare him off?” Larry asked, intrigued.
“That depends on what’s needed. We could be talking scare tactics, you know, a type of ‘horses head in the bed’ warning, or worse.” Pat put two fingers to his temple and pulled an imaginary trigger, “Bang...gone.”
“Oh, you exaggerate Pat, this isn’t Mafia country,” Larry was dismissive.
“No it’s not, but Joyce says some of our lads would leave that crowd standing in the extermination department, if you take my meaning.” Pat had finished his cigar, “It would be better if you get him and her back to the States and keep them there.”
Larry gave a little laugh, these Irish, so dramatic. Unsmiling, Pat ground the cigar underfoot.
“Pick up your stubs,” Joyce called from the hallway, bustling into the drawing room, decanter in hand.
Pat slapped Larry on the back, “Do as you’re told, there’s a good man,” he said and went back into the house.
Despite being dog-tired, Larry did not sleep well. He twisted and turned until he woke with a start, sitting bolt upright, sweat trickling from his chest to his stomach. He had been dreaming of the scene in The Godfather, a man wakes up covered in blood to find his favourite horse has been decapitated, the severed head placed beneath the sheets.
Larry shuddered, snapping on the bedside light. The reassuring glow cast soft shadows across Joyce’s opulent drapes and cushions, helping to calm him. He reached into the drawer for his nebuliser, willing his heart to still as he breathed in the soothing steroid. He could hear the wind howling through the trees, rain beating against the window. No wonder he could not sleep: Mimi had forgotten to pack his ear plugs, and the weather in this country was so damn noisy, it sounded like someone was beating against the pane.
He pulled the covers over his head and closed his eyes. All was still and then another sound: the door opening. Someone entered the room. Larry froze. They came, across the floor, to the bed. He felt warm breath at his ear. He was terrified, convinced he was going to die, be killed stone dead, right here, right now...
“Are you asleep, Larry?” a voice hissed. He did not answer. Maybe they would go away. “Larry, are you asleep?”
He recognised the voice and drew the covers back slowly. Kathleen MacReady was nose-to-nose. His eyes swept over her, and once assured she was brandishing neither cut-throat razor nor horse’s head, he released a breath.
“Not now I’m not,” he said, sliding upwards, clasping sheets to his chest. Uninvited, Miss MacReady sat on the bed, her red satin dressing gown splayed out around her, bringing the vividness of his blood-soaked dream to life.
“You called out. I was just checking,” she smiled. The poor man was clearly disturbed, his face snow-white, eyes shot with red.
She patted his arm. “Bad dream?”
Larry nodded. Miss MacReady poured water from the jug on the side. She handed it to him. He could smell perfume. She was wearing lipstick. Her ruby nails matched her gown. It slipped from her thigh. He could see stocking-tops. He swallowed.
“Can I get you anything, any medication?” Miss MacReady knew all about these New Yorkers, uppers for this, downers for that.
“No, no,” Larry tapped the nebuliser.
“Asthmatic?” she asked.
Larry nodded.
“I wouldn’t have thought New York smog and all that air conditioning would be any help at all. A bit of mountain air, some ions off the sea, that’s what you need. You do look bit peaky, if you don’t mind my saying.” Although Larry always welcomed discussion of health-related issues, he was in no mood for even this topic at three in the morning.
“Can I get you a drink - a hot whiskey, milk with a drop of rum in it, Horlicks?” she offered. He shook his head at each suggestion. “Very well,” she said, moving around the bed, tucking him in as if he were a child, moving his glass so he could reach it easily. He watched her warily. She knew stuff. He needed to keep her close, on side.
“Thank you, Kathleen,” he said, his voice small and tight, “just a dream, I’m not a good traveller.”
She tutted, “Sure, I know that. Isn’t that why I came to meet you? Silly man, family’s family around these parts.”
Larry gave her a quizzical look. Surely Miss MacReady had enough family, she seemed related to everyone he met.
“You do seem troubled though, Larry, something more than just the Ryan debacle, maybe?” she asked sweetly.
He shook his head.
“No, that’s bad enough. He’s no idea how much trouble he’s in. We’re all in as a matter-of-fact,” he said.
“Come, come Larry. It’ll all look better in the morning, things always do. And anyway, it’s only a film, a bit of nonsense with fast cars, glamorous women and an evil villain.”
Larry tried to guffaw, it came out as a snort.
“It’s the evil villain I’m worried about,” Larry said, half to himself.
Dropping a kiss on his forehead, Miss MacReady shimmered out. As the door closed softly behind her, he was sure he heard a horse whinny in the darkness. He slid quickly beneath the covers. Get a grip Larry, for Chrissakes. This is the west of Ireland, horses everywhere, he told himself.
Hoping to ease Larry’s passage and warn her loved ones of his impending arrival, Miss MacReady used Joyce’s landline to telephone first Maguire’s and then Weathervane later that morning, surmising correctly that the newly-reunited lovers might, at the very least, be having a lie-in.
Padar agreed to go and make one of the holiday cottages habitable for the stressed-out American and Miss MacReady assured the landlord she would inform the inhabitants of Weathervane that Larry Leeson, of Leeson & Leeson (New York) Limited was on his way.
“Sounds like trouble,” Padar said over the crackly line.
“Well, it’s really none of our business. It’s something for Ryan and Mr Leeson to sort out.” Miss MacReady was snippy.
Padar smiled as he replaced the receiver. Miss MacReady always knew everybody’s business and was not beyond interfering, particularly when she considered it was in everyone’s best interest. Declaring an issue out of bounds was unusual. It sounded very serious indeed.
“Are you serious?” Ryan exclaimed into the ancient Bakelite telephone, which sat in defiance of the twenty-first century on the polished mahogany table in the hallway of Weathervane cottage. “Already, he’s here already?”
“Yes, I was sure he would come, weren’t you?” Miss MacReady.
“I knew he’d come, but so soon? He hates flying, travelling of any description, I thought it would take him at least a week to work himself up to the trip,” Ryan said.
/> “He does seem very worried, alright. Far more stressed than last time and that was bad enough,” she told him.
“Oh great,” Ryan said, “there’ll be any amount of pleading, coercing and blackmailing to get me back into that contract. I just wish I’d a bit more time to think things through,” he said, more to himself.
“You mean you haven’t thought this through?” came a voice from, the kitchen.
“Sorry Kathleen, I’ll have to go, no doubt see you later,” Ryan said, replacing the handset abruptly. Marianne stood in the doorway. She was wearing his sweatshirt, her hair twisted into a pile on top of her head. Arms folded, legs crossed, she was trying not to laugh. Ryan shrugged, giving her his lopsided grin.
“I did wonder if it was all as simple as you made out. I knew it was a three-movie contract, I’d resigned myself to that.” She smiled at him. It was so lovely to see him standing there, in her hall, having just left her bed.
“I needed you to know I’d give it all up for you. You and Joey, that’s all I care about,” he said firmly.
“And baby Bridget and don’t forget Monty,” she said. Monty looked up from his basket, wagging his tail at the mention of his name.
“Yes, little Bridget and Monty too, I need everyone I love together, in the same place. I need to be putting down roots, getting settled, before it’s too late.” His eyes were boring into her.
“It’s never too late,” she kissed him on the nose, “and I’m glad you made the grand gesture to be with us, for us all to be together. I love that you did it so boldly, live on TV. But like so many things that appear easy, the devil’s in the detail.” She met his gaze full-on.
“You’re right,” he said, looking across the little garden and beyond to the sliver of Atlantic, barely visible in the swirl of pewter mist.
“Come on then,” she said, downing the coffee she was hoping they could linger over, before going back to bed to make uninterrupted love once more, “let’s go and see what Padar needs help with ahead of the arrival of Mr Leeson.”
Ryan continued to stare out to sea.
“I’m gonna need help too,” he said, in a quiet voice, “starting with a good lawyer.”
“That’s okay, once this starts to rumble there’ll be lawyers all over it, I shouldn’t wonder,” she laughed, pinching his bottom as she left to get dressed. It’ll be fine, we can face anything once we’re together, she thought, still glowing from their lovemaking. Nothing’s going to drive us apart ever again.
Although Padar had generously offered to take care of the children so Ryan and Marianne could be properly reunited, total chaos greeted them when they arrived back at Maguire’s.
Joey was grizzling from the high chair, Bridget was under the table eating cornflakes off the floor and Padar was nowhere to be seen. Marianne set to work sorting out the youngsters, while Ryan ran through the bar, calling for the landlord. Padar emerged from the linen press, piles of sheets and pillowcases strewn about him.
“Your man Leeson is on his way, did you hear? I’m sorting out May Cottage,” Padar said.
Ryan started to pick things up.
“Do you know how long he’s staying?” Ryan asked.
“No, but Miss MacReady says it’s serious and you and he have stuff to sort out,” Padar replied.
“Indeed. Need a hand?” Ryan watched as Padar dropped a tangled sheet.
“Please. This was Oonagh’s department, one of my cousins gets the holiday cottages ready these days,” his eyebrows shot up, “jaysus, the kids.” He dumped a pile of towels in Ryan arms and fled.
“It’s okay, Marianne’s with them,” Ryan called after him.
Bearing a basket piled with linen, Ryan let himself into May Cottage. He just closed the door behind him as Pat MacReady’s taxi screeched down Main Street, en route from the ferry. Not five minutes later, he heard heavy footsteps clattering up the stairs and the door to the bedroom swung open. Larry stood there squinting through misted spectacles, as his client pushed a pillow into a crisp, white cover.
“Interesting career move,” the New Yorker quipped, “movie star to maid.”
Ryan dropped the pillow and strode across the room to greet his long-suffering agent. They embraced affectionately. Larry folded his arms by his sides.
“Ryan, we gotta talk. This is serious, this is real serious.” He looked Ryan in the eye.
“I know, it must be, you came all this way again,” Ryan replied.
“Last time it was good news, this time things are far from good,” Larry said, grimly.
Ryan nodded but he fixed Larry’s bloodshot eyes with a steely look.
“I’m not coming back, Larry. I quit. I’ve things to do here, I’ve made my choice,” he told him.
Larry was remaking the bed, folding sheets crisply, plumping pillows.
“I’ve news for you, Ryan,” he said, finally throwing a scatter cushion with a flourish, “you ain’t got no choice, whatever you think.”
“I think you’ll find my contract has a compassionate break clause. It’s in my terms and conditions, I know that much,” Ryan said, emphatically.
Larry sighed.
“Do you think Franco Rossini gives a damn about your terms and conditions? The movie’s broken box office records all over the world,” Larry made a circle in the air with his hands.
Ryan knew this was true and even though he had an ego, he did not delude himself the film’s success was down to his charismatic charm. He was sure Rossini’s mighty movie machine could easily find someone to take his place. Any amount of younger, better-looking and more talented actors would be queuing up to audition for the part. What was all the fuss about?
“Whether you like it or not, you’re a huge hit, you’re the Thomas Bentley everyone wants, I know there’s all the other stuff in the movie and they know they could get any amount of good-looking guys to play the part - hey they could even get one who can act - but you’re the brand now, you’re the guarantee the next movie will do at least as well as the first. Sorry Ryan, but that’s the bald economical truth.” Larry walked over to his client. “You can’t walk out on this, whatever you think it says in your contract. You have to make the next movie, or there’ll be another kind of contract out on you, you see if I ain’t telling the truth,” Larry hissed.
A loud crack, like gunshot, rang out. Larry lunged at Ryan pulling him to the floor, pushing his face against the carpet. Gasping for air, Ryan wriggled free.
“Jesus, Larry, what’s wrong with you?” Ryan struggled up to the window, to watch Pat MacReady’s ancient taxi lurch out of Maguire’s car park and head back towards the ferry. “That was a car back-firing,” he told the trembling bundle, slumped beside the bed.
Chapter Four
A Hopeless Case
As usual, Miss MacReady was first to break the news in Maguire’s Bar on a blustery October evening. She wriggled out of her full-length wax coat in the lobby, to reveal a tangerine fading to yellow silk dress, beaded with sparkles as she moved. She whisked a frothy feather boa out of her pocket and wound it around her as she sashayed towards the bar. The outfit perfectly matched the tequila sunrise she ordered. Miss MacReady always had cocktails on Mondays, one of her many personal and fervently upheld traditions.
“Imagine our own lifeboat station at last. I can hardly believe it, it’s a triumph and all down to us not giving up on the fight to have the bridge reinstated, it seems they’ve finally decided we’re worth saving after all,” she declared.
“How come?” asked Father Gregory, looking up from his Racing Post.
“Well, it seems the team building the bridge has also won the contract for the lifeboat station, meaning they may as well stay here and complete both projects,” Miss MacReady sipped elegantly through a straw.
“Ah, economies of scale,” the priest said, sagely.
“Economies of the back-hander more like!” grumbled Sean Grogan, from his usual stool.
“If it works in our favour for a change, I’m all
for it,” Padar said, stomping noisily up from the cellar, bearing a crate of bottles.
“We’ve always needed a lifeboat. I suppose with the rebuilding along the coast since the storm, it’s the perfect opportunity to at last give us something we’ve been promised for so long,” he said. It was Miss MacReady’s turn to nod.
“And with the Euro-zone finances no better, let’s hope what little money people are making they’re keeping and spending in this country, holidaying here. I’ve seen a small rise in post office savings accounts, right enough,” Miss MacReady confirmed.
“Anyone have enough money to buy a yacht?” Padar asked plaintively, referring to the forty-foot Moody, on the market since the summer.
“Who knows? With the building lads here and some new people coming to manage the lifeboat station, you may be able to hang on to it, might not have to sell it at all.” Miss MacReady smiled encouragingly.
“Sure, I could never sail that again,” he said quietly.
Father Gregory caught his eye. Padar gave his head a little shake.
“God rest her,” the priest said under his breath.
The oak door swung open, as the building boys clattered into the bar, freshly showered and shaved from a long day on site.
“What was on today’s agenda lads?” Miss MacReady asked, crossing her legs seductively.
“Erecting the structure for the bridge. The pressure’s on if it’s to be up by next summer,” Shay Shaughnessy told her. “Hiring cranes is an expensive business. We only have a limited window to get the steelwork up.”
The lads worked long hours in difficult conditions. Only the day before, huge halogen lights had been hoisted on metal pikes to bathe the whole site in an eerie glow; visibility being often less than perfect on Innishmahon in mid-October.
The headman Shay was a stocky Dubliner with bright-blue eyes, a wicked grin and a fruity turn of phrase. He could not get used to the fact that Father Gregory was often in the pub and apologised incessantly to the priest for his language.
A Change of Heart (The Heartfelt Series) Page 4