The Hollow Heart (The Heartfelt Series)

by Adrienne Vaughan

  She looked him up and down.

  “Trite isn’t the word.” She grinned at him.

  Oonagh Quinn was sitting menus in little silver holders, ready for lunch. Sean Grogan who, immediately after making it known the bridge to the mainland had been destroyed, spent the whole of the storm holed up in his fisherman’s cottage on the other side of the bay, was at the bar complaining as usual.

  “Where’s Padar?” Sean did not like women behind the bar; their place was in the kitchen or serving food.

  “Above, helping Phileas sort out his cellar, they were lucky they got most of the contents of the chemist’s upstairs.”

  “Ah, he does too much. He won’t be thanked for it. That Phileas Porter’s a tightwad.”

  Oonagh carried on with her work.

  “I believe there’ll be terrible trouble trying to get compensation off the insurance companies for flood damage. There’s people in England were flooded years ago and are still in mobile homes over there. It’s a right rip-off.”

  Oonagh sighed.

  “Sure, you’d know all about it, Sean?”

  “Not at all, never paid a penny insurance in me life. I’m no eejit. And look at poor Mrs Molloy, sure she can’t come back, she’s homeless. She’ll get nothing off no-one, God help her.”

  “She’ll not be homeless while there is a community here,” Father Gregory called, as he closed the door behind him. “And how are you, Sean? Nice and safe and dry up in your cottage?”

  “Indeed, Father,” Sean touched his cap at the priest.

  “Good man, that’s the way.” Replied Gregory.

  Oonagh passed the priest a bottle of his usual tipple.

  “We’re starting a community restoration fund, Sean. You’ll be involved, no doubt.”

  “Ah, I will Father,” Sean grunted, “but I think the Government should pay for a new bridge.”

  “They didn’t pay for it in the first place.” Kathleen MacReady swept in. She was referring to the EU funding which had paid for most of the improvements in the area over the past ten years. Sean pursed his lips and averted his gaze. Today’s ensemble was a full length gown in peach crushed velvet. She had draped a man’s pinstriped jacket over her shoulders. A lace handkerchief flounced out of the breast pocket. Her hair was piled high under a pearl and crystal tiara. She hurried to the bar, hauling herself up onto her usual stool.

  “A stout is it?” asked Oonagh.

  “Not at all,” snapped Miss MacReady. “Tequila Sunrise. I always have cocktails on Mondays, Oonagh, you know that.”

  Oonagh sighed again, making a complete hash of the orange juice, grenadine and tequila mix. Kathleen MacReady failed to notice as she reached for the glass and drank it greedily back, slave bangles clinking on scrawny arms.

  “Well,” she announced, when she had finished wiping her mouth with the lace handkerchief, which was in fact, a doily. “The ferry’s back on, Tuesdays and Thursdays to begin with, passengers only. No vehicles or livestock, till they reinstate the jetty.”

  “That’ll cost a bit. And what about my sheep for market?” asked Sean.

  Miss MacReady sipped her second cocktail.

  “There’s an emergency fund for the jetty. And Sean, I can’t remember the last time you sold a sheep; sure them yokes of yours are only ole pets.”

  Sean sniffed indignantly.

  “There’s many would say the bridge would be better left down.”

  “Ah, good man, Sean.” Padar had arrived back. “Always the one flying the flag for progress, moving with the times, keeping up with the rest of the world.”

  “I’ve satellite TV, I’ll have you know.” Sean was put out.

  “Yes, and I’ve a business to run.” Padar pushed by down to the cellar. He touched Oonagh on the shoulder as he passed. She patted his hand but kept her gaze lowered. Miss MacReady did not miss much.

  “Well I think the Quinns here, deserve a medal. No-one would have survived a minute of the damn storm, beg your pardon, Father, without the pair of them. Here’s to you.” She lifted her glass and beamed.

  Oonagh called to Padar to take over, and left the bar quietly. There did not seem much call for lunch today.

  Chapter Fourteen –

  The Uninvited

  Marianne and Monty followed Ryan back to April Cottage after they had finished the whiskey, shaking hands good-naturedly and agreeing they had cleared the air. She sat at the table, reading the script, punctuated with Ryan’s embellished set descriptions and occasional enactments, as he made coffee and cooked bacon and eggs. When they had eaten, he flung the plates in the sink, and deciding a breath of fresh air was called for, they headed out to the beach.

  The couple on the sand with the little white dog were laughing and animated. Ryan was totally immersed in his storytelling, describing the climax of the tale and the ramifications it had on the main characters. His plot-telling was highly animated, particularly the action scenes of his hero’s dreadful movie; a combination of Pirates of the Caribbean and Shrek.

  He was sure that once it made it onto the silver screen it would be a smash hit, he only seemed concerned that he might not be able to finish it before he was called back to the day job, and if he dropped it now, would it ever be made? Would he always be chained to his role as a jobbing actor and never make the transition to screenwriter, the career he felt he was destined for? When Marianne confirmed her offer of help, he jumped at it.

  “Come on then, I’ll buy you a pint in Maguire’s and we’ll seal the deal.”

  “One pint.” She wagged a finger at him. “And then we start work.”

  “Okay, okay.” He shrugged, and he and Monty ran ahead of her the rest of the way back.

  The atmosphere in Maguire’s was a strange mixture of relief and despair. Relief that the worst of the storm had passed, and regret at the devastation it had wreaked. The debate whether the resurrection of the bridge was a good or bad thing was to rage far longer than the storm itself, and probably cause as much damage to relationships as the storm had to properties.

  Father Gregory was drawing up a plan for the Community Fundraising Initiative on the back of one of the many envelopes Miss MacReady kept about her person.

  “We’ll need a committee,” she informed Marianne and Ryan as they approached.

  “Sorry, but we’re not here for very long,” Marianne replied, referring to herself and Monty. Miss MacReady raised an eyebrow, taking in the threesome. She was pleased the humans seemed to have settled their differences, as she fussed Monty in greeting.

  “That’s a shame, we could do with a couple like you around here, a bit of gumption goes a long way, and we’re going to need shedloads of it.” She gave Marianne one of her burning ‘do you think you could change your mind?’ looks.

  “Anything I can do to help while I’m here, count me in,” said Ryan, immediately taking a seat in the midst of things.

  “Oonagh?” Marianne asked. Padar indicated upwards. She told Monty to stay, and left to find the landlady sitting at a window, gazing down at the pub car park, filled with boats of all shapes and sizes, now aground on the shale.

  Marianne sat softly beside her.

  “How are things?”

  “Ah, alright, you know, not too bad.”

  “Everyone’s saying it could have been worse. Don’t think it could have for you. You never said anything.”

  “Ah, it was very early.” Oonagh wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.

  “Not the first time, though? You seemed to know the signs.”

  “No, the third. I just don’t think I can hold onto a baby, Marie. And it’s my fault, I’ve left it too late.” She was referring to age, having ran off to Dublin, as she put it, when Padar proposed to her as a teenager, only to return nearly twenty years later to find him unmarried, still waiting.

  “I’ve been so selfish. It’s not fair on him, on either of us. I don’t think I can bear to try again.”

  Marianne put her arms around her and hugged h
er tightly.

  “You will. You will try again and it’ll be fine, you’ll see. It wasn’t right that time, you’ll get another chance.”

  Voices were raised below in the bar.

  “It’ll be that Sean Grogan giving out again. He’s never happy unless he’s moaning.”

  “Come down and have a drink with myself and Ryan. Just one, then we’re off to do some work together this afternoon.”

  “Is that what they call it now?” teased Oonagh, pushing Marianne ahead of her down the stairs.

  Now flooded with sunshine, April Cottage was an absolute tip. Ryan had obviously been holed up like a hermit since his arrival on the island three weeks ago. Empty beer cans, whiskey bottles and dirty crockery littered every surface, a mismatch of shirts and jeans draped across chairs and hung from banisters. A table by the window was strewn with paper, the waste basket overflowing with screwed up pages of rejected script. A laptop lay abandoned on a fireside chair, a glass on top of it. He made no excuse for the mess. He put the bottle of whiskey he had purchased from Maguire’s on the mantelpiece, found a couple of relatively clean receptacles, poured them both a drink, and launched straight in.

  “Right, the next scene is actually on the set of the movie he’s making, Christophe the Highwayman knows he will be hanged, he has to escape the dungeon of Lord Rothermere, of course he’s in love with Rothermere’s daughter. This is where Fliss the photographer starts taking photos and notices Rory, my hero, has his lines written all over the place as a prompt. She starts taking photos of that. Can you see if you can get that thing working? I think it’s faulty.” Marianne found the charger for the laptop and the machine bleeped to life.

  “First things first, you light the fire, I’ll clear a space and see where we are up to. Are you putting this on a memory stick?” she said.

  “What’s a memory stick?”

  Marianne gave him a considered look; she had her work cut out. She pushed her spectacles further up her nose and began.

  They worked like Trojans straight through the afternoon and evening, writing and rewriting, acting out dialogue, cutting scenes and editing others. They teamed effortlessly, Ryan toasted sandwiches for supper, Marianne made tea and Monty tried to catch the balls of screwed up paper as they were tossed at regular intervals into the basket by the fire.

  They started work on the battle scene, which turns into a blazing row between Rory and Fliss.

  Monty was fed a tin of tuna, but could hardly eat, he was so distracted by Ryan’s dramatic leaps from stairs to sofa.

  Dawn broke as they were reading the final act.

  “Mean it, for god sake!” Ryan implored.

  Marianne repeated the lines, overacting dreadfully.

  “Okay, the movie is finished,” he said “and it really is the most dreadful load of old tosh. Rory is ready to give it all up and disappear into a bottle of bourbon. He watches the unedited film through his fingers, his hand clamped over his eyes, squirming with embarrassment. The camera cuts to Fliss on set, who is watching Rory and his leading lady in the final scene. She’s transfixed. He moves in for the kiss and unconsciously she lifts her mouth to be kissed too. He looks from the screen to the real Fliss, sitting in the movie theatre also watching the unedited film. He knows he wants to kiss her too. The penny drops, she is his leading lady and they have fallen head over heels in love. Realising this is a chance he cannot miss, he sees an embarrassed Fliss making for the exit, and hurdles the seats, flying down the stairs to stop her at the fire exit. Or should it be in front of the screen, so they kiss at the same time as the hero and heroine in the film?”

  “God, I hope he gets the girl in the end.” Marianne sat down on the floor beside Monty who curled up on her lap, exhausted.

  “Who?”

  “Rory, obviously, but we need another love interest for Fliss, someone she nearly goes for.”

  “You’re right, we need a twist. It can’t be same old, same old.”

  “That’s what the public wants, boys meets girl, boy nearly loses girl, boy gets girl in the end, although we do appeal to everyone with Christophe’s handsome sidekick and aide de camp, being precisely that!” She closed the laptop.

  “Indeed, nice touch, Miss Coltrane. Let’s sleep on it then and see what we come up with later.”

  Ryan was too late with his final direction. Marianne had left the desk and she and Monty were snuggled together, out for the count in front of the fire’s dying embers. He pulled the throw from the sofa and draped it over them, then turning to head upstairs to bed, changed his mind and joined the bundle on the rug. Nestled together in front of the fire, he too was asleep in a second.

  Marianne thought she was dreaming, having a nightmare, or both. She opened one eye slowly, there was a commotion; the room was full of people. She could see a smallish man with glasses, in a tweed coat, severely belted around the middle, and a tall, sandy-haired chap in a leather gilet and faded denims. Where was she, in a film? Then, as her eyes focused, she recognised Padar, in his sailing jacket, coughing loudly, as he closed the hall door behind him. She shook her head and attempted to sit up but she was pinned to the floor by a large, hairy arm and the entire body of a white, furry beast still asleep in her left armpit.

  “You have visitors,” called Padar, through the letterbox as he left.

  “Who would call at such an ungodly hour?” asked Ryan tetchily, in her right ear.

  “Only your agent.” The accent shot through the smoky atmosphere like a laser.

  “Heaven help us, is that who I think it is? It can’t be; he gets neuralgia, hypothermia and claustrophobia if he takes one step outside his office.” Ryan stirred, propping himself up on his elbows.

  “And I’m…remember me?” Larry’s companion shoved a hand at them. “Paul Osborne. The night of the bombing. I was on your table. Zara’s brother.”

  Ryan used Paul’s extended hand as a hoist.

  “Of course, Paul, and you’re with Larry. Strange bedfellows?”

  “I could say the same.”

  Ryan ignored Paul’s observation.

  “What brings you guys to this little island off the coast of nowhere, which has been pretty much inaccessible for days?” He scowled at Larry, who was already clearing plates and opening windows.

  “Go ahead, guess,” Larry called from the kitchen. Ryan hauled Marianne to her feet. Monty, dismayed that guests had arrived without his usual announcement, gave Paul a brief welcome and retreated under an armchair, abashed.

  Marianne, regaining her focus, started bombarding Paul with questions, convinced there was a very serious reason he had come all this way to find her.

  “What’s wrong? Why are you here? Are you okay? Is it Jack? What is it?”

  Paul looked vague and seemed more intrigued as to not where he had found her, but with whom.

  Larry returned with a tray, having unleashed himself from the constraints of the tweed. He had rolled up his shirt sleeves and perched his spectacles on his head. He pulled a tea towel out from under a cushion with a disgusted flourish as he busily collected abandoned crockery and glassware.

  “Okay, spill the beans, big boy.” Ryan was nonplussed. Larry ignored him.

  “And you are?” He turned a beaming smile on Marianne.

  “Forgive me. Marianne Coltrane, my co-writer, editor, known each other forever,” Ryan interjected. Larry arched an eyebrow.

  “How nice to meet you, Mari-anne.” He stretched her name out. “Surprised we haven’t met before? Now you, I could fall in love with!” Larry directed this comment at Monty, who tentatively poked his nose out from under the chair. “It might take a little time, but I’m worth the effort, believe me,” he told the canine, who at that particular point, remained unconvinced, “Do you have a shower?”

  Ryan nodded.

  “Then please use it. You two have obviously been working extremely hard but there’s no excuse for poor hygiene, surely?” He bustled away. “We need to talk Ryan”.

  “So do
we, Marianne,” Paul said quietly.

  “Well,” said Larry, returning with the vacuum, “let’s do supper in the pub later. That charming man said it’s only half an inch from the cottage, and we can all catch up properly.” And then he somehow managed to scoop up Paul, Marianne and Monty and deposit them outside in the porch. Marianne wrapped her jacket around herself against the wind, nodding goodbye to Ryan, who just shrugged and rolled his eyes. Paul slung his bag over his shoulder as Monty bowled on towards Weathervane.

  “Staying long?” Marianne ventured.

  “That’s entirely up to you.”

  Chapter Fifteen –

  Small Worlds

  The life-changing announcement that Ryan O’Gorman had landed one of the most iconic roles in movie history was initially greeted with stunned silence. Followed by a sharp intake of breath as Larry, incongruous in striped apron and yellow marigolds, had chosen to impart the news at the precise upsweep of his client’s razor.

  “Are you serious?” Ryan studied him through the mirror.

  “That’s why I’m here. Contracts need signing, schedules planning and the press conference, well it’s all gotta start rolling, and soon.”

  Ryan emerged from the steam, wiping soap from his throat with the tea towel Larry was holding.

  “Are you sure? No bullshit now, Larry. This isn’t a ploy to get me to toe the line, go back to the States and find myself playing an ageing Lothario in one of Lena’s God-awful mini-series, is it?” He sat down on the bed, the beginning of a paunch just evident.

  “No way, this is the real deal, and as you can

  imagine, Lena... er, I mean, we’ve, been going crazy trying to get hold of you. No-one knew where you were, what you were doing. I mean, you’ve taken off before but never for this long or this far. No message, no nothing.”

  “I dropped the cell phone in the sea.”

  “Good work.”

  “No signal here, anyway. I wrote though.”

  “Is that the envelope addressed to me sitting on the table under a pile of newspapers in the hallway?” Larry sighed. “Funny, never received it.”