The Hollow Heart (The Heartfelt Series)

by Adrienne Vaughan

  “You knew why I had to get away.”

  “Maybe, but this soul-searching ain’t good for a man of your age, it’s time to get back on track.” Larry gave Ryan’s torso a cursory nod. “And you’re drinking again.”

  “Hardly.”

  Larry started picking clothes off the floor.

  “You’re an actor, not a writer. Come back with me and be mind-blowingly brilliant at the one thing we know you’re good at. Be a writer when we’ve all made so much money, we won’t give a shit what you do!”

  “Thanks.”

  “Don’t you dare mess this up, you Irish halfwit. This is what we’ve all been working towards all these years. Everything’s riding on this.”

  “No pressure then.” Ryan started to dress. “How did you find me?”

  “Lena got a private eye on the job, didn’t take long to find out you took a flight from Dublin to Knock. Of course I made the Innishmahon connection; you always called it ‘your spiritual home.’”

  “I always told you too much!” Ryan said grumpily.

  “Jeez, I hoped you’d be pleased. The package is amazing. The part’s global. A minimum three-movie-deal with options, the film will be translated into a zillion languages – it will take you the best part of a year to do the pre-movie and post-movie promotional tour. There won’t be any city in any country on the planet where you won’t be recognised.”

  “Exactly!” Ryan combed his hair; he had become accustomed to the greying temples. “How long before I have to make a decision?”

  “What’s to decide?” Larry was beside himself.

  Ryan flashed him a look.

  “Okay, okay, I’ll see what I can do time-wise, but I have to tell you there’s an awful lot of pressure out there and Lena’s got her finger in the dam right now. It could blow any minute.”

  Ryan started gathering sheets of script from around the room, pointedly placing them in a neat pile by the bed.

  “Enough! Let’s go eat,” Larry acquiesced, pulling off the marigolds.

  The atmosphere, not five minutes away in Weathervane, was equally tense. Paul was using a game of tug of war with Monty as an excuse to avoid eye contact with Marianne.

  Marianne was hoping that her all-engrossing tea-making might give Paul enough time to decide which words to use and in which order to use them. She gave up.

  “How did you know where I was?” she asked.

  “I remembered your Aunt and Uncle in Dublin. I rang them, they said Innishmahon.”

  “You could just have phoned, no need to come all this way.” She indicated the ancient telephone on the table in the hallway.

  “I needed to see you.”

  “Obviously.”

  Silence.

  Marianne was saddened. When had things become so strained between them? They took their tea out to the garden. Marianne perched on what was left of the wall. An old pallet stood where the gate had been, to prevent Monty from wandering. Paul surveyed the devastation.

  “Of course,” he said, “the storm. Wow! Amazing. You were lucky. Everyone was, really.”

  She looked at him over her cup, raising her eyebrows.

  “Well, the thing is, I’m getting married.”

  “Congratulations, again.”

  “No, no, that’s not what I meant. I meant, well, it changes things.”

  “Of course.” She nodded, encouragingly.

  “Well, you know, the wedding, honeymoon, deposit for a house, that kind of thing.”

  “Paul, what is it? Do you need money? What?”

  “No. Well, yes. Well, anyway, I’ve written a book. It’s a series of articles, really, and I’ve sold it. Well, I’m about to sell it.”

  “You want me to edit it, is that it?”

  “Yes. Well, no, not now. But I wanted you to know.” He was turning a box of matches, repeatedly, between finger and thumb, the rattle of the wooden sticks inside the cardboard driving her to distraction.

  “What’s it about, the book? These articles?”

  He pushed the innards of the box too far and the matches spilled over the ground.

  “The ‘Power 2 The People’ Awards, the terrorist attack, the escape, rebuilding lives, you know, that sort of thing.”

  “Interesting. Well, I suppose your account would be as credible as anyone else’s.” She folded her arms. “There’s been some rubbish written, over-dramatised, sentimental tripe, a lot of it. What perspective?”

  “Just personal, my own account.”

  “I get a mention?”

  “Of course, but not much, not lots of detail about you, you wouldn’t want that.”

  “And Ryan, he gets a mention?”

  “Well, yes, sort of. Again, not loads.”

  “Fair enough, is that it then?”

  He avoided eye contact. Marianne took the cups into the kitchen.

  “I need to shower before we go and eat.”

  He stood in the doorway.

  “Not quite it,” he said. “I’ve been offered a new job. Your job, really.”

  “Really? Jack never…”

  “Jack’s off the scene. Sick leave. The new boys have moved in on the top floor. Big changes. I’ve a letter for you. I believe they’ve put you on garden leave.”

  She ignored the pale blue envelope he put on the table.

  “You believe? And the series of articles about the bombing? Is that part of your promotion package?”

  “Sort of.”

  “They didn’t waste any time.”

  “The newspaper’s losing a lot of money. They’re restructuring.”

  Marianne turned to look at him; she considered aliens had taken over her former colleague.

  “Like I said, I need a shower.” She left him retrieving the now-useless matches from the sodden grass.

  Oonagh had rallied, resplendent in a frilly yellow blouse and peacock blue eye shadow. She was almost as technicolour as Miss MacReady, who wore a scarlet and purple gown; layers of tulle swirling around her knees, and American tan tights, teamed with a sensible pair of brogues, it was a wet old night, after all. The Donegal tweed cap, slapped on the back of her head, matched Larry Leeson’s coat, perfectly.

  “Perhaps you’d like to make me an offer?” Miss MacReady asked clipping and unclipping huge hoop earrings to her lobe, flirtatiously.

  “One you can’t refuse?” joked Larry.

  “God, who could refuse that accent?” She pushed her empty glass into his hand, as she swished off to the ladies.

  The pub was fairly full and there was a buzz to it. Quite a few people had taken the first ferry back to the island that morning to seek out relatives and friends, and to gauge the impact of the storm on the small community. There was a general sense of relief, things could have been a lot worse and, at times, the mood was bordering on celebratory, especially as no loss of human life had been recorded. And yet a tangible air of gloom seemed to hang over one particular table.

  “Alright here, are we?” Oonagh could see this was far from the case. Miss MacReady had given Oonagh every detail of the telephone conversation with her sister earlier that day, the sister who owned the bed and breakfast on the mainland and who had in turn recounted Larry and Paul’s sojourn at her guesthouse. Oonagh was intrigued. Marianne did the introductions.

  “Isn’t it great that you all found one another?” said Oonagh. “I mean, you coming all the way from England and America, looking for the other two.” She indicated Ryan and Marianne. “And you two here, and didn’t know each other were here at all. Even though you knew each other, if you see what I mean?” She served grilled fish and fresh salad. The ferry had brought supplies and the fish had been caught that morning. “Imagine that. What a coincidence?”

  “Sure is,” Larry agreed, “small world.”

  “And it’s about to get even smaller,” Ryan mumbled under his breath.

  Marianne surmised his news had been as disturbing as hers.

  The conversation during the meal started off innocu
ously enough. Marianne assured Larry she and Ryan had not planned to meet up on the island, despite how it looked. Ryan quizzed Paul about his book, until he asked why he had come all the way to Innishmahon to effectively tell his boss he was taking her job. Paul was put out.

  “Well, that’s what it sounds like to me.” Ryan had barely touched his food, and was on his fourth glass of wine.

  “It’s not really Marianne’s job,” said Paul, “the column needs more of a high profile, celebrity focus. With Jack retired and Marianne on unauthorised sabbatical, the new directors had no choice.”

  “I think you’ll find Jack authorised my sabbatical,” Marianne said quietly.

  “No Jack, no authority.” Paul looked at the table.

  “What will you do?” Ryan asked Marianne.

  “Not sure. It’s probably time for a change anyway.” She had not eaten very much either.

  “Well, be cautious, Paul, if you have decided to take on the mantle of a celebrity-gossip column reporter, any I have ever known – and I’ve known a few – were both reviled and adored at the same time,” warned Larry, busily piling Ryan’s abandoned potatoes onto his plate.

  “That’s good advice, Paul. You’d have few friends and many enemies.” Ryan looked him in the eye.

  “But plenty of money,” Paul tried to make a joke of it, “I have a supermodel fiancé, who is – how do you say? High maintenance.”

  Marianne put her glass down. “Not the nurse?”

  “Times change,” Paul offered.

  “Ah, why didn’t you say? I know what that’s like.” Ryan sounded bitter.

  “And what of you, and the new role? Fantastic news! You’ll be an instant superstar!” said Paul. Larry beamed with pride.

  “Yeah, just when I thought I’d missed the boat.” Ryan was unenthusiastic.

  “I don’t know, you rescue us from a bomb attack, save this island from disaster and now you’re off to be a superhero – life imitating fiction!”

  Ryan leaned across the table and gripped Paul’s hand as it held his fork.

  “That’s all absolute bullshit and you know it. If I ever discover you’ve written anything so crass, I will find you and rip your heart out, Zara’s brother, or not.” And releasing his hand, he gave Paul his most dazzling smile. “It’s people like you, who make people like me, want to go and live down a hole or, sometimes, even blow our brains out.”

  Paul was ashen. Marianne squeezed Ryan’s hand. She knew he was referring to one of his oldest friends, an acclaimed Shakespearean actor, who, in the 1980s, following a scandal revealing his, up to then, secret homosexuality, had shot himself.

  “Hey, don’t tar us all with the same brush,” Paul said weakly.

  Ryan blinked, remembering where he was. He gave the lopsided grin he saved for apologies.

  “I think we could all do with an early night,” announced Larry.

  “Why? When have we got to go back?” Ryan asked.

  “First thing in the morning, the sooner we get this show on the road, the better.”

  “Oh.” Marianne and Ryan said together.

  The couple on the beach with the white dog matched each other stride for stride as they strolled along the shoreline. The waves, the final breath of breakers out to sea, merely shushed towards their feet. Monty trotted in the wet sand beside them, nose in the air, studiously ignoring the playful call of the ripples at his paws. He sniffed upwards. The wind was changing.

  She viewed Ryan, sideways, the bluish grey of the sea reflected in his eyes, as the breeze lifted the hair from his brow. He was frowning, he was also clean-shaven, freshly showered and smartly turned out. Casually elegant, she would have said, if she were writing a piece. Designer jeans, classic deck shoes, mushroom-coloured nubuck jacket, pale blue chambray shirt, ready for the city, but still a little at sea.

  His mouth let him down, the lips pulled taut in a thin, purple line, no movie star smile today. He shoved his hands deeper into his pockets. She nudged him hard, knocking him off balance. The purple line collapsed and a smile broke free.

  “God, it can’t be that bad. It’s amazing news really. It means everything, surely?” She poked him. “I’m thrilled for you, I really am, you deserve this success and you’ll be great in the role.”

  He smiled and gave a little shrug.

  “It’s been one hell of a long apprenticeship and, don’t get me wrong, I know I’ll probably never win an Oscar, and besides...” he bent down and pointed at the top of his head, “how long do you think I’m going to hold onto my hair?”

  She started to laugh. He pointed at his scalp again.

  “Come on, how long? Serious question,” he was smiling, not a serious question at all.

  “I don’t know. But can’t they do weaves and transplants and all sorts of things these days?”

  “They can, but that’s just so much bullshit. I hate that about this business, a hairpiece here, a tuck there, and then a complete new body and your own mother wouldn’t recognise you.”

  “Surely you exaggerate?”

  “No way, that’s why I’ve agreed a three-year deal, and I’m out. I’ll do something else, something where I can be me, just me, how and with whom I want.” He stepped forward and wrapped her in his arms. “With the woman of my dreams. The love of my life.” He gave her a sideways look.

  Marianne turned away, embarrassed. He released her.

  “What utter bollocks!” She laughed, the wind whipping her hair and making her jacket flap. She skipped ahead of him. Monty took her cue and joined in the jig. Ryan strolled on.

  “It’s not the end, you know, the end of our screenplay. In fact, it’s even better if I am a world famous movie star, because they’ll make the film of my script even if it’s shite.”

  She stopped and faced him.

  “You wouldn’t want them to make shite. Not with your name on it. It’s not shite anyway. I’ll make sure of that.”

  He was laughing now, hands on hips, the surf rising as he laughed out to sea.

  “We’ll see,” he told the ocean.

  They walked on towards the opening in the cliff that led to the cove. He put his hand out to shake hers and, as she took it, she leaned forward to kiss him goodbye. She somehow missed his cheek and caught his nose with her front teeth. He jumped back. She dropped his hand. Monty leapt up to lick his fingers. Ryan tried to pat him down with the other hand, caught it in the hood of Marianne’s sailing jacket and, tripping over a rock, took them all with him as he fell, hitting the sand with a thud, writhing on the beach, in a pile of smart clothing, old sailing gear and white dog hair.

  That weird crowd carrying on again, Sean Grogan thought to himself, from his usual vantage point.

  Ryan clambered free and pulled her upright.

  “For god’s sake woman, there is always some sort of disaster underway when you are around.” They brushed sand off each other. “Larry will kill me if I get messed up. The image, you know, smooth and sophisticated from now on.”

  “I know.” She smoothed his hair back. “It is only an image though, remember? Keep it like that, and you’ll be fine.”

  He caught her hand and kissed her wrist.

  “Thank you,” he said into her skin.

  Pat MacReady’s taxi pulled into the lay-by above them on the road. The ferry was waiting to leave. The horn sounded and Larry appeared, making hurry-up gestures with his arms. Paul was already in the taxi, he had spent the night in the pub, managing to avoid Marianne, completely.

  “I’ll call you,” said Ryan. “We’ll meet up, get the script finished, we can do that, can’t we?”

  “Of course, love to. Now go, before Larry gives himself a hernia and has to be airlifted to hospital.”

  “Goodbye, fair maid, until we meet again.” He put his fist to his heart, in salute, and strode dramatically away.

  “Er, Ryan?” She called after him. He turned. She was pointing at his head.

  “Looks like it’s starting to go already,” she said
, patting her crown. His hand flew to his hair.

  “Feck!” he said, running towards the car, “no time to lose then. I would have liked longer,” he called back, heading towards what looked like a demented dancing earwig in the distance.

  “Me too,” she shouted, but the wind took her words away.

  Monty sat down at her feet and watched him go; Ryan waving through an open window as the car sped away. He busied himself with some seaweed and, finding a stick of driftwood, took it to his mistress for a game of throw and fetch. She lobbed it half-heartedly into the water. He lunged in to fetch it and charged back to her, tail wagging, but she had turned away and was making for home. He dropped the stick and, giving himself a good shake, headed after her. The wind had quickly turned quite bitter.

  Chapter Sixteen –

  Light At The End Of The Tunnel

  The period following the storm was a strange time to be cast adrift on the island with its inhabitants. Although still an outsider, Marianne felt her survival of the disaster and the role she played in the rescue operation, had given her some standing in the community. She and Monty were a regular sighting on the beach, in the village, in the pub, and popular with everyone. Well, nearly everyone.

  Marianne embraced this new sense of belonging, it filled a hollow, a dull emptiness she had been vaguely aware of since George had died and, was even more acute, since Ryan had left the island. She joined teams of residents helping to dry out the cottages of those less fortunate; she took her rota as one of the Handy Hot Meal Crew, Oonagh’s brigade of cooks, preparing wholesome meals for those without a kitchen. She also found herself behind the bar, doing regular afternoon shifts while Padar took a nap and Oonagh prepped the evening menu.

  Padar had assumed a daily check-run of all the elderly in the village who had been able to return to their homes. With power still intermittent, he made sure they had paraffin for heaters or peat for the fire to boil a kettle. A few were in a sorry state, but would not hear of taking up residence in the community hall with those whose homes had been destroyed, terrified that if they left again they would never return. Marianne thrived on the busyness, filling every minute of the day supporting the community, then falling each night into an exhausted dreamless sleep with Monty snuggled at her feet.