The Hollow Heart (The Heartfelt Series)

by Adrienne Vaughan

  Padar was unpacking boxes of peanuts when Marianne arrived in for a pint and a chat, having enjoyed a long walk with Monty.

  “Peanuts? We haven’t had those for a while,” she said.

  “Thank God supplies are beginning to filter through, but it’s a slow business. Small wonder though, with the storm hitting a thirty mile stretch of coastline and so many other towns and villages ravaged, a little community like ours can’t be considered a priority,” Padar mused. “I don’t know how we’re going to survive without the bridge.”

  “I know how we’re going to survive. We’re going to rebuild that bridge,” cried Miss MacReady, as she sailed through the door. “We need publicity to get things done. Sure we’d be easily forgotten, flung all the way out here in the sea.”

  Miss MacReady and Father Gregory had already had an in-depth discussion about people’s pensions. Many of the elderly honoured the age-old Irish tradition of stashing money under the mattress and, with mattresses and slush funds literally washed away, pecuniary considerations were a further worry for his flock.

  “You’re dead right, Miss MacReady. Sure, our lives have been transformed over the past decade by the new bridge and the upsurge in the tourist trade, we should not be prepared to accept any inertia; we’ve already managed to attract the attention of national telly, we need to keep the pressure on.” Father Gregory was eyeing a clipboard. It all looked very official. Padar and Marianne were intrigued.

  Immediately after the storm, their efforts to keep the media interested in the island, paid dividends. Marianne had given a follow-up report via the video-link, ingeniously hooked up by Miss MacReady, and once the danger had subsided, a reporter and cameraman arrived by boat to carry out a series of interviews. With Marianne as acting editor, they made sure the news team focused on areas where the community needed urgent action and, between them, managed to keep the national spotlight well and truly on the villagers’ plight.

  That very day, the full power supply to Innishmahon was reinstated. The whole town breathed a huge sigh of relief, things were slowly returning to normal. There literally was light at the end of the tunnel. The return of electricity though, only ignited the debate surrounding the reinstatement of the bridge to the mainland.

  Unconfirmed estimates for the repair of the damage, ranged from ten million to twenty-five million euro. Innishmahon’s local councillor, Bryan Crosbie, who had been at his holiday home in the Canaries throughout most of the crisis, realised this was a vote-winning scenario and busied himself with public meetings and local consultations. Miss MacReady was unimpressed, whether he was for or against the rebuilding of the bridge, depended on who he had been speaking to immediately prior to his opinion being sought.

  “We need a committee, a campaign,” Miss MacReady said to Father Gregory, who was already writing a list of names on his clipboard. Marianne and Monty finished their drinks and slipped quietly away.

  “What do you think, Marianne, as an outsider?” Oonagh asked her friend, as she watched her pack her bags to leave the following day. “Bridge or no bridge?” Marianne was shocked by the comment, she did not feel like an outsider, her six week stay had been so full of drama, and she had become so close to people in such a short time, that she felt she belonged.

  “I don’t think the bridge made Innishmahon any less charming or desirable a place to visit. The twenty-first century will find you anywhere, there’s no point in doing a King Canute. Though I can understand people wanting any funding to be spent on other things they consider more important. The storm was a disaster on a grand scale, Oonagh. The sums required are colossal. No Government will have that sort of revenue in reserve, it will have to be borrowed and essentials paid for first. It could take years to re-establish the bridge, even if it were decided that’s what’s to be done. You might get used to not having it, mightn’t want it back.”

  She watched Oonagh thinking this through.

  “No, we’d be too dependent on the weather for the ferries bringing visitors and supplies. If the sea is rough, they don’t come. We’re too used to having things handy. Mine and Padar’s fathers fought long and hard to get that bridge built.”

  Marianne remembered the picture of the men in their Sunday best, laying the ceremonial foundation stone. It hung in pride of place, over the bar.

  “We need the bridge back for business. Padar says the romantic notion of the island community unconnected to the mainland is a load of ole bollocks.”

  Marianne smiled. Padar had a point, he was at the sharp end and, in today’s economic climate, how could Innishmahon survive if it were not a thriving, tourist destination?

  “Talking of romance,” Oonagh patted the bed beside her for Marianne to sit.

  “Any word of himself at all?”

  “Who?”

  “Ah go and shite, who? You know who. The film star, that’s who.”

  “No.” Marianne ignored the offer of a seat and busied herself in the bathroom, throwing creams and lotions into her toilet bag. “Didn’t expect to. Don’t expect to.”

  “Really?” Oonagh was incredulous, “Miss him though, don’t you?”

  No response.

  “Sure that’s why you’ve been running around like a thing possessed helping everyone, and doing masses to keep your mind off him and fill the hole he left in your heart.”

  The chestnut head popped back into the bedroom, she flashed her friend a look.

  “Is it? Is that what I’ve been doing?”

  “Isn’t it?” Oonagh’s eyes met Marianne’s full on.

  They say fortune favours the brave and this was certainly true for Paul Osborne, aspiring biographer. It was Mary, from the local supermarket, who spotted the story in the English Sunday newspaper first, and mentioned it to Miss MacReady, who had called in for a tin of tobacco and some ‘skins’, as she called cigarette paper. Miss MacReady swung by the pub, to be nodded on to Weathervane, by Padar.

  Monty greeted her enthusiastically. Miss MacReady was always a heady concoction for the canine’s sensitive nose. She picked him up, rubbing her chin between his ears as she carried him upstairs, following voices coming from the bedroom.

  “Your friend didn’t waste much time,” she announced, dropping the Sunday Globe on the bed beside Oonagh, “the real life drama of an all-action hero, I ask you?”

  Marianne picked the newspaper up, a huge photograph of Ryan covered nearly half the page. He was resplendent in a white tuxedo, perfectly styled hair, lightly tanned skin, slightly arrogant chin tilted at the camera, his super-sleuth scowl captured perfectly, glinting out from the page, revolver in hand, aiming straight at her. The article, a mere couple of paragraphs, announced the Irish actor’s new role as the leading man in one of the world’s most popular film series. He was to step into the shoes of a huge star, who had bowed out gracefully after making the role his own over many years. Ryan had beaten off tough competition for the part and was preparing to start filming at an undisclosed Indian Ocean location that month.

  Miss MacReady pointed further down the page, “Read that bit. Not a mention of that while he was here.”

  Marianne read out loud, “Ryan’s long-time girlfriend, American actress, Angelique de Marcos, had an announcement of her own this week; she is pregnant with the actor’s second child. Ryan, who has a grown-up son from a previous relationship said: “It certainly has been an amazing year so far. This latest news has made everything just perfect.” Ryan and Angelique were survivors of the ‘Power 2 The People’ bombing attack in London last year.” Her voice trailed off to a whisper, she gave the paper to Oonagh, letting her hands fall to her lap.

  “And then it advertises Paul Osborne’s series of articles, starting next week. Excerpts from his, no doubt, hastily completed book,” said Oonagh, reading on. “I hope he’s cleared it with Ryan’s agent, the Larry fella, or there’ll be hell to pay.”

  “You’re very up on all this Hollywood stuff, Oonagh,” Marianne said quietly, picking at a fingernail.
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  “Huge fan. Addicted, Padar says. All the mags, online stuff, love it. Sure anyone’d need an escape from this place.”

  “Wasn’t Paul what’s-his-name at the Awards with ye all too?” asked Miss MacReady.

  “Yes, Paul and I took Larry’s place at the table. We were all together.” Marianne sounded distracted.

  “Paul’s sister is married to Ryan’s son. That’s the connection,” Oonagh confirmed.

  “So, he’ll have insider knowledge then, having the family connection, know all about it, so,” said Miss MacReady.

  “Not necessarily.” Oonagh was authoritative. “Ryan was only twenty when Mike was born. Mike was brought up by his mother, an American, in the theatre. He and Ryan only met up again about ten years ago. But that Angelique one, she’s a real piece of work, I’m led to believe. Still, the book will be a bestseller no doubt and rattle a few cages, official or no. Don’t you think, Marie?”

  “And how do you know so much about it all?” asked Miss MacReady, expertly rolling them each a cigarette, whether they smoked or not.

  “Research,” said Oonagh emphatically. The others were intrigued. “You know I take all the celebrity magazines every week – never miss an issue. Then there’s all the online stuff, blogs and things.”

  “Pure tosh, Oonagh Quinn,” barked Miss MacReady as she lit up.

  “What do you think, Marie? Are you disappointed?” Oonagh looked into Marianne’s face.

  “Not really. Paul told me he’d written the articles and was turning them into a book. I suppose running into Larry, and what with Ryan’s new role, it would make sense to publish now.”

  “She didn’t mean about the book,” Miss MacReady inhaled languidly.

  “Miss MacReady, you’re as bad as Oonagh. There’s nothing between Ryan and me. I’m delighted for him, all of them. Perfect timing, I’d say.”

  “Good timing for all concerned.” Oonagh was re-reading the article. “Especially for Angelique, put her right back in the spotlight, hasn’t it?”

  “And a baby, sure a baby changes everything,” Miss MacReady was wistful, blowing smoke rings over the bed.

  “If it’s his.” Oonagh waved the smoke away. “The Angelique-one is a bit of a girl, so they say.”

  “Were you close?” Miss MacReady asked gently.

  “Yes, we were,” Marianne answered, not really sure who she was talking about. Then she grabbed her bag and started downstairs, Monty hot on her heels.

  “Come on. It’s my last day let’s have a drink together at least.”

  The two women jostled at the doorway.

  “Age before beauty,” Miss MacReady pushed ahead, puffing like a train down the stairwell.

  “You shouldn’t smoke in the holiday cottages, Miss MacReady. What about the visitors?” Oonagh coughed.

  “What fecking visitors?” The older woman replied.

  They piled down the stairs and out into the lane.

  Chapter Seventeen –

  The Honeytrap

  Marianne gazed through the French doors of the garden room at seventy four Oakwood Avenue. The preened Chesterford landscape was in sharp contrast set against the wild, unfettered hinterland of Innishmahon. The room, which was meant to open the house to the changing seasons, only seemed to reinforce her claustrophobia. Beyond the boundary of the oak tree, Georgian railings blended into Victorian terraced houses, which faded in the distance like rows of uniformed soldiers. She had always loved Oakwood Avenue, the garden and the tree lined cul-de-sac, but now it looked bland, uninteresting, somehow it disappointed her.

  Clipping his lead on distractedly, she took Monty on their daily constitutional to the park. The weather was unseasonably mild for December. Marianne sat on a bench, re-reading the letter suspending her from duty while the Board decided whether she had broken the terms of her contract by taking six weeks consecutive leave. It was a vacuous ploy to be rid of her.

  She grumbled under her breath, she had never been a day out of work since leaving college, and although it had not been a conscious decision, she could certainly be called ‘a career girl’, even if that definition just meant a female without the demands and needs of a family to impact on her professional life. She was, as her CV stated, diligent and loyal; creative yet practical; willing to learn from those who were more experienced and a fine example to up and coming professionals. How dare they?

  “I don’t deserve this.” She stood up abruptly, beckoning Monty to abandon the rear of a friendly spaniel, and follow her homewards, as she waggled her disabled mobile in the air. She dropped the phone on the hall table and grabbed the landline to dial Jack’s number. Isabelle answered.

  “Oh, Marie, it’s so lovely to hear you. We’ve been worried. Are you alright?”

  Marianne assured her all was well and asked to speak to Jack. Isabelle hesitated.

  “You’d better come and see him yourself. He’s not the best.”

  “Not ill, is he?”

  “No, not ill. No more so than he has been these past years. Just not the best. Not himself, but even more himself, you’ll see what I mean.”

  Marianne caught Isabelle’s anxiety.

  “Come and eat with us. Come at seven.”

  Marianne went to hang up.

  “Is it just yourself coming?”

  “Monty’s free too,” Marianne replied, lightening the tone.

  “That’s good. Just yourself and Monty, then.” Isabelle hung up quickly.

  Jack was clearly depressed, morose, grouchy and more crotchety than ever. He barely rose out of his armchair as Marianne entered, looking briefly up from his glass with liverish eyes. He had a tartan picnic rug around his knees. Monty saw this as an invitation and pushed his nose at his legs, asking to be allowed onto his lap. Jack acquiesced, giving the dog a cursory stroke. Sensing a brief respite in Jack’s demeanour, Monty settled quickly. Isabelle sighed. It was the kindest Jack had been to any living thing for months.

  “Hi Jack, how’s things? Can’t say I’m that thrilled to be back.” Marianne knelt down beside his chair.

  Jack seemed to have forgotten Marianne had been away in Ireland for a month and a half. He eyed her suspiciously.

  “Well, I’m not really back, as you know. They’ve suspended me,” she continued.

  He looked straight at her, as if to check if she was lying.

  “What? What the hell is going on there? Do you need a lawyer? Isabelle fetch me my contacts book.” He twisted in his chair, looking for the telephone.

  Marianne took his hands in hers.

  “No, no, Jack, I’m fine. I’ll sort it out. They’re in the wrong, don’t you worry about it.”

  He took a deep breath and seemed to calm a bit, momentarily looking off into the distance.

  “How are you Jack?” she asked softly.

  “Furious. Fucking furious, if you want to know. I’ve been shown the door by a piddling pipsqueak no bigger than this fella and with none of his intelligence.”

  Monty, now squashed on his lap seemed unable to decide if this was a good, or a bad thing, so just eyed Jack cautiously.

  “It’s up to me to decide when I stop. Not them, faceless bastards on the top floor. Couldn’t manage a piss-up in a brewery, as we well know. No hope managing a newspaper. And what are you doing? Why have you been so backwards in coming forwards? Up to no good, I’ll be bound.”

  “Marianne’s been away, Jack. You know that.” Isabelle and Marianne exchanged a look. Jack glared at them both.

  “I was just telling you, I’ve been suspended, something about my contract. Didn’t know I had one, did you?” Marianne smiled.

  Jack grunted.

  “Didn’t know I had a retirement plan until they told me. Now I’m living it.”

  “But we’ll not want for anything,” Isabelle called from the kitchen.

  “Not the blidy point; blidy dictatorship.” Jack drained his glass.

  “Paul’s written a book.” Marianne tried to change the subject.

>   “So I believe. Shame he wouldn’t put pen to paper when I asked him to, asked you both to, we might still be in work if you had. Could have sold the world rights for a decent series of articles - an inside take on the bombing. Might have saved our bacon, but no, too highly principled for that, too sensitive, too bullshit. Made me look foolish, weak. I can’t even get a decent story out of my own team, who were there on the night. Really helped circulation, that did!”

  “Jack, it wasn’t like that. Not meant anyway.”

  “It blidy well was like that. Nail in my coffin. And now he’s nailed yours. Blidy disgrace.”

  Isabelle came into the sitting room, making soothing gestures.

  “Ah, stop woman,” Jack barked, handing her his glass to refill, “you know it’s the truth. Betrayed by two of my own. And now the Irish story, don’t suppose you’re going to write that one either?”

  “What’s to write? I was on holiday. There was a storm. Plenty of reports on TV, you must have seen them.”

  “There’s more to tell,” Jack replied. “More to tell in a different way, there always is.”

  “Maybe, but not right now.”

  “Humph,” Jack replied, taking a long swig, which seemed to soothe him.

  “Anyway, I thought you’d be happy to retire. Hand over. You were always saying you’d had enough. I could have your job if only I was half as good as you, but I wasn’t, you were always saying that.”

  “True.” He patted Marianne’s hand, relenting. “But in my own time, not dancing to their tune. Suits and calculators, I ask ye? And they’ve even chucked you out, and you’re a shining star, that’s what you are, well, on and off, anyway.” They chuckled together, then Jack gripped her hand. “You better get something else straight in your head. That lad’s ambitious and he’s changed. He’s ambitious and he’s angry. I don’t know why, and I don’t know what about. But he’s a blue-eyed boy with the new regime and they don’t take any prisoners. None of us will escape, you mark my words.”

  “Now, now Jack. Come and eat some supper,” Isabelle pleaded.