“You watch, there’ll be the book about the bombing – the inside story; then the storm in Ireland, all featuring this newly world-famous movie star, who is supposedly more of a hero off screen than he is on. Paul will make a fortune for himself, when he should’ve made it for the paper, he’ll toss the likes of us aside in his stampede to become a global media magnate. Ye gods!” He pushed Monty off his lap and hauled himself up out of the chair, shuffling towards the door in carpet slippers.
“Jack... Supper!” Isabelle insisted.
“And what about the latest rumour? The notion that the movie star, has a love interest in Ireland, while his girlfriend back in Hollywood struggles with a difficult pregnancy. Who started that I wonder? What happened to news, decent features, integrity?”
“What?” Marianne too was on her feet.
“Jack! Supper!” Isabelle called.
“I need a lie down. Goodnight Marie.” He closed the door behind him.
Marianne turned wide-eyed to Isabelle.
“More like himself than he ever was? I see what you mean.”
The women ate in silence.
Isabelle was washing up, Marianne drying, and Monty gnawing the bone of the chop that would have been Jack’s.
“He’s too much time on his hands, looking at daytime telly and surfing the internet, usually both at the same time. He feels he has every right to be angry,” Isabelle spoke quietly, “he feels betrayed.”
“I can see that,” Marianne was putting cutlery away.
“You and Paul were once so close. Did you know about any of this?”
“No way.” Marianne let the knives clatter into the drawer. “He came to tell me about the articles, the book, but not to ask permission. He seemed to want me to hear it from him. But that was all. The deal was struck. Paul told me I’d been suspended and Jack was ‘off the scene’ as he put it.”
“So he is just looking out for himself, making a fast buck, a name for himself.”
“He said he needed the money, getting married and all.”
“Really? I’d heard he’d called it off. He’s running around with a new bit of fluff these days, a model or some such,” Isabelle said, as she released the plug and let the water gurgle away.
“I think he’s planning to marry the model now. You can’t blame a young man hankering after the lifestyle.”
Isabelle shrugged.
“When did he tell you about the book?”
“In Ireland.”
“He came to Ireland then? Did he stay long?”
“No, it was after the storm had hit, we’d been cut off, he came by boat. No he didn’t stay long.”
“Last ditch attempt to woo you back?”
“We’ve only ever been friends, Isabelle, whatever others and indeed Paul might have thought. He was a bit strange, though. It was an odd time, for all of us.”
“All of us?” Isabelle asked, intrigued.
“Is that the time? I’d better get a move on. Not even unpacked properly yet and Monty needs a walk.”
Isabelle went to fetch Marianne’s coat.
“Was it Innishmahon, you stayed? The island that was cut off?”
“Er, yes, lots of places were cut off. It made a mess of a thirty mile stretch of the coast.”
“It said in one of Paul’s articles about the movie star’s early days, how he’d spent many summers there, on the island. I’m sure it was that island.”
“Really? Nice place, though.”
Isabelle wiped down the draining board, then stood looking out of the window, holding onto the side of the sink.
“Marie, be careful. I don’t mind about the newspaper, Global Communications, or even Paul Osborne making money from a little bit of fact and a lot of fiction. But a broken heart? That’s a much bigger issue. You can’t see the damage, or feel the pain – but it’s still excruciating, you should know, you’ve been through it before.” She touched Marianne’s shoulder in parting. “And a heart broken in public view is even harder to bear. I know, I’m living with it every day. Jack thinks the whole world is laughing at him. I don’t know which is crueller, letting him go on thinking that or telling him the truth, that no-one really gives a damn.”
Marianne left the Buchannans with a heavy heart and an even heavier stomach. Isabelle really was the most awful cook. Monty, on the other hand, considered Isabelle’s culinary skills exemplary, everything swimming in grease and always generous leftovers congealing gently in cling film for him to consume later. Back at Oakwood Avenue, once he had devoured Isabelle’s treats, Monty sloped off to bed while his mistress pulled things out of bags, pushing them into drawers before slamming the door of George’s study, to engage in a lengthy discourse with his paperweight.
Half the week had gone by the time Marianne had dealt with the washing, a pile of post and a dodgy boiler. She was about to go out of her mind with boredom, when both Oonagh and Miss MacReady emailed.
Oonagh brought news that plans to reinstate the bridge had been agreed at the Parish Council Meeting. And news of her own, she and Padar were going to try IVF. They knew it was risky and expensive, but it was worth a chance, their final chance. If the storm had done anything positive, it had made them realise that they wanted a family more than anything. She asked Marianne to say a prayer and in the same sentence, asked if she had heard from the film star, because the latest online blog said filming was going well but that his personal life was not. His agent, Lena Leeson – not that Larry fella at all – had commented that Ryan wanted to be left alone to concentrate on his work. There had been no recent mention of the girlfriend or the supposed pregnancy! What did Marianne make of that?
Marianne laughed out loud. Oonagh wrote exactly as she spoke, and it amused her to think that this woman, living on a remote island off the west coast of Ireland, could be so bewitched by an industry operating from a town halfway round the world. She was pleased about the IVF treatment. The Quinns’ disappointment, following Oonagh’s miscarriage, had been heart-rending. Marianne said a quick Hail Mary for a happy outcome as she opened the postmistress’s email.
News of the battle for the Innishmahon bridge, as Miss MacReady referred to the now monumental debate, was also positive. Miss MacReady agreed with Padar and the other business people on the island, the bridge needed to be rebuilt, but with so much widespread devastation following the storm, it would be hard to justify such enormous non-urgent expenditure for the benefit of just one small community.
Miss MacReady wondered if Marianne could think of anything that might help the cause. Since she had looked her up on Google and saw she was a bit of a campaigner herself, she thought the website reuniting mothers with babies stolen in the charity scam, was brilliant. Could Marianne do the same for Innishmahon?
Marianne made coffee and pondered. She had more than the plight of the Innishmahon villagers on her mind, she had to decide what she was going to do with her own career. Were bridges to be built there, or left abandoned and a new direction taken? It was a strange feeling, this time on her hands. She felt becalmed, the internal wind that whipped her up and drove her on had dropped. She felt as if she never had time to think things through, always acting on instinct, taking a chance, hoping that wherever she ended up was where she was meant to be. Now all was quiet, the whistling in her ears silent, the whirring in her head stilled.
“It’s quite liberating, you know,” she told Monty as he followed her out of the kitchen into the study, “this thinking time.”
She absent-mindedly picked up her mobile, checked it had charged, and flipped it on. There were two new answer phone messages, the first from Jack, half-heartedly apologising for his behaviour the previous evening.
“Sorry, Marie. Isabelle says I came across as rude, didn’t mean to. Not in the best form. Come over and see us again soon. It’s Jack, by the way.” As if the gravelly tones could be anyone else.
“To listen to your next new message, press one.”
“Hello, this is a message for Ma
rianne Coltrane. Ryan O’Gorman’s PA, Lisa here. I’m trying to organise an update re. the script you’re editing for Mr O’Gorman. He’s in the UK next week. Could you possibly call me back with your availability and we’ll fix something up? Thanks.”
Marianne nearly dropped the phone.
It was one of those freak snowstorms which often appear in the middle of a mild stretch, warning of severity to come, a flash of frost and ice and shivering. The earth suddenly covered in a hurried blanket of white, the whole landscape, a confusing blur of softness and silence, holding the world suspended in a brief winter wonderland, a fabulous tease of the highest order, and quite beautiful. Marianne marvelled as the humongous false-eyelash snowflakes threw themselves on the windscreen of the car, blinking flirtatiously before melting clean away.
She had no clue where she was going, and trusted the newly purchased SatNav implicitly. All she had picked up from the Internet was that she was heading for a small, yet fabulous, country house hotel called Meredith Lodge. Not far from Newbury, in Royal Berkshire; it had been the hunting lodge of a Tudor prince who had gifted it to his mistress on his untimely death.
Lisa confirmed the date and time in a voicemail: ‘Please arrive dressed for dinner, this will be a two-day editorial summit, all expenses will be taken care of, after dinner on the first evening, relaxed and informal work wear will suffice. Ask for Mr Pickering’s suite, he will look after you.’
That was it. Nothing in writing. In fact, no further instruction at all. No mention of Ryan. Would he even be there? As Marianne drove, she became aware of a gnawing in the pit of her stomach, a strange fluttering, a touch of anxiety and the merest smidgen of fear. She could feel it building quite nicely, higher and higher it broiled inside her. What was it called now? Ah, there it is – excitement! What a glorious feeling you are, she told her tingling fingertips as she swung into the swirling, white oblivion that was the car park of Meredith Lodge.
Lamps burning either side of the studded oak doorway beckoned her through the blizzard, and if she had looked up from beneath the hood of her voluminous velvet coat, she would have seen, through the golden glow of a leaded upstairs bay, a figure standing perfectly still, a glass of amber liquid in hand, as he scowled the snow-covered driveway for her arrival.
The liveried porter rushed out to take her bag and escort her in, and as the door closed behind her, the figure in the window stood back, putting his glass down and breathing a small sigh of relief. He clasped his hands together, his fingers too were tingling and, though he had meticulously set this honeytrap of seduction, scene by scene, he was trembling with anxiety and as nervous as a schoolboy. Ryan O’Gorman took the handkerchief from his dinner jacket pocket, and dabbed his upper lip. His armpits were prickling. He went to knock the whiskey straight back but the door opened behind him and he froze, staring out across the glittering snowstorm, desperately trying to think of something cool and witty to say.
Marianne had taken the sweep of staircase up to ‘Mr Pickering’s’ suite two steps at a time. She recognised Ryan’s large loopy handwriting in the hotel register and her heart leapt, she longed to see him and prayed with every step, holding the folds of the full length fabric up to her knees, that the aforementioned ‘Mr Pickering’ was really the actor, Ryan O’Gorman.
“Shit, shit, shit,” she hissed, as her heel caught the hem of her coat and she hopped inelegantly into view. “Bugger!” She tried to enter the room but the fabric had trapped as the door closed.
“If you are going to cause trouble as usual, I will send you back out into the snow.” The warm Irish-American lilt surprised her, she had not noticed him standing at the window, half-hidden in the flickering shadow thrown by the many candelabra scattered around the room.
“Well at least give me a hand,” She struggled to free herself from her coat and the doorway. He moved across the room, opening and closing the door to release her, then eased the heavy fabric off her bare shoulders.
“Always making an entrance.” His eyes twinkled as he pushed his nose against hers in greeting. “Great to see you.”
“And you.” She grinned at him and, for a moment, they were back on the beach at Innishmahon, the time that had elapsed, dissolved, and they were, once again cohorts, compatriots, brothers-in-arms.
“Well,” she said, as his eyes swept appreciatively over the dark green off-the-shoulder velvet gown, cut daringly low to the back; an investment piece the sales assistant had said. An investment in what, she had wondered at the time. “Who else is joining us for this editorial conference?” She took in the fabulously appointed suite, blazing fire in the baronial fireplace, flanked by large curved sofas, strewn with fur throws and velvet cushions; the table in the bay window, with only two place settings. In the far corner of the room was a desk littered with paper. A laptop’s standby light blinked intermittently. A huge carved bureau stood in another corner, housing a flat screen entertainment centre. Soft jazz oozed from invisible speakers.
“Just us,” he said softly.
“Lovely.” She took the flute of champagne he offered, feeling the blush of excitement on her chest. If she were to be seduced, this is how she would want it to be. This would be how she dreamed it. She put the glass down. He did the same.
“Okay?”
“No. Sorry, can you excuse me for a moment? I’ve left something behind, er, in the car.”
“Of course.” He opened the door and she charged through it, picking up her coat as she left, flying down the stairs as fast as her heels would allow. At the bottom, she caught sight of herself in a huge gilt mirror. She stopped. Her skin was flushed, her eyes bright, heart pounding. I can’t do this, she told herself, I can’t let this happen, be seduced, allow myself to be swept off my feet, fall in love. She watched as her eyes glittered. Anyway, how dare he? How dare he assume I am interested, that I will fall for his undoubted charms, that I am his for the taking. Oh shit, but I so am.
A porter appeared from nowhere.
“Madam, can I help you? Is there anything you need?”
She took a deep breath, yes there is, she thought, and it is waiting for me up those stairs.
“No. No, thank you,” She took another deep breath and, smiling at her reflection, turned to slowly mount the staircase.
He was standing in the window when she returned.
“Okay? You didn’t go out to the car?”
“No, silly, I had it after all. By the way, which is my room?”
“Straight across the hall, shall I show you? I’ve asked them to light the fire and put your luggage there.”
“No, not now. That’s fine. Just so I know for later,” she said, more to herself, pleased there was an exit strategy, glad he had not taken anything for granted. She took up her glass, visibly relaxing. She noted his beautifully manicured hands, expertly cut hair, the grey disappeared. His Savile Row dinner jacket fitted his frame to perfection, all hint of paunch toned away.
“You really do look like an International all-action spy hero, you know?”
“Of course I do.” He twirled, preening. “But that’s only the day job and it’s not long term either, three movies, then I’m out.”
“Will the three-movie deal fulfil all your heart’s desires?” She sipped her drink, the bubbles tickled.
“I’ll be very well-heeled at the end of it, anyway. Heart’s desires? Well, that’s a different subject altogether.”
He showed her to a seat and rang for room service. He had pre-ordered their dinner of lobster, fresh asparagus with wild mushroom risotto, and a Belgian chocolate sour-cherry mousse.
They chatted easily as they ate; Marianne was fascinated to learn how a major movie is made, the sets, the costumes, the scheduling. Ryan’s stories were captivating, animated, scurrilous, hilarious. Laughing, she lifted her napkin to her lips to dab away drips from the butter-drenched asparagus.
“May I do that?” he asked, and before she could answer, he leaned across the table, his mouth hovering millimetres
from hers, and proceeded to lick her lips clean of the warm oil. Shocked, she drew back, staring at him. He calmly returned to his seat and continued his meal. He looked up then, eyes questioning. She struggled to regain her composure, stilling the butterflies in her stomach. There was only one course of action.
“Like to taste the wine?” she asked. And before he could answer, she took a drink and, putting her mouth against his, pressed the wine through his lips. He sputtered, as the liquid dripped from his chin.
“Good vintage.” His eyes were fixed on hers.
“Like some more?” she whispered, leaning towards him. He dropped his napkin and, rising from his chair, walked round the table to take her by the hand. He pulled her gently to her feet and, clasping her shoulders, drew her mouth to his. They kissed with every fibre of their being. She had never been kissed like it, ever. He had never given so deep and loving a kiss.
“Please let me make love to you, Marianne. I’ve wanted you ever since I first laid eyes on you. Please,” he whispered hoarsely.
Heart thumping in her chest, Marianne stood back and slowly unzipped the back of her dress. It fell to her waist. She stepped out of it and threw it aside. She stood before him in the most beautiful lingerie she owned, silently delighted that she had not opted for the comfort of her big pants.
He stripped quickly down to his dress shirt and boxer shorts. Pulling her to him, she slowly un-buttoned his shirt, pulling it back from his strong shoulders and broad, smooth chest. Then naked in the candle light, they fell upon each other. Collapsing to the floor, they rolled together before the fire, kissing and laughing, pushing each other away to feast on their nakedness in front of the flames and then pausing briefly, they locked eyes and silently agreed their desire.
He took her quickly and urgently, until she shrieked with delight and he groaned with ecstasy into her hair as he pushed hard inside her. Sighing and kissing each other repeatedly, until their mouths and tongues were sore, they finally lay glistening in the candlelight, their breath slowing in unison, as the sweat dried on their bodies and their skin cooled.
The Hollow Heart (The Heartfelt Series) Page 18