“I just want you to know, through all of this there’s you. Only you,” he whispered, as he stood back to let her pass.
She spun round, closing the door abruptly behind her. She pulled him to her, taking his head in her hands, pushing her fingers through his hair as she repeatedly kissed his face. He responded, pressing her against him, his hands all over her, trying to absorb every inch of her body as their mouths sought each other.
They wrestled in the tiny space. She could feel him hard against her thigh. She unzipped and released him as they slid to the floor. He ran his hands up her thighs, pulling her underwear aside as she knelt to straddle him. He dragged the fabric down past her shoulders to reveal her breasts, clad in lace, and biting through it, licked and teased her nipples with his tongue until they were wet and hard. She lifted herself onto him and sighed with pleasure as she felt him push deep inside her. They moved together slowly. He kneaded her breasts, pulling at them, pinching and tweaking. She moved rhythmically, her fingers pushing through his hair, then faster and faster, harder and harder, he thrust his hips up into her, pounding and pounding against her. Until, grinding their bodies together in tiny rapid movements, she arched her back and they came in a huge, stuttering shudder, barely able to breathe, let alone speak. They stopped, silently suspended in ecstasy. Ryan sat up slowly and, clamping her to him, rocked her gently in his arms, as their pounding hearts stilled. She wrapped her arms around his head, kissing his hair. He stroked her throat with his fingers.
“I’ve missed you so much,” he told her.
They were quiet for a long moment. Finally she stood up, rearranging her gown. He zipped his fly. She opened the door to let in enough light to re-tie his tie and find her hairbrush.
“When this is over...”
“I’m not waiting for you. I won’t play second fiddle,” she said evenly.
“I’m not asking you to. I’m not with anyone.”
“Well whoever you are not with, is soon to have a child, I hear.”
“Angelique’s pregnant, there’s no denying that, but we’re not together and haven’t been for months. Who’s to say it’s mine? It’s like I said, it’s messy.”
“Un-mess it.”
“It’s complicated.”
“Uncomplicate it.”
“As flexible as ever,” he sulked, “lots of women would love the chance to have an affair with me.” And for a second, she heard the old arrogance in his words, but his eyes were burning into hers with love. She laughed and flung open the door. People were returning to their seats.
“You’re only an actor, Ryan, you don’t even say your own lines. You’re not such a brilliant catch, you eejit,” she teased, striding out.
“Marie.” He caught her hand, his eyes were full.
“Ryan,” she said, and touched the tip of his nose with her forefinger. She hurried to find her seat, not looking back, suddenly lonely amid the throng.
Paul and Mike rose as she arrived.
“Where’ve you been? You nearly missed it?” Mike whispered, as the second act began. Paul noticed the red rash of excitement on her chest. He looked across to the top table, where Ryan O’Gorman, smoothing his hair back with his fingers, was also late back to his seat. Marianne put her hand to her throat. It flashed through her mind, had she properly disabled the mobile she sent back to the newspaper? If Ryan had been leaving her messages, had they been found?
“You were gone a while,” Paul said, pointedly.
“Unfinished business,” she replied, smiling broadly as she reached for her glass and gulped back her wine.
The news reports following the event were unanimous, a spectacular beyond compare. The amount of money raised was vast. Terrorism was for one night obliterated; for one night the world was a good place; to be human, a good thing.
For Marianne, the whole event had confirmed one thing. Ryan O’Gorman was the love of her life, gloriously so, but love of her life, or not, she would never play second fiddle to Hollywood, his career or anyone else besides. She had her own life to live, with or without him, and as Miss MacReady had said, a child changes everything, especially if the child is your own.
Chapter Nineteen –
Moving Mountains
Marianne was not altogether surprised to see Paul Osborne at her door the next day, but he was far from welcome.
“What do you want?” she demanded.
“To talk, explain.” He gave her a dopey, schoolboy grin.
“Save it. I’m not interested.” She went to close the door. He placed an expensive boot in the gap.
“We can’t all be as altruistic as you, you know?” The smile fixed on his face.
“What do you mean?” She stood in the doorway, barring his entrance.
“Well for one thing, we didn’t all have a George.” He glanced over the front of the building, referring to her inheritance. “Please Marianne, hear me out.”
Marianne shrugged and let him in. Monty leapt around him, pleased to see his old friend. Paul tugged at his ears, Monty rolled onto his back.
“Paul, make it quick I have a lot to do.” She stood, arms folded, glaring at Monty for the traitor he was. Paul sat on the stairs with Monty on his lap.
“We were so close once,” he began.
“Cut to the chase, Paul.”
“I’ve been commissioned to write another book, well a series of articles that will become a book; Ryan O’Gorman’s biography, the making of a movie star, that sort of thing.”
“And why would I be remotely interested?”
“Because I know you’re having an affair with him. You were together in Ireland, you had a romantic weekend in Berkshire and I’m pretty sure you had a liaison the other night at the ‘Phoenix Fights Back’ dinner.”
Marianne did not flinch, she just looked at him coldly.
“And now your house is up for sale. Where are you running away to, I wonder?”
“Listen to yourself, Paul. You even sound like tabloid trash.” She took Monty from his lap. “Please leave.”
“Marianne, don’t be a fool, you could give me your side of the story. That way you know it will be told the way you want it.”
She opened the door.
“You’d be well paid. Name your price?”
“Out! And take your thirty pieces of silver with you.” She nodded to the street.
He stood up to go.
“You’re not denying it, then?”
“Go! And if we ever have the misfortune of meeting again, for the sake of Jack’s memory, do me a favour and pretend you don’t know me.”
“I could never do that, Marianne. After all, I know you better than anyone. Better than you know yourself.”
“What absolute crap,” she hissed. “Now, get out!”
She could not bear to look at him. She slammed the door behind him and, with Monty still in her arms, rushed to the study to call Ryan’s personal assistant to warn of Paul’s plans. She stopped. Who could she trust? Someone was leaking all sorts of information to Paul. She went instead to her computer and emailed Oonagh, asking her to send an urgent message to Ryan via his fan club.
Subject: Little White Dog
Message: I’ve been working on a script. It’s a romantic comedy. The lead roles feature an actor and a West Highland terrier. The story is a bit stuck and someone has threatened to expose the plot and spoil the ending. Don’t trust anyone.
Signed, Monty Weathervane.
“What does all that mean?” Oonagh pinged back immediately. Marianne speed dialled Oonagh from her mobile.
“Can you make sure he gets it? I have to trust you Oonagh, there’s no-one else.”
“I’m a gold star, platinum plated member of his fan club. Our messages are blogged daily, and he responds - all part of his contract.”
Marianne laughed out loud, but at least she was reassured. Trust Oonagh to be appraised of the detail of Ryan’s contract.
“You can’t tell anyone where this came from. You have to kee
p this secret for me. It would serve no purpose to blow this wide open, no purpose at all.”
Oonagh was quiet for a moment.
“You’ve seen him, then?”
Marianne did not respond.
“You two are an item, aren’t you? I knew it, knew it all along,” Oonagh staged-whispered down the phone.
“Will you help me? Help me warn him?” Marianne pleaded.
“Of course I will. Aren’t we as close as sisters? You have my word. I won’t let you down.”
“You’re an angel. Thank you.”
“On one condition, you two are godparents to this little one when it arrives.”
Marianne was touched by her friend’s request.
“I can’t answer for him, but try and stop me.”
The next day an extravagant bouquet arrived, arranged in a vase the shape of a martini glass. A note in Ryan’s loopy hand read: ‘Message received. Already tricky. Whatever happens, wait for me. Trust me. My love, always.’
Marianne placed the vase on the dining room table and tore the note into tiny pieces, tossing the shards of paper one by one on the fire.
“Sorry boyo,” she told the burning embers, “I’m not waiting around for anyone. I’ve places to go, people to see.”
She poured a whiskey and took it into the study. She needed to commune with George. She needed him to know how she felt. She needed him to understand. She needed him with her. Sitting in the chair at his desk, she reflected that for some time, she had felt strangely detached and hollow, as if Oakwood Avenue were no longer her home, and Chesterford no longer where she wished to be. In a very short space of time she had been through a series of major traumas: George’s death; the bomb attack; the storm on Innishmahon. And she had survived. Surely she had been spared for a reason? Surely she was still around for some purpose?
Sipping her drink, she considered her friends, Sophie and Sharon, ex-colleagues more than friends, both busy with babies and all the changes new lives bring. And what of Paul? Once a dear friend, now someone she did not like and could no longer trust. She sighed. She found it hard to believe he had changed so fundamentally. Was it avarice? Jealousy? Ambition? They had been so close once, too close, perhaps. Then she thought about Isabelle, Jack’s stoical wife, who had chosen to remain in Scotland. Her homeland, she called it, with or without Jack. None of them needed her, they all had their own lives.
It was time for change, time to forge a new life for herself. She had done it before and she could do it again, maybe this time with a happier outcome. She pulled a tight smile at the framed photograph of herself and George at the awards ceremony, still in pride of place on the desk where he had placed it. She had never made particularly good choices where men were concerned, George being the only exception, and he very definitely had chosen her, not the other way round. Ryan?
Well, Ryan would have to be the one that got away, just a fling with a being from another planet; a gorgeous dalliance with someone from another world. It was all just a huge crush and though it hurt, her heart would heal. It was time to take stock, take charge. She nodded at George, as he grinned back from the photo, and drained her glass.
Marianne accepted the first offer on the house, put her best pieces of furniture into storage, and sold the rest. She bought a second-hand 4x4 and booked a crossing to Dun Laoghaire. A cause needed a fundraiser; an unborn child needed a godmother; She would let everyone know where she was, once she was settled. She was on a deadline, her own deadline, for a change.
Monty spotted the walking boots, soles stuck with sand from their last Irish adventure, as they were slung into an old sailing bag with his bowls, rugs and half-chewed toys. He yapped at the bag, then whimpered gently, as the door of his newly purchased travel cage was clipped shut.
“Sorry Monty, long journey, you’ll be more comfortable in here.”
He gave her a doubtful look but settled down, none the less. Marianne wondered if he knew they were going back to Innishmahon, if he knew they were going for good, and then she smiled, this was the first time she had admitted as much to herself. She pulled the heavy Georgian door closed behind her, clutching the glass paperweight she had redeemed from George’s desk before it went into storage. She jumped into the truck and swung out into the avenue.
“Don’t look back, Monty,” she called, adjusting her spectacles at the same time as the rear-view mirror, narrowly missing a double-decker bus. “Never look back,” she murmured, accidently swishing the windscreen wipers as she drove.
Chapter Twenty –
A Proposal
Ryan O’Gorman was both pleased and intrigued to find his agent and friend, Larry Leeson, sitting in his trailer sipping a chilled soda, when he returned from shooting his latest escapade as the daredevil secret agent, Thomas Bentley. He greeted him warmly.
“Hey, nice surprise. Good to see you.” He stopped, letting his arms drop. Larry looked in no mood for a hug. He gave Ryan a vague smile and mopped his brow with a crisp, white handkerchief, unnecessary with the air conditioning on full blast. Ryan waited, he knew Larry hated travelling, rarely left his New York office these days, claiming to be incalculably busy. He had even employed another PA to help with the workload, which was indicative of the pressure he was under. Being an inflexible perfectionist, Larry preferred to do everything himself.
Pouring himself an ice cold mineral water, Ryan waited for his visitor to speak.
“How’s it going?” Larry’s gaze swept over his friend appreciatively; he looked fit, tanned, groomed, yet beneath the makeup, tired. Ryan shrugged. Larry knew how it was going; he received daily reports from his contacts on the set, if not from Ryan himself.
“Is it Angelique?”
Larry nodded gravely.
“The old habit?”
Larry sighed, gazing out of the trailer window across the windblown desert, towards the set which had been created to look like a lunar landscape. Thomas Bentley was displaying his skills as an astronaut in this particular scene.
“She’s been partying rather heavily since you guys split. I’ve had reports of some pretty wild stuff, so I put a private eye on her tail for the last few weeks and some of the photographs... Christ, if the press ever got hold of them!”
Ryan pulled out the chair at his dressing table. He sat heavily, unscrewing the lid off the cold cream, smearing it carelessly over his face, glaring back at Larry through the mirror, his eyes burning through the whiteness slashed across his brown skin.
“Well?”
“She’s still pregnant, but only just, I reckon. Anyway, I’ve seen her, spoken to her, and I’m sorry, Ryan, but if you want to save that baby, if you really believe it’s yours, you’re gonna have to take a break from filming; get back over there and try and sort her out. Even if you just do what has to be done until the kid is born, and then it’s up to you.”
“Couldn’t you persuade her to go into a clinic, if not for her sake, for the sake of the child?”
“She ain’t making any sense, Ryan. It’s worse than ever. She’s hanging around with a bad crowd, and there’s this young rock star. Well, what they’re not taking, snorting or drinking is only because it ain’t been invented yet and…” Larry was striding about the trailer, twisting and untwisting the handkerchief in his fingers.
“Stop!” Ryan shouted, jumping up and lunging at Larry. He pinned his arms to his sides. “You know it’s mine. She was straight enough to calculate that correctly, the last time we made love, to the minute. God knows she knew what she was doing, that’s the truth of it.”
Freeing himself, Larry handed Ryan a box of tissues to clean his face, then went into the galley kitchen and started making tea.
“Well, I’ve thought this through, so hear me out,” he said, pouring the now-fresh-faced Ryan a cup. “I’ve negotiated a break with the director. We don’t want Angelique’s beloved Uncle Franco to know what’s really going on, so we’ll say it’s for personal and medical reasons; she’s having a difficult pregnancy, and
you need to be with her. Just till the obstetrician says things have stabilised.”
Ryan nodded, sipping his tea gratefully.
“You get married, get her into the clinic, finish filming and, by then, the baby should be born and you’ll be back home and we can sort things from there.”
Ryan gave Larry a wry smile. Larry continued to look him straight in the eye.
“What?!” Ryan yelled, putting his cup down with a clatter. “You’re serious? Are you mad? I can’t marry that woman…it’s, it’s a crazy idea. I don’t even like her, let alone love her. Come on Larry, I’ve been trying to sort Angelique out for ages, but you and I know she’s her own worst enemy. She’ll take everyone down with her…you’ve got to come up with something else, you’ve just got to, please, I beg you.”
Larry shook his head slowly.
“I’ve checked things out. When Angelique has the baby, and let’s face it, unless some sort of miracle occurs, she ain’t gonna make ‘Mother of the Year’, you will no doubt want custody of the child. If you’re not married, it’s going to cause all sorts of problems and, dare I say it, a fortune to sort out. Particularly if you want to take the child out of the US. Believe me, it looks complicated now, but it really is the simplest way in the long term.”
Ryan had, by now, forsaken tea for a very large bourbon. He took a deep draught.
“But I’m in love with someone else,” he said, in a small voice.
Larry softened.
“I think I know that.” He smiled at his client pityingly. “And if she loves you, you’ll work it out. I know you, you ain’t nothing, if not tenacious.”
“When has all this got to happen?” Ryan was pale beneath the tan.
“Right now, my friend.” Larry went to the bedroom to locate an overnight bag to start packing. “And in secret, no communication, you hear? Don’t email, use your cell phone, nothing. If Angelique gets wind you’re on your way home to break up the party, she’ll go to ground. Lena’s on the case, sorting out the wedding arrangements as we speak.
The Hollow Heart (The Heartfelt Series) Page 21