Ebb and Flow

by Mary O'Sullivan

  She looked at her silent phone and wished it to ring. Maybe she should talk to Andrew. Explain that their relationship had no future. After all, he was married and Maxine herself was . . . she was Marie Murphy, tramp and slut, and had earned every other derogatory term that could be thrown at her. She had sold her right to a decent relationship the first time she had performed for Jason Laide.

  Images flashed across her mind. Maxine threw herself onto her bed, not caring that she was squashing and creasing garments which were worth more per item than a month’s pay for the average worker. What did the hand-painted silks and woven linens matter when the body they were designed to clothe was used and cheap? She squeezed her eyes shut but like a newsreel the images flickered past. Marie Murphy, fifteen years old, tall, pretty, eaten up by the ambition to escape from her family, from Mountain View Terrace. Jason Laide, with his flame-red hair, stocky and strong, already a powerful presence in the area. Jason with his haulage business, his sharp suits and his coterie of respectful followers in tow. How could she have been so naïve? She had been an intelligent child, always near the top of her class in school. How could she have believed Jason when he said he had contacts in the film world? What had she been thinking when she allowed him to film her? Escape? Fame? Money? And he had reeled her in so cleverly. Just some innocent pictures at first, taken with his home-movie camera in the front room of his house. The three-bedroomed semi-detached that Maxine – Marie – had thought at the time to be the height of elegance and sophistication. When he said the film director needed some shots of her in her underwear to help him make a decision, she had peeled off her clothes. It was just like wearing a bikini and she might be cast in a movie where there were beach shots.

  Tears slid out from under Maxine’s closed eyelids now as the scenes she tried so desperately to obliterate rolled inexorably on. She had willingly accepted Jason’s stories, willingly gone to his house, evening after evening, until finally, on that night, that despicable, horrific night, he had introduced her to alcohol and another girl. A young girl like herself, hungry for money just like her. They had done unspeakable things to each other, naked and sweaty, while Jason had filmed their shame. He had then handed them each twenty pounds. Their thirty pieces of silver. The other girl, who called herself Gail, had gone out and bought some drugs with her money. She was dead now. Overdosed on heroin and found in a squat, a whole two weeks after she had died, decayed and worm-eaten. Lucky bitch. Maxine had got the worst of the deal. She had to live with what they had done in Jason Laide’s bed in front of his camera.

  Angrily now, full of self-hatred, she sat up and began to throw her beautiful clothes off the bed. She didn’t know why, just that it made her feel more in control to treat the symbols of her success with disdain. If only she had waited. If only she had kept her knickers on for just another two weeks.

  Fourteen days after Maxine had given Jason Laide control over the rest of her life she reached sixteen years of age. That was the day a representative of the leading model agency in town came to her school to give a talk on modelling as a career. The woman had looked down into the sea of upturned faces in the assembly hall and immediately her eyes had settled on Marie Murphy sitting in the back row, taller, thinner and somehow seeming older than the other pupils. She had offered Marie a place on a modelling course. Free of charge. That was when Marie Murphy had left Mountain View Terrace behind and became Maxine Doran. A glittering career. International fame. Money. Prestige. Despair.

  Getting up and walking over to her dressing table, Maxine swept it clean of its overpriced heap of make-up containers. They rolled and slithered, falling softly onto the thick carpet. A cap came loose on a tube of foundation. It seeped onto the carpet, a sun-kissed worm in the cream wool. Just like Jason Laide. A worm. Always crawling through her life, always holding the threat of the video over her head, always sure that she had to do his bidding. Exactly as she had done since first she realised that there had been no film director, no prospect of a screening in Hollywood. No possibility that she would ever again have any self-esteem. She had sold herself, body and soul just for Jason Laide’s pleasure. For his convenience. Stupid, stupid child.

  Looking around at the mess she had created in her bedroom she felt an even deeper degree of self-loathing. No wonder Jason had found it so easy to manipulate her. No wonder he held onto that video and used it to get her to do his bidding. She had no self-control, no moral fibre. Why did she never have Jason charged with making child pornography? Silly thought. She would have to admit she was star of the video. All her years of carefully hiding her background and paying her family to stay quiet would come to light. The agency would never have taken her on had they known. They thought her address was the only thing she had to be ashamed of. She had been doing Jason’s bidding, accepting it as an inevitable aspect of her life, entertaining those he wanted to impress, sleeping with thugs he wanted to sweeten, introducing him to the high and mighty she had got to know in the course of her work. It had been bearable until she had met Andrew Ford.

  The thought of Andrew brought tears to her eyes again. It would have been so much easier if she had never met him, if he had never made her laugh, made her feel loved, made her want to love him back. Jesus! Love! How could she talk about love? Where could she find space in the blackness of her heart for an emotion as unselfish as love? But she had. After all, falling in love with the wrong man was in her genetic make-up.

  Leaving the chaotic bedroom behind, Maxine went into the living area and unlocked her desk. Taking out the old red photo album she walked over to the couch and made herself comfortable. As usual the book fell open at the page which held her great-grandmother’s photograph. Maxine stared into the lustrous eyes, traced the lines of the beautiful face, steeped herself in the dignity and poise of her great-gran. Harriet also had fallen in love with the wrong man, hadn’t she? All those years ago, this magnificent woman had given herself to a Murphy from Mountain View Terrace. Why? Surely she had belonged to a different class. How had she ended up in that poky little terraced house when every bone in her body conveyed refinement? The antithesis of life in the Murphy household. But Harriet had abandoned the mean streets, hadn’t she? Just left. Disappeared. Never to be heard of again. Or so Maxine’s father said. Where had Harriet gone? Had she been murdered by one of the hot-tempered Murphys? Perhaps her husband. Or had she made a better life for herself, gone back to her own family, found her proper place in society?

  Maxine sighed. She had been asking these questions of her beautiful great-grandmother as long as she could remember. Harriet always gazed back at her from the sepia picture, silent, keeping her secrets. But now there was the added mystery of the portrait of Lady Harriet Wellsley in Manor House. The one Rob Trevor had removed. Had Lady Harriet Wellsley become Mrs Harriet Murphy of Mountain View Terrace, wife of Thomas Murphy, the man who had handled horses so well and women so badly?

  Maxine smiled at her great-grandmother’s photo. “Right, great-gran,” she said aloud, “no more messing around. I’m going to track you down. And I’m going to buy Manor House.”

  The words echoed around the empty apartment and returned to Maxine. Her resolve strengthened. Getting paper and pen, she began to trace back from her father, making out approximate dates. The next time she went to the Registrar’s Office she would be prepared. Harriet’s secrets would no longer be safe.

  Satisfied with her work, Maxine folded the piece of paper and put it into her purse. She felt more energised now, more in control. As she began to tidy up her bedroom and sort her packing for Amsterdam on Monday she brought her clearer thinking to bear on the other problems in her life. Her accountant Charles Rea presented himself as a solution to one of her difficulties. She would ring him on Monday and ask him to represent her interests in the purchase of Manor House. Jason was bound to outbid her. Charles could stall the sale. He was good at bumbling. And this would also mean that she herself did not need to have further contact with Andrew Ford. No. That was w
rong. She needed to, yes. How she needed to hear his voice, to touch him, to feel his arms around her! But she could not, would not allow herself to be hurt any more. Nor did she want to hurt Andrew.

  Then there was Jason Laide. Everything depended on this trip to Amsterdam and on her hunch being right. It was an outside chance. Jason was so conniving, so violent, that he totally controlled his own environment and the people in it. He had worked hard at covering his tracks which led from the mire to the dizzy heights of legitimate business success. It was Maxine’s aim to find his weak spot. To expose him. To destroy him.

  Driven by anger, she was working faster now, folding, hanging up, discarding or putting in the laundry. The room was almost tidied when her phone rang. She stood still and listened to the repetitive peal. Walking slowly over to the phone, she wished with all her heart that it was Andrew calling. Not that she would speak to him. She just wanted to know that he needed to contact her. She glanced at the caller ID and felt equal measures of relief and disappointment. It was Natalie. Bubbly, fun-loving Natalie, her only friend on the modelling circuit. She picked up and listened as Natalie babbled on.

  “Maxine Doran, are you still misty-eyed over your mystery man or are you back to normal yet? I feel like a night on the town. How about it? A few drinks in The Mills and then we’ll hit the clubs? How does that sound?”

  “Great. Pick you up at nine. Okay?”

  Natalie was silent for a moment, surprised at how easy it had been to persuade Maxine and understanding that the man who had been making Maxine all dreamy and moody lately was no longer on the scene.

  “All the war paint on! We’re going to have a serious night, Max. See you at nine.”

  Maxine was smiling as she put down the phone. Just what she needed. A night of serious fun. Maybe she could absorb some of Natalie’s energy and love of life. Maybe she could forget Jason Laide, great-gran Harriet and Manor House for a few hours. She would never forget Andrew Ford though. Not even for a few minutes.

  * * *

  The only thing more ridiculous than mowing the lawn at this time of year was sitting inside worrying. Sweat dripped off Andrew’s forehead as he pushed the lawnmower through the damp grass. There were bare patches where sods had been gouged out of the soft earth but Andrew ignored them. He needed to keep going. He needed the release of all his pent-up feelings.

  Maxine was first and foremost in his thoughts. He tried to forget her as he ploughed ahead, mangling bundles of defenceless grass. He had not heard from her since he had let her know Jason Laide was the other bidder on Manor House. It was as if that had been all she had wanted from him. A name on a piece of paper. Once she had it she just disappeared, not answering her phone, not ringing. He must let her know he had put in her bid for Manor House, even though Rob Trevor had been noncommittal. As Maxine’s estate agent, Andrew had a legitimate excuse to contact her. He had toyed with the idea of going around to her apartment but had dismissed the thought. Suppose she was there with another man? Of course there would be another man. A woman could not be as beautiful as Maxine Doran and not have men in her life. As the image of Maxine in someone else’s arms flashed before him, Andrew gave the lawnmower an extra vicious push. It dug deep into the wet soil, blades screeching as they skimmed a buried stone. Cursing, he switched off the motor and began to dig out the front of the mower. One of the blades was bent and shiny where it had scraped against the stone. Shit! He stood and looked over the lawn. One half was still lush and beautifully carpeted in grass. The other half, the one he had attacked, was as pockmarked as a rugby pitch after a tough match. Ella would be very angry when she saw it. If she noticed. Maybe she would arrive back from Cuanowen in one of her spaced-out moods. The mood where she seemed to float about in isolation, not seeing, not hearing.

  Going to the garden shed, Andrew got a shovel. At least he could cover up some of the bare patches. Put some sods over the soil. He was almost finished his camouflage job when he heard the phone ring in the house. Dropping his shovel he ran. It might be Maxine.

  “Andrew. You sound out of breath. Have you been out running?”

  Andrew took a deep breath and wiped the sweat off his forehead with his sleeve before answering his wife. “I’ve just been doing some gardening. How are you?”

  “Gardening? This time of year? Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “I’m fine. Have you seen the bungalow yet?”

  As she began to tell him about the property, Ella’s tone changed from the usual monotone Andrew had become so familiar with over the past year. The more she spoke about it, the more enthusiastic she got. “You should see the views, Andrew! From all sides! It’s like being on an island. Just sea, glorious sea all around!”

  “You haven’t gone ahead with a deal, have you? You promised no commitments until we both decided.”

  “No. I’ve made no definite bid on this bungalow. But I have expressed interest in buying here. Actually I know the estate agent. Maybe he could get us a good deal. I might drive along the coastline now and see if there are any bargain properties we could renovate and resell.”

  Andrew gripped the phone tightly. Some half-remembered details of bi-polar disorder came uncomfortably to the forefront of his mind. One day all black depression, the next on top of the world, making irrational decisions like going on a property-buying spree. Immediately he relaxed his grip on the phone and smiled. What a ridiculous thought! Ella was suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. It had been diagnosed and confirmed. She would work her way through it. Maybe that was what she was doing now. She certainly sounded brighter.

  “No harm in looking, Ella. But remember, no deals without my agreement. What’s the interior of the bungalow like?”

  “As you would expect. Spacious, light-filled rooms, top-class fixtures and fittings. Maybe you should come to see it for yourself.”

  Ella held her breath. Would Andrew suggest coming up here tomorrow? His business meeting was tonight. Cuanowen was only about two hours’ drive from the city. He could so easily be here in the morning, look over the property and give it his approval. She was sure he would love it. He must.

  “I have to go now, Ella. I must get ready for my meeting. Hopefully Pascal McEvoy will be able to shed some light on all the interest in Ballyhaven. Then at least we can make an informed decision about it. Take care. See you tomorrow evening.”

  Ella switched off her phone. She felt that she too could now make an informed decision about her future.

  Chapter 21

  Andrew was the first of the group to arrive in the pub. Saturday night revellers already packed The Mills. The air was thick with the smell of alcohol, perfume and aftershave. As usual the young and beautiful were here in force, showing off their designer labels and toned bodies. A DJ in a far corner was talking over the music he was playing, speaking some type of American-English. The whole place seemed to be throbbing to the rhythmic beat. Andrew walked quickly through the crowds and made his way to the first floor.

  The upstairs lounge bar was quiet. Just a few couples here and there, lolling on the overstuffed chairs, conversing in low tones. Mozart played softly in the background. Andrew ordered his drink and found a table for three in a far-off nook. The others would find him here when they arrived.

  Glancing at his watch, he realised he was early. And nervous. Of course he knew both men well. They had been in college together. They were friends. Of sorts. Tonight he must make that friendship work for him. Without being too obvious. But how in the hell was he going to broach the subject? “Tell me about the Gambling Bill, Pascal. Oliver, have you been lying to me about planning in Ballyhaven?” Words, which had always been Andrew’s forte, spilled aimlessly around in his head now.

  The first part of the evening would be fine. It would be the usual enquiries after family, discussions of mutual friends, tales of their time together in college. But the conversation must be steered around to Ballyhaven. Should he mention the fact that two of the bigger players in the city had re
cently put in bids on the fifty-acre site? He knew what they would say. ‘Take the highest bid, Fordie.’ End of conversation. But that would not answer any of the questions. It would not tell him why both the Coxes and Jason Laide were offering way over the odds for a site with no planning permission. Unless they knew something Andrew did not. Something Pascal MacEvoy and Oliver Griffin most probably did. He patted his pocket to make sure the piece of paper he needed was in there.

  Andrew finished his drink and ordered another. He was trying not to think about Ella. Trying not to worry that she was committing them to another purchase in Cuanowen. He should not have allowed her to go there alone. Despite his efforts, a frown creased his forehead and his lips pursed as thoughts of Ella and her mental state would not go away. She was a loose cannon. Off the rails. Befriending Jason Laide! Jesus! Everyone, including pre-accident Ella, knew that Laide was someone you respected for his power but never befriended. The man had no friends. Just major and minor enemies. It was difficult to get a straight answer from Ella these days but it would definitely seem that she had made some promises to Jason Laide regarding the Ballyhaven site. As far as Andrew could gauge, she had committed nothing to writing but for Jason Laide that would be a mere detail. If she had promised him the site in Ballyhaven then Andrew was going to have one hell of a struggle to secure it for the Coxes. But if Gary and Noel wanted it, they must have it. No matter what.