'I won't go,' I said immediately.
He didn't even look up. 'You'll do what you're told.'
'Conall, I don't think it's a good idea to send Dana away after ... everything.'
He shot her a cold look. 'What? After fornicating with a pimply youth, getting pregnant and then killing her own child?'
'Conall!'
'It's okay, Mum. Maybe it would be better if I went.'
'You've no choice,' he retorted. 'The convent won't have you back; you're a bad example to the other girls. Go and pack. I'll take you there on Sunday afternoon.'
My new school was a grey prison, and a narrow cell was to be my home for the next year.
'Then you can come back to me,' my mother said, hugging me tightly before they left.
All through that year, I kept to myself, I wrote long letters to Judy and my mother, and I studied hard. I needed to win a place at university in Dublin. I had to make sure that I would never have to depend on my father again. And maybe I could even liberate my mother.
In my daydreams, I saw myself arriving at the house in Wexford in a flash car and whisking my mother off to live with me in my Dublin mansion. In my nightmares, I saw my father dragging my baby from my arms and walking away. I would scream and cry and beg him to bring it back, but he'd just keep walking. I would wake up with a jolt, my pillow soaked with tears.
When I wasn't studying, I was writing or walking. It struck me that I was behaving like my father. The realization made me nauseous. Once a week I'd phone my mother and we'd talk non-stop over each other, trying to make the most of our precious few minutes. Afterwards I'd lie on my bed and try to recapture the sound of her voice and hold it in my head and heart. I missed her so much, even more than I missed my brother. I lived for the Christmas holidays when I would see her again, but my father landed a bombshell. He'd arranged for me to stay on through the holiday and take extra maths lessons. Mother protested but I assured her it was what I wanted to do. It was all lies, of course. But she was alone in the house with my father now, and I didn't want her to do anything to antagonize him. Not now I wasn't there to watch over her.
I sailed through my exams in June and was confident that I'd won my place at university. I pre-empted my father's plans for my final break by securing a job helping out in my school's summer camp. My mother was disappointed that I wasn't coming home, but I knew that if I'd tried, he'd have found some way to stop me.
I only ever saw my mother once more. She took me up to Dublin before I started university, and we had three wonderful weeks together. She helped me find a reasonably clean bedsit that was only ten minutes' walk from Trinity College. She bought me a colourful duvet cover and curtains to liven up the drab room, and an electric fire to warm me in the winter nights ahead. We visited the cinema and shopped for clothes and even spent a day at the zoo. I had never seen my mother so gay and carefree. At least, not since Ed had left.
'Do you ever think of him?' I asked, the night before she went home. We were lying in our twin beds in the hotel room, turned towards each other.
'Every day,' she said.
I wish he'd come home.'
'He can't,' she said simply.
'Why don't you leave Dad, Mum?' I sat up. 'You could come to Dublin. We could set up house together.'
'I can't do that, love.'
'Why not, Mum? Why would you want to stay with him after everything he's done?'
'It's where I belong.'
'And what about me?' I said like an angry child. 'Where do I belong? Where does Ed belong?'
'You must make your own life, Dana. You must put everything behind you. This is your big chance, my darling. Take it with both hands.'
And I suppose, to a certain extent, that's what I'd done. I reinvented myself in Dublin. I was, on the face of it, a normal, happy arts student, and no one knew anything about me. And while I lived it up a little, I studied hard too. When I wasn't attending lectures or studying, I was scribbling — I couldn't believe how easily stories came to me. I filled notebooks with the words that tumbled from my mind.
I was flicking through a discarded magazine in the canteen one day when I realized that I could turn my talent into cash. Readers were invited to send in stories — both fiction and non-fiction — and if your piece was printed, you got fifty quid. I read two of the winning entries and knew I could do better. I went out and bought half a dozen more magazines and found they all made similar offers. This had the potential to be a nice little earner.
I got stuck in straight away, confident that I could do it. The money started to roll in almost immediately. Depending on my mood, I would write seriously about controversial subjects or, in contrast, churn out a romantic and slushy short story. I took a perverse pleasure in writing anything that I thought would upset my father. When I wrote non-fiction, I would take the opposing view to his. When I wrote fiction, it was the light, fluffy material he abhorred. The results were lapped up by the magazines and my bank balance grew. And while I was doing it merely to amuse myself, I felt proud of my prowess. I was able to look at a magazine, size up the type of reader it attracted, and produce a piece of bespoke fiction to match. I took an enormous amount of pleasure in watching some of my fellow students devour my stories, completely unaware that I was the author. I used a variety of pen names and told no one what I was up to.
And then one day, along with the cheque in the post, came a note from one of the editors telling me that I had 'some' talent and should think about writing a novel. I discounted the idea at first -1 didn't have time to produce such a large piece of work — but it planted the seed. My romantic stories were well received and were easy to write. Also, in this genre, novels were usually shorter than the average paperback. Over a weekend, I came up with a synopsis and two main characters and wrote the first pages of my debut novel.
At the end of eight months, I'd produced what I felt was a marketable seventy-thousand-word manuscript. I carefully chose six agents — two in Dublin and four in London — and sent it off to them. I heard nothing for weeks and grew quite disheartened. But then I got a letter from an agent in London that I had never even heard of. He wrote that my manuscript had been passed on to him by a colleague, and he was impressed by it. He didn't believe that it was suited to the UK market, but he thought a publisher in the US might be interested. The US! I almost fainted with happiness. Immediately I went to pick up the phone to call my mother. But no, it was premature. The agent could be useless; it might all come to nothing.
Determined not to get my hopes up, I threw myself back into my studies, and even went to some parties. And then the second, fatter envelope arrived. It was from the same agent but this time it included a letter and two contracts. He explained that I had received an offer from the US publisher and that the contract was enclosed. He asked me to call him as soon as possible so that we could discuss the matter further. It was signed Walter Grimes, literary agent.
I couldn't believe my eyes as I read the contract. Happy? I was bloody ecstatic. Wait till I told my mother. I jumped up and down on my flimsy bed, squealing with delight. I was laughing so hard I didn't hear the phone ring in the hall below. Finally, my neighbour came up and banged loudly on the door. 'Phone!' he yelled.
'Coming.' I hurried down the stairs after him. 'Who is it?'
'Your old man.'
I froze on the spot and just stared at the dangling receiver that was banging against the wall. Slowly I went over and picked it up. 'Hello?'
'Dana?'
'Yes, Father, it's me.'
'Dana, you must come home.'
'What? But it's the middle of term. What is it? What's wrong?'
He didn't reply at first, and then when he spoke his voice was fainter. 'I'm sorry, Dana, but your mother has passed away.'
Her eyes full of tears, Dana pushed away her laptop and stood up. She was too emotional and drained to keep working; it was time for a break. She decided to take a bath, then have a healthy supper followed by an early night. S
he didn't want any bags under her eyes, not with Ryan coming. She smiled, her mood lightening at the thought. She was about to go upstairs when she remembered she hadn't checked the post box. Yet another thing Iris did that she had taken for granted. Going outside, she fetched her post and newspapers, tucking her empty glass under her arm as she flicked through the letters. Distracted, she didn't pay attention to where she was walking and stumbled over the kerb. She went down like a ton of bricks, the glass splintering into thousands of pieces around her. The last thing she remembered was a sharp pain in her arm, and then everything went black.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
'Dana?'
She opened her eyes and blinked. 'Dana, are you okay?'
She opened her mouth to reply but at that moment the world started to spin around her and once again she was falling.
When she came to a second time, she was lying on the sofa in the sitting room, a cold cloth on her forehead and a ferocious pain in her arm. She stared at the man leaning over her. 'Ed?'
He smiled tenderly. 'No, you're not dead or dreaming. It is me. Hello, sis.'
'What are you doing here?'
'Just be glad I am,' he retorted. 'What happened?'
'I tripped and fell. I think I've hurt my wrist.'
'I'd say it's broken.'
'No it can't be,' she groaned. 'I've a book to finish.'
He shrugged and helped her sit up. 'I'm no doctor, but it looks broken to me. I'll take you to hospital and we'll soon find out.'
It was almost ten o'clock when they got home from the hospital and Dana was exhausted. The casualty doctor had confirmed she had a mild concussion and a broken wrist. Ed offered to help Dana undress for bed but she refused. However, after several unsuccessful attempts at pulling on her pyjamas, Dana called him back. When he had settled her in bed, Ed went downstairs, and returned minutes later with a mug of tea.
'I'd prefer a glass of wine,' she grumbled.
'If you hadn't been drinking, you wouldn't be where you are now,' her brother said mildly, as he tidied away her clothes.
'I'd only had one glass of wine,' Dana protested. 'I just wasn't looking where I was going and tripped. It was an accident.'
'Right.'
'It's true.'
He shrugged and sat down on the edge of her dressing table. 'None of my business. If you want to drink yourself into an early grave and live in total squalor, that's your business.'
'I'm not and I was planning a major clean-up tomorrow.'
He raised an eyebrow. 'Of course you were.'
Dana scowled at him. "I think you should go now.' Handing him back her mug, she tried to wriggle down under the covers.
'Go?'
She nodded. 'Thanks for your help, but I'll be fine now.'
Ed's lips twitched in amusement. 'Oh, okay, and how are you going to look after yourself?'
'I'll manage.'
'How will you wash your hair?' he demanded.
'I'll do it in the shower.'
'You can't take showers; you'll get your cast wet.'
'I'll take baths,' she said triumphantly.
He laughed. 'I'd love to see you climb in and out of a bath one-handed. And what about buttons? And zips? Cooking? Driving?'
Dana's eyes filled up. 'Oh, I can't believe this has happened to me now. I was just getting my act together.'
'Were you?'
'Yes!' she cried in frustration, tears spilling out onto her cheeks. 'And now this happens.' She raised her left arm and let it fall again, then howled in agony.
Ed sat down on the bed beside her and wiped her tears away with his thumb. 'It's going to be okay, Dana. I'll look after you.'
'Don't you have a job?'
'I'm a freelance photographer. I can work from anywhere.'
Dana looked up at him, her eyes suspicious. 'Why did you come here today?'
'I was in Dublin, and I thought it was about time I came to visit my little sister.'
'I've lived in Dublin nearly twenty years and you've never felt the need before.'
'Would I have been welcome?' Ed challenged.
'No. No, you wouldn't,' she agreed.
'I didn't think so. Now, would you like me to help you out to the bathroom before you settle down for the night?'
'I don't need help.' But as Dana tried to get up from the softness of the pillows, she realized that between the weight of the cast and the pain in her wrist, she was rendered almost helpless. 'I'm sure I'll be fine in the morning,' she said, allowing him to slide his arm around her waist to lift her.
'Of course you will.'
'You can stay in one of the guestrooms, but there are no beds made up—'
'Don't worry, I'll cope.' He sat her on the loo and discreetly left the room. When she flushed he came back in, to find her standing staring at her reflection in the mirror. Her brow had gone a strange shade of purple, there were enormous bags under her eyes and she was ghostly white. 'I had an appointment in the beauty salon tomorrow,' she said, sadly.
'I could take you,' he offered.
She shook her head and turned to go back to bed.
'You'll feel so much better in the morning. I could help you wash and dry your hair, if you like.' He settled her into bed and turned to leave. 'Ed?'
He paused in the doorway and looked back.
'Thanks.'
He smiled. 'You're welcome.'
Dana sat in the conservatory, her injured arm resting on a cushion. She couldn't believe how weak and fragile she felt, and that a broken wrist and a bad headache could incapacitate her to such a degree.
As promised, Ed had washed and dried her hair, and helped her dress. She'd hated that. And then realized that there was no way she could close her bra, never mind manage buttons. While she'd dithered, her brother had come to her rescue.
'I don't suppose you have anything as naff as a tracksuit, do you? Stretch pants and zip-up top, that sort of thing?'
'I do actually.' Dana had directed him to where he'd find the clothes and he brought them over to the bed.
'Underwear?' he'd asked.
She had winced. 'Get out. I'll manage that if it kills me.' And she had. Only it had taken ages to pull on some pants. She'd abandoned the idea of trying to do battle with a bra and instead put on a loose vest top. But even that had been a challenge. She had made her way slowly downstairs and silently handed her brother her tracksuit top. He had helped her into it and zipped it up with a smile, but had the good sense to say nothing.
It was then that Dana had noticed the gleaming kitchen. 'You didn't have to do this,' she'd told him.
Ed had just shrugged. 'It had to be done.'
'And I was going to do it today,' she'd insisted.
'Well, you can't do it now,' he'd pointed out. 'And it's going to be quite some time before you'll be able to.'
'I don't have to. I've a new cleaner starting on Monday. She's going to come in two hours a week.'
'That's good. Now why don't you go and sit down? I'll bring you some coffee and toast when I've finished here.'
Dana spent most of the day in the conservatory, reading, while Ed polished and scrubbed. When he went upstairs to change her bed, Dana sneaked into the kitchen for a glass of wine. But there was no bottle open and she was no match for the corkscrew. Almost crying in frustration, she abandoned the wine and had a whiskey instead. She'd have preferred brandy but she couldn't get the stopper out of the bottle.
She was feeling very sorry for herself when her phone beeped on the table in front of her. It was Ryan.
STILL FEEDING ME?
Lord, she had completely forgotten their date! She smiled slowly. This had worked out perfectly. Her house would be lovely and clean, she could still order in some delicious food, and Ryan would be on hand to open the wine. Of course, a night of passion was out of the question but it was probably no harm; it would keep him keen. It was also an excellent way to get rid of her brother.
She could pretend that Ryan was a permanent fixture in her li
fe. That he would look after her. And so there was no reason for Ed to stay. She didn't want her brother around. It was way too late for reconciliation. He still hadn't given her a straight answer as to why he was here or why now. She was determined to find out, then he could go.
She quickly sent Ryan a text.
YES. C U AT 8.
Next she went out to the address book in the hall, got the number of the bistro and phoned in an order for two.
Ed walked in as she was draining her glass. He sniffed. 'Whiskey?'
'Can't stand the stuff, but I couldn't manage the corkscrew.'
He frowned. 'And you're so desperate for alcohol, you'd drink something you don't like?'
'Oh, shut up, Ed. I'm in pain here.'
'Judging by the number of empty bottles outside, you appear to be in constant pain.'
'It's none of your business,' she snapped.
'Nope, it isn't. Would you like me to open a bottle of wine for you?'
'Why not? Bring two glasses. Then you can tell me exactly why you're here.'
Dana sat up straighter in her chair, and moved the cushion under her arm to a more comfortable position. The effort made her wince.
'Do you want me to get you some paracetamol or something?'
She shook her head. "The wine will do the trick.'
He poured it and put hers on the table next to her right hand.
'Thanks. So. Tell me, Ed, why are you really here?'
He sat down and made himself comfortable before replying. 'Gus asked me to come.'
Dana stared at him dumbstruck. Gus had never even met her brother — what was he doing calling him now?
'He's worried about you,' Ed told her, as if she'd asked the question.
'He called you?' She could barely get the words out. How did Gus even know where to find Ed?
Her brother nodded. 'After he'd been to see you he rang to tell me he was concerned about you living alone. He wanted someone to stay with you until you were ... feeling better.'
'Oh my God. He thought I was going to top myself, didn't he? The big-headed bastard! He thinks he's so great, that I'm going to end it all just because he left. What an asshole. What did I ever see in him?' Dana knew the wobble in her voice probably gave away her true feelings, so she took refuge in her drink.
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