The Accident
Page 25
Thankfully, most of her guests had been tactful enough not to ask Tara about what had happened, instead focusing on her house, or the fact that she was due in four months. One gallery owner and divorcée had said, ‘I hope you have a boy – because girls are utter little bitches. They always take Daddy’s side.’
Tara spotted David on the other side of the patio. He was rakishly handsome in his suit as he waited for people to approach him rather than work the gathering himself. The setting sun caught his profile, stressing the speckles of grey in his hair, yet highlighting its thickness. Tara felt sure that he would be around forever. She needed him to be. The world now scared her. Her life had briefly become a horror story full of violent people, and it seemed that all she could do to keep herself safe was fixate on her love for one of them.
It occurred to Tara that the world she had briefly stepped into was just an example of what David had taught her in his tutorials, and what he was now teaching his new students: that it was always the same people in power everywhere. Sometimes they called themselves communists; sometimes capitalists, popes or ayatollahs. But they were just the people who had always owned the industries. And this time, drugs had been the industry.
Tara looked down the lush garden that had begun to turn golden in the late summer sun. It made her feel that God and magic had made the house, and not East European labourers and money. Lots of money. But her father had always told her that a house does not make a home. It was a fact he’d experienced when his wife had died. And it was a lesson he’d passed on to Tara when he’d put a gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger. After all that had happened, David had demonstrated that he was not a man who would ever walk away. He would be there for the long haul, giving Tara exactly what she wanted, keeping her and the baby sheltered, no matter where. David was her home.
Suddenly, two women grabbed Tara’s hands – one each. Her friends had travelled up from her home town. They dragged her inside, where the DJ was playing one of the seminal songs of their youth. They pulled her through the library and into the front room, where they joined about ten others, dancing and laughing. With the music washing over her, Tara spun around, moved her hips, caught herself in the mirror and wryly smiled.
Fuck – when did I start to dance like an old person?
* * *
A caterer drifted by David on the patio with a tray of mini spanakopitas. He grabbed one, while wishing there was a TV in Ryan’s cell that could relay a live feed from the party. Even though Ryan had saved David the ordeal of the world discovering that his wife had cheated on him – an ordeal that he would’ve found as cutting as the betrayal itself – he still felt no gratitude, and was not remotely unsettled by the fact that only Tara’s arrival had stopped him from committing cold-blooded murder.
David picked up his Bushmills and Coke and swirled the ice about. The party was a success, and was unravelling itself just like he’d thought it would. When millionaires got together, they wanted to talk about art. When artists got together, they wanted to talk about money. And so it went. The only thing they all seemed to have in common was that the louder they were, the funnier they weren’t. But the important thing was that David had already laid the groundwork for a few major retrospective exhibitions for Tara. One or two more, and they’d never have to do anything they didn’t want to again.
David was talked out. He’d been lured into too many difficult conversations this evening that had left him wishing he’d actually read an issue of Modern Painters rather than just telling people he had. Already, he’d had what amounted to three business meetings on the patio with London dealers. Only ten minutes ago, he’d been obliged to give a personal tour of the house to one very important Bostonian collector who was in Dublin for the week. Now he just wanted to be alone with Tara.
‘Shit, boy – you’re meant to drink that. Not romance it.’
David raised the glass in a brief salute and took the expected sip.
The man who’d spoken cocked his thumb and pretended to fire at David’s head. Then he said, ‘I don’t know why I did that. After all, you’ve had a real one aimed at you, haven’t you?’
David let silence be his reply.
‘I know about guns, actually. I have an antique Sten. Belonged to my grandfather.’
‘Sten machine guns – that English piece of crap from the Second World War.’
‘Well, I’m not going to argue with an historian. It’s George, by the way. You were talking to my wife earlier. Samantha.’
These type of people – the ones who owned country houses with many acres – would always make David anxious. He both despised and was in awe of their show-pony sheen that came from generations of money.
George offered his hand now, and David gave him the type of handshake where he made sure the other person was aware that he was only using about ten per cent of his available strength. George said, ‘I see Scott McCoy is here with a movie star to excite the ladies. Very impressive. The only thing I know about Hollywood is that McCoy’s insanely rich; rich, as in wipe-out-the-deficit rich. I mean, compared to him, we’re poor. Literally.’
‘You haven’t travelled enough,’ David deadpanned.
A group of men that David had yet to speak to were huddled together around one of the patio tables. The alpha of the group tapped out some cigars and handed them round. A whiff of the smoke blew by David’s nostrils – bitter and black.
George, his eyes narrowing as he thought of a way to take control of the conversation, said, ‘My wife loves Tara’s work. Now, I’m no expert but I do like paintings. I have a Picasso and two Gauguins at home.’
Jesus. ‘That’s cool.’
‘It’s such a pity that painting doesn’t seem enough for Tara, that she’s not sufficiently fascinated by that struggle towards mastery that was so absorbing for Klee, Bacon, Rothko.’
David hated it when assholes like George had a point.
‘So Dave, you’re teaching at uni, eh? As well as managing Tara, of course.’
‘Yep. Just a few classes while I finally finish the PhD. Wrapping that up is my present to me.’ Automatically his mind began flipping through the pages of ‘Discovering Resistant Opposition: World War Two in the Savage’.
‘Very good, Dave. The university obviously thinks very highly of you.’
‘Ah, they just need a few people like me around to inflate the grades of each new disappointing generation.’
‘Huh?’
‘You know? To banish their mediocrity from the national psyche.’
‘Ah, I can understand that. My kids intend going there.’
‘Well then, it’ll be first class honours all round.’ David thought of how his future parties would have kids at them. Their friends would be allowed to bring their own, if just to play with his – because the odds were that his child would be just like theirs, which would mean that he and Tara would raise the type of teenager who would never scratch a lottery ticket, and for whom therapy would be as required as inoculations and preventative dentistry.
David shook George’s hand again and moved on, aiming for the space and peace down the garden. He strolled across the lawn, past the garden table and towards the woodland. With Tara away dancing inside, he lit up a cigarette. Tara thought he’d given them up again, and he almost had – except for three or four secret ones every day.
Through a break in the trees, he could see the mound of clay that covered Dora’s body. Above the highest branches, the sky fought against approaching night, slowly turning the colour of a bruised fingernail. It seemed only last week that the heavenly summer had been stretching before him like a broad, slow river. He took in the lawn and the green of the trees and was amazed that he had yet to enjoy it, use it, soak it all up. September was slipping away, and David found himself nostalgic for the summer even before it had passed. That morning on his early walk, the park hadn’t been as densely crowded as the week before. Already he felt a new, slight pinch in the air. There was a change ahead.
And then he spotted her. Tara was back on the patio, standing in the corner where he’d thought Ryan had been buried. He gazed up at her, appreciating how, through her pregnancy, she had recently become an even more mysterious creature. Despite her bump finally showing, most of the men still eyed her hungrily as she mingled with the guests.
As David approached, he felt the familiar sensation from her gaze that he’d first felt as her teacher, then later outside the Shelbourne Hotel, and a great many times since: divine providence. Tara was stunning in a full-length Marc Jacobs shift with minuscule spaghetti straps. If he reached to unclasp the strap at the back of her neck, the dress would slip by her hips, down to the floor, where it would pool at her feet like spilled water. David pressed into her side, enjoying the feel of the violin curve of her body from hip to shoulder as it fitted against his.
They kissed, and the luxury prize of their house vanished into nothing. Now they finally had what they wanted: to be able to stand together in their own space, their voices growing quieter, as if huddled together on a life raft, gaining warmth and assurance off each other – and not particularly looking for rescue.
* * *
If you can’t wait to read more from S.D. Monaghan, you can sign up here to be the first to hear about his next book.
A Letter from S.D. Monaghan
Dear Reader,
Thank you so much for choosing my novel and swapping your real world for that of The Accident. For those who would like to join a mailing list for alerts on my future novels, please sign up here. You can unsubscribe at any time, and your email address will never be shared.
I hope you enjoyed it, and if so, I would be very grateful if you could leave a review. First, because I’d love to hear my readers’ thoughts, since they’ve spent hours of their life, in some sense, in my company. Secondly, because it is via the recommendations of like-minded readers that others may discover my work for the first time.
Emerging from the isolation of writing a novel to receive so much interest and positivity from readers across all social media platforms has being truly heartening. Thank you to all those who have messaged and been supportive so far.
Until the next chapter begins, take care.
S.D. Monaghan.
Acknowledgements
I would like to thank:
My wife, Anne Hughes, the sounding board for every idea and my initial editor, who took 500 pages down to 300.
My agent, Zoe Ross at United Agents, who had faith in The Accident and championed it tirelessly.
The brilliant team at Bookouture, who have all been a pleasure to work with. In particular, I’d like to thank Abigail Fenton, my exceptional editor, who has such a sharpness of vision that it makes working with her a privilege. It was also great to have the support and advice of Kim Nash.
My parents, Carmel and John, and my sisters, Pat and Teri.
And finally, for advice and encouragement of various kinds, I’d like to thank Deirdre Madden, George O’Brien, Michael O’Loughlin, Thomas Kilroy and Richard Ford.
Published by Bookouture
* * *
An imprint of StoryFire Ltd.
23 Sussex Road, Ickenham, UB10 8PN
United Kingdom
* * *
www.bookouture.com
Copyright © S.D. Monaghan 2017
* * *
S.D. Monaghan has asserted his right to be identified as the author of this work.
* * *
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publishers.
* * *
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events other than those clearly in the public domain, are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
ISBN: 978-1-78681-255-1