Deceptions

by Laura Elliot

  “Edward. He’s an economist in London. One marriage, still very much intact, and three children.”

  “Emily reminds me of Virginia in appearance. Your daughter is a charming young girl, very bright.”

  “But not a happy one, I’m afraid. She’s finding it difficult to adjust to her new surroundings. So much has happened so quickly in her life and I feel guilty –”

  She broke off, embarrassed at revealing so much about herself to a man who had once prided himself on the quality of his home-grown cannabis.

  He smiled, shrugged. “I’m in the throes of rearing five daughters so you can’t tell me anything I don’t know about the guilt trip. As soon as Emily starts making friends you’ll be home and dry.”

  Their conversation was interrupted by a woman who stopped beside them, obviously anxious to speak to Máirtín. “You and Emily must come and visit us,” he said before Lorraine moved on. “Jan, my wife, would love to meet you. Give me your number. I’ll ring and arrange something soon.”

  She unloaded groceries onto the kitchen table and handed a container of Pringles to her daughter. “As requested, madam. By the way, I met your science teacher in the supermarket.”

  “Sparky Marky?”

  “I suspect we’re probably discussing the same person.”

  “He’s not the worst. Did you tell him I’m part of a dysfunctional family set-up?”

  “I could have. But he wouldn’t have believed me. He says you’re an excellent student.”

  “Of course I am.” Emily snapped a crisp between her teeth. “You don’t need to be happy to be brilliant. In fact, it helps when you’re despairing, depressed and dumped in hell. His daughters are in my year. They’re twin goths, Janice and Joplin.”

  “That figures.”

  “A man rang while you were out. Bill something or other. He wants to commission a portrait. He said you’re a difficult woman to pin down and that you’ve ignored the two phone messages he left on your answering machine.”

  Before leaving Dublin, Lorraine had instructed the receptionist at Blaide House not to disclose her new address or telephone number to anyone. Abruptly, she stopped unpacking the groceries and walked outside. From where she stood, she could hear the faint break of waves on the rocks and, closer, the frenzied barking of Hobbs, the farmyard dog. These outbursts had become familiar to her, erupting whenever she approached the stile on her way to the beach or a stranger entered the lane. The collie’s barking only subsided when Noeleen came to the door to scold him. On hearing her voice, Hobbs always collapsed into abject obedience, slinking towards the shelter of the wall so no one could witness his subjugation.

  Bill Sheraton’s arrival would break through the protective fug that had surrounded her since she came to Trabawn. She wanted to ring him back, postpone his visit, make excuses, invent a terminal illness – could a broken heart be classified as a “terminal illness”, she wondered – and, if he still insisted on coming, hide behind the sand dunes until he left. Despite her annoyance, she smiled at the idea of crouching like a frightened rabbit behind the eroding, sandy embankments. He was arriving tomorrow, Emily said. She would meet him, hear what he had to say, then send him politely on his way with a firm refusal ringing in his ears. When she was ready to start painting again she would make the decision herself.

  Noeleen opened the farmhouse door. Her voice rang out and the barking stopped as suddenly as it had started. Despite the dog’s desire to tear her apart limb by limb whenever she came within sniffing distance, Lorraine felt a certain affection for the brute, having guessed, correctly as it turned out, that he was a direct descendant of Celia Murphy’s dog, Old Red Eye. The past manifested itself in many shapes and forms. She stretched her hands before her and watched them tremble. The tremor was faint, almost invisible, like the first stirrings of a palsy. Virginia was the only person who would pass her telephone number on to the businessman. She claimed he was her most demanding client and charged him lavishly for his abrasive ways.

  When Lorraine grew calm again she returned to the kitchen. Her hands were steady as she helped her daughter stack away the last of the groceries.

  On the following afternoon when Lorraine returned from the beach, Bill Sheraton’s BMW, which almost spanned the width of the lane, had offended Hobbs’ territorial instincts to such a degree that he was barking an octave higher than usual. Unperturbed by the dog’s hysteria, Bill was leaning against the front wall, observing the smoke rings that wafted in clear circles above his head. His broad hands looked more suitable to handling a shovel than the slim black cigarillo he was smoking but Virginia believed he was addicted to them. He had smoked in the gallery on the opening night of Lorraine’s Painting Dreams exhibition, deliberately ignoring the No Smoking signs, and no one had had the courage to rebuke him.

  “Leave him to it,” Virginia had advised. “He’ll buy quickly and leave. Andrea has a full schedule lined up for the night.” Her judgement proved to be correct. After only a cursory glance at the collection, Bill Sheraton purchased two of Lorraine’s most expensive paintings and departed with his wife to attend another function.

  “Don’t be fooled by his rough manner,” Virginia had said, switching off her public relations smile and casting a speculative glance at the two sold stickers. “He knows exactly what he’s buying and how much your paintings will appreciate in value. He’s a rough neck with impeccable taste.”

  “What’s with the mutt?” Bill brusquely swept aside Lorraine’s apology for keeping him waiting and followed her around the side of the house. “Has it got rabies or something?”

  “It’s an inherited gene,” she replied. “You can relax. He’s yet to prove his bite is worst than his bark.”

  “I’m all in favour of a good bark but only when it’s accompanied by a sharp bite.” He entered her studio and blew smoke into its pristine interior. “So this is where you’re hiding out.” His tone was non-committal as he took in the bare walls and tidy shelves.

  Emily was right. Her studio should be paint-splashed and haphazard, reeking of turpentine, breath-catching spirits, varnish. Instead, she stood in a white, sterile room that breathed loneliness from every corner. “How can I help you, Mr Sheraton?” She lifted the electric kettle and filled it with water.

  “First of all you can tell me what the hell you’re doing bolting off to the arse-end of nowhere when you should be in Dublin creaming off the publicity after your exhibition?”

  She tried to hide her annoyance as she switched on the kettle. Her sudden departure so soon after the exhibition had obviously been a subject of gossip and speculation. “I’m not a horse, Mr Sheraton. I don’t bolt. I make decisions. Trabawn is ideally suited to my needs.”

  “I’ll say it is. I’ll be lucky if there’s any suspension left on my car after driving down that boreen.” He blew a derisive puff of smoke towards the ceiling. “I heard some of the callers to Liveline giving out about your exhibition. Crackpots, all of them. You should have stood your ground and fucked the begrudgers. Every fruitcake in the country with a view on anything thinks the rest of us have nothing better to do than listen to their cock-eyed opinions. I still can’t make up my mind if the paintings I bought are erotic or pornographic. But I’m not losing sleep over it.” He deliberated for an instant. “Erotic, I suppose. Pornography leaves nothing to the imagination but – well – I imagine something different every time I look at the damn things.” He chuckled deeply, suggestively. She almost expected him to nudge her and say, “Know what I mean, eh?”

  “Mr Sheraton, I assume you’re here for a reason?” She gestured towards a chair and placed two mugs on the table. “Would you like tea or coffee before we begin?”

  “Coffee sounds about right. Call me Bill. No sense in formalities. Andrea is interested in commissioning a family portrait.”

  “I’m sure Virginia told you I’m not accepting any new commissions at the moment.”

  He drew deeply on his cigarillo and continued as if she had not s
poken. “Andrea’s been on my back for weeks with this latest notion. And that’s to have a family portrait by Lorraine Cheevers. How soon can you begin?”

  “If you want a family portrait I can give you the telephone numbers of excellent artists who’ll be delighted to oblige.”

  “Give me a break, Lorraine.” He sighed impatiently. “It’s you she wants and what she wants she gets – or I get hell. Can I ask when you’ll be available?”

  “I’ll ring and let you know.”

  “That’s not an answer. When are you next in Dublin?”

  “I’ve no immediate plans to go there.”

  “Is this a hermitage then – or can I assume you’ll venture forth into the real world sooner or later?”

  Without replying, she walked to the window. Such a wilderness of weed and briar. Nothing for it but to clear everything out. She would hire a digger, get things moving. He stood beside her, puffing his foul smoke into her fresh air. “I’ll phone you when I’ve made my plans, Bill.”

  “Do that. We’ll have lunch together. But, for Christ’s sake, don’t wait too long. Andrea gets what she wants or I get hell.” He handed her his business card and nodded approvingly. “That’s a nice kid I spoke to on the phone. What age is she?”

  “Fifteen.”

  “Has she settled here?”

  “It’s taking time.”

  “At least it’s a safe environment. Keys in the car, the front door on the latch, that sort of thing. Dublin’s a cess pit and our kids are swimming in it.”

  “All Emily thinks about is returning to live there.”

  “Keep her here. She’ll settle eventually.” She sensed him hesitating, choosing his words. “Young people. I don’t understand what the hell they’re on about most of the time – or what they want from life. Our son went badly off the rails for a while but he’s out the other end, thank God.” He shook his head vigorously. “I was running my first travel agency when I was his age. Eighteen years and I could already smell my first million. But Lorcan! Even if luck bit him hard on the arse he wouldn’t recognise it.”

  He left the studio and faced the farmhouse where Hobbs was once again making his presence heard. “Some people make a lot of noise but they say nothing. Keep your eyes on the future, Lorraine.” She had expected a bone crushing handshake but his grasp was firm and oddly comforting. “I’ve been on the ropes a few times in my life. Yet I’ve always known when it was time to rise again and face the next round. You will too. Ring me when you get to Dublin and we’ll talk again.”

  Máirtín Mullarkey kept his word. The following week he rang Lorraine and invited her to a barbecue on Sunday afternoon. As soon as they arrived at his bungalow, Emily disappeared with the goth twins, whose appearance suggested they had ventured forth from the confines of a vampire’s bridal suite. Apart from a brief dash to the patio for sausages, burgers and baked potatoes, Lorraine did not see the young people again until it was time to return home. Coloured lights had been hung around the garden where friends and neighbours gathered. Some of the people were local but Lorraine heard other accents, an Australian twang, the deep, melodic cadences of an African voice and the heavily accented English of a young Italian couple who had set up a holistic health centre in the village. She heard, also, a London accent, the inflection so reminiscent of Virginia that for an instant she thought her cousin was sitting on a deck chair, her face shaded by a wide-brimmed straw hat. During her childhood summers a visitor from Dublin was a stranger in Trabawn. Now, only two decades later, Lorraine was simply another unremarkable face in a multicultural gathering.

  She sat beside Sophie, a Sudanese woman married to an Irish farmer. They had met in Sudan, she told Lorraine, when he was engaged on an agricultural project and she was working as a nurse in a local hospital. They had moved to Ireland sixteen years ago.

  “A big adjustment?” Lorraine asked.

  “At first, yes. Now, not so bad. I ignore what I don’t want to hear and draw strength from those who are close to me. And you?”

  “I don’t know why I’m here.” She made the admission frankly. “I came to escape from a marriage that was no longer working. At the time it seemed a good idea. Now I’m not so sure.”

  “The house where you live, it’s lonely, yes? A woman on her own, now that, I know, is definitely not a good idea.” Sophie’s laugh rolled across the garden. “You must come to dinner soon. I have many handsome friends who would love to meet you.”

  “Dinner, yes. But no friends, handsome or otherwise.” She smiled, spread her hands as if to brush away an unwelcome idea. “I’m not ready for anything like that, Sophie.”

  “How do you know? Stuck down in that lane.” She touched Lorraine’s hair, smiled. “Don’t let the fire die, girl.”

  The fire is well and truly quenched, Lorraine thought, preparing for bed that night. She stood naked before the mirror and stared at her reflection. Outwardly there was nothing to suggest she had become a dried up prune. It should show on her face but, apart from the dullness in her eyes, she looked refreshingly healthy. Her hair, still tossed from a late-night walk along the beach, glowed red under the bedroom light and her skin was tanned from the sea breeze. Divorce proceedings had to begin. If she was to move on with her life she must make decisions instead of living in limbo-land. But she was unable to comprehend the reality of no longer being a wife. Would it be like losing an arm or a leg? Would she be limbless and free, suffer phantom sensations, imagining Adrian beside her in the morning when she awoke, hearing his key in the door, his music on the stereo, his body above her and she below him, sinking into the familiar rhythm of passion? And memories, what happened to them when they no longer had a structure to keep them intact? Did they, like love, dry up and die?

  As Máirtín had predicted, Emily was making friends: a boy with bleached hair called Ian, Sophie’s son, Ibrahim, and a willowy young person called Fran, whose gender still remained a mystery to Lorraine. Máirtín’s goth twins completed the group. They cycled down Stile Lane and descended on her house to devour great quantities of popcorn, toasted cheese sandwiches and pizzas. They were noisy, untidy and unfailingly polite to Lorraine. Their tolerance for loud music would, she suspected, leave them with significant hearing loss by the time they were twenty.

  “Can I ask you a fabulously fantastic favour?” Emily asked one evening after her new friends had departed. “It’s to do with my birthday.”

  “Ask away.”

  “Will you and Daddy make up?” She spoke too quickly, nervously curling her fist against her chin, but her tone was so determined that it stalled Lorraine’s instinctive rebuttal. “I know you’re not going back to him but I want the three of us to have a meal together, the way we always did on the night of my birthday.”

  “Emily, please don’t ask me to do that –”

  “Please … please! Can’t we be a family again? Just for one night? He wants to come to Trabawn and stay in O’Callaghan’s Hotel. If he books a meal in the restaurant will you come with us?”

  “I don’t need this discussion, Emily. It’s not as if I’ve prevented you from seeing your father as often as you wish, but you’ve made no effort to stay in touch with him. Except for that one time –”

  “It’ll be different if he comes here.” Emily flushed deeply. Her mouth puckered. “Just one night, that’s all I want for my birthday and you can’t even give me that.”

  “If it means so much to you, then that’s what we’ll do. But I don’t want him in the house. Do you understand?”

  Her daughter nodded. “Do you think you’ll ever get back together again? Not now but maybe in a year’s time – two years’?”

  “Darling, that kind of talk gets us nowhere. Your father and I have made our decisions. Nothing’s going to change. But time will make things easier, you’ll see. After all, we did one wonderful thing together. We had you. You’ll always keep us in touch.”

  Noble words, she thought, after Emily had gone to bed. She took a bottle of wi
ne from the fridge and fiercely twisted the corkscrew in the bottle.

  Her daughter had one last favour to ask. Could she bring Ibrahim O’Doherty to the restaurant? She blushed, tried to look casual when Lorraine agreed.

  On the evening of Emily’s birthday Lorraine colected Ibrahim from Sophie’s house and drove to O’Callaghan’s restaurant, where Adrian was waiting for them. Emily approached him cautiously. He held out his arms. She ran forward with a muffled sob and sank against him. His eyes were moist when he looked towards Lorraine. Stiffly, refusing to hold his gaze, she walked to the table that had been reserved for them.

  Emily sat close to her father throughout the meal. Ibrahim sat opposite her. He was respectful to Adrian, was charming to Lorraine and fastened his black flirtatious eyes on Emily. He was the lightning rod upon whom they directed their attention. The waitress, whose name-tag spelled “Angie”, took Adrian’s camera and ordered them to smile, to look happy, to share Emily’s excitement. Click, click, click, smiling, always smiling.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Brahms Ward

  8 p.m.

  I’ve had a hectic day, Killian. Don’t pay attention if I snooze off after a while. I met my script editor this morning. Remember Roz O’Hara? Jangling bracelets, chain smoker, pink highlights? It was a terse meeting, to say the least. Not that I blame her for being annoyed. Despite a hefty advance, she’s yet to read a single page of my promised draft. She reminded me that I’d other responsibilities besides family ones but she relented before I left and asked how you are.

  “While there’s life there’s hope.” She sounded apologetic, a woman who abhors clichés – but your deep sleep has left people bereft of meaningful comment. I’ve promised her the rough outline two weeks from now but Roz O’Hara can jangle her bracelets all she likes. I’m a dry stone, no blood. All I want to do is write about you. Perhaps it will help, writing it down, a cathartic cleansing. Perhaps not. Either way it passes the night when sleep is impossible.

  You must remember Nowhere Lodge? Your favourite programme? My path to fame? Of course you remember. What a dab hand you were at making suggestions, my trusty barometer, bringing me on-the-spot reviews from school friends, thumbs down or up – I could always rely on you for an honest opinion. Fairy tales with an edge, that’s what I write.