Once she moved out they hadn’t kept in touch much. But they hadn’t fallen out, as he knew Sheila had always suspected. They just reminded each other too much of difficult times and it was a relief for them both to move on. That was nearly ten years ago now. He was glad that they seemed to be happy years for her. When they caught up on the various family occasions she seemed softer and more content.
Sheila had been the one who first suspected Bridie was sick. She saw her regularly and began to notice her aunt’s increasingly erratic behaviour. She finally told the doctor of her suspicions and somehow persuaded Bridie to go and see him, and within weeks they had their diagnosis. That was almost three years ago now, but how quickly she had gone downhill. At first, when she still had moments of clarity, she made Sheila promise not to lock her up and they had worked out a system of health visitors and neighbours and family so that she was never alone for long. But then Bridie had taken to wandering, often in a state of undress, and soon couldn’t manage to wash or clean herself.
‘But I promised,’ Sheila had said, filled with guilt, when the time came to concede that a nursing home was the only option left.
Kieran had tried to comfort her but she was inconsolable. It had been a blessing in so many ways the day that actress had walked into the shop, bought that fancy hat and worn it to the BAFTAs. It gave Sheila such a lift and she threw herself into making the most of the incredible marketing opportunity.
Everything had been going so well and then she’d disappeared. He couldn’t help wondering if there was some link to Bridie that had made her do it but he couldn’t figure out what. It was one of the main reasons he hadn’t visited his sister-in-law much in the nursing home. He’d found it so frustrating that the secret to Sheila’s supposed death could be locked in Bridie’s mind, but there was no key.
He heard the front door close as Max arrived. ‘Just coming,’ he called to him, knotting his tie and smoothing his hair with his hands before going downstairs.
‘You look well, Dad.’ Max gave him a grim smile, his hair and skin seeming even paler against the black suit.
‘You too, son. Bridie would be proud of you. Let’s have a quick drink.’ He led the way into the kitchen, took a bottle of Jameson and two tumblers from the cupboard and poured generous measures into them. ‘To Bridie.’ He raised his glass.
‘Bridie.’ Max clinked his against it and drank. ‘The car should be here in a minute. Are we picking up Beth?’
‘Yes. She didn’t want to come in the car with us but I insisted. She’s going to be part of the family soon enough.’ Max coughed on his whiskey and Kieran clapped him on the back chuckling. ‘Sorry about that.’
His son stared at him. ‘You’re getting married?’
‘I know it’s a bit sudden, but you can’t exactly hang around at our age, and I want to be with her; and, strange as it may seem, she’s willing to take on this grumpy old bastard. Does it bother you?’
‘Not at all. I’m delighted for you. Beth is great.’
‘I had hoped that you or your sister might beat me to it.’
‘Well, you never know, Dad, one of these days . . .’
Kieran lowered his glass and looked at him. ‘Krystie? Ah, that’s great, son.’
‘It’s early days, Dad. We’re just getting to know each other,’ Max warned him, ‘but I think she’s the one; how she feels about me is another matter altogether.’
Kieran thought of the way Krystie’s eyes had followed Max around the previous evening. ‘I don’t think you’ve anything to worry about there. She’s a lovely girl, son. Your mother would have loved her.’ The doorbell rang and Kieran sighed and patted his son’s shoulder. ‘Let’s go and send Bridie to her rest. If anyone deserves it, she does.’
Krystie glanced over at Sinéad. She was kneeling on the floor, bent over a hat block with a Stanley knife, but she had already wrecked two pieces of the pink sinamay textile and there wasn’t much left. She was working ridiculously long hours but she was a woman on a mission, she wanted to find her sister. Krystie could understand but, even to her novice’s eye, she could see that Sinéad’s usual standards had slipped and she was making costly mistakes.
‘Shit!’
Krystie looked up to see Sinéad cradling her hand, blood running between her fingers. ‘Let me see,’ she said, putting down the pillbox she had been hemming. She knelt down on the floor beside Sinéad and examined the cut. It wasn’t huge but it was deep and in the crease of the palm. ‘I’ll get a bandage. Hold your hand up in the air.’
Sinéad stared at her. ‘Why?’
‘No idea but that’s what Ma always told us to do when we cut ourselves.’ Krystie grinned and went to fetch the first-aid kit. There were only a few small plasters in it and no bandages. ‘These are no good. I’d better nip out to the pharmacy.’
‘There should be something in one of the desk drawers,’ Sinéad snapped impatiently. ‘Hurry up, I want to get this base done today.’
Krystie started to pull the desk apart. ‘No chance. That hand will bleed if you try to use it and that’s the last of the pink; you can’t afford to get blood—’ She stopped and stared at the photo that was tossed in among buttons, ribbons and loose sketches.
‘What’s wrong?’
Krystie turned around, the photo in her hand. ‘Is this who I think it is?’
‘Yeah, I told you all about that,’ Sinéad said dismissively. ‘Bandage?’
‘Sorry.’ Krystie rummaged again and came back with another kit and the photo. ‘You told me an actress; you didn’t say it was her! What was she like?’
Sinéad smiled. ‘Surprisingly shy and really nice and full of praise for the shop.’
As Krystie cleaned and bandaged her hand, Sinéad reminisced about her big break. It was the stuff of dreams, the stuff that had filled her head when she left Ireland and the Fields sisters hadn’t had to leave their shop; the dream had come to them.
‘What?’
She looked up to find Sinéad frowning at her. ‘Sorry?’
‘You’re wearing your pissed-off face.’
‘I didn’t know I had one,’ Krystie smirked.
‘You do,’ Sinéad assured her. ‘So?’
Her job done Krystie sat back on her heels and picked up the photo again. ‘I just can’t believe you did nothing with this.’
‘What do you mean?’ Sinéad protested. ‘How do you think we got all of the media attention and the orders from the department stores?’
‘That just happened because of the BAFTA awards. Do you have this on your website? Have you used it on social media?’ She sighed at Sinéad’s blank expression. ‘Have you put this photo up on Twitter or on Facebook?’
Sinéad wrinkled her nose. ‘I’m not really into any of that. Even emails are a challenge for me.’
‘But it’s free advertising,’ Krystie said, unable to believe her ears. She’d checked out the Fields website the night before she’d met Sinéad and it was quite basic and out of date, but she’d assumed that was because, like so many businesses, they had moved on to using social media instead.
‘Advertising?’ Sinéad looked sceptical. ‘To some saddos who have nothing better to do with their time? The audience are hardly likely to be the sort to buy designer hats.’
Krystie went to correct her but realised that Sinéad was in no mood for it and bit her lip. Her mother would be proud – no, stunned. She held up the photo and studied it. ‘You know, this really is great and I’m not surprised that she bought that piece. It is gorgeous. How would you feel if I did a little online promotion?’ she asked casually.
Sinéad shrugged and reached for her sketch pad. ‘If you want, but we have more important things to do.’
‘It’s okay, I’ll do it in my own time. It’s what I do to relax, anyway.’
‘If you think it’s worth a shot.’ Sinéad shrugged, turned up the volume on the radio and, curling up in her chair, began to sketch.
‘Do you have this photo on your laptop
?’
‘Yeah, it’s my screensaver. Help yourself.’
Sharon shuffled into the sitting room, yawning. ‘Krystie, it’s after midnight.’
‘Not in the US. Sorry, did I wake you?’ She looked up at her friend.
‘No, I needed to get a drink.’ Sharon went out to the kitchen for some water and came back and sank onto the sofa beside her. ‘What the hell are you doing?’
‘I’m setting Sinéad up on Facebook and Twitter.’
‘That’s not in your job description. Tell Sinéad to get lost. You shouldn’t be putting in such long hours, and working on that screen all evening after a day’s work isn’t exactly good for you, is it?’
‘I’m just done. And she didn’t ask: I offered. She has this amazing photo and she’s done nothing with it.’ Krystie handed over the print version.
‘I vaguely remember this. God, the girl is stunning, isn’t she? Look at those eyes and cheekbones. The hat suits her perfectly.’
‘Which is why I plan to make sure the virtual world sees it.’
‘And how are you going to manage that?’ Sharon asked, looking as sceptical as Sinéad had.
‘I’m going to ask the lady herself to help. It turns out she’s a regular tweeter, so I’ve said hi – as Sinéad, not me – and thanks for the business your purchase has brought in and asked her to send on the photo to all of her two hundred and sixty thousand followers.’ Krystie could barely contain her excitement. She’d been pretty sure that the actress would be on Twitter but she’d been delighted to discover she was an active user and responded to tweets from strangers.
Sharon sighed. ‘Even if she does that, what difference will it make?’
‘Duh, are you kidding? You can bet there are zillions of people in the fashion industry following her, she’s a trend-setter and if she’s wearing Sinéad’s hat that means other people will want to.’
Sharon frowned. ‘But that coverage was on every news channel and the photo in newspapers and magazines all over the world and it didn’t make Sinéad famous then; why would it work now?’
‘Sinéad and Sheila were inundated with queries but they spent so much time doing interviews that they hadn’t even started ploughing through them.’
‘And then Sheila disappeared.’ Sharon looked at her.
‘Exactly. So, I’m going to try and remind the world.’
‘Good for you, but I wouldn’t go getting Sinéad’s hopes up.’
‘No, I won’t say a word about it. She’s not expecting me to get anywhere, anyway.’
‘And you won’t get anywhere if you’re sick so, please, call it a night, yeah?’
Krystie laughed. ‘Yes, Ma.’ The words reminded her that she hadn’t been in touch with her mother in days. She’d call her first thing.
The next morning after she’d collected her coffee from Ellen and gone up to an empty studio, she phoned home. When her mother finally answered she sounded breathless.
‘Hello, sweetheart, how are you?’
‘Fine, Ma, but you don’t sound so good. Have you been out jogging?’
‘I was just upstairs when you phoned,’ her mother laughed. ‘How are Sinéad and the family doing?’
‘They’re okay, I think,’ Krystie said, though she wasn’t sure. Sinéad was preoccupied and not saying much and she’d hardly seen Max since the funeral, as he had attended a conference in County Monaghan the week after and been very busy since he got back. Krystie was working hard, too, and wasn’t really up to going out, but she did miss him. He called every day but talking on the phone wasn’t the same and she felt that the closeness that had been between them had faded a little.
‘They’ve gone through so much, it’s a shame,’ her mother was saying. ‘Oh, I saw a nice photo of you in a magazine in the hair salon and Tanya said I could bring it home.’
‘A photo?’ Krystie said frowning. The last occasion she remembered being photographed was at Philip’s party on Christmas Eve, nearly a month ago now, and they had already appeared in the magazines and a couple of newspapers’ social columns. ‘Where was it taken?’
‘At the funeral.’
‘That’s sick,’ Krystie muttered. She hadn’t seen any photographers about. Someone must have snapped her with a phone. ‘Is it a picture just of me?’
‘No, you’re with Sinéad in the churchyard, and then there’s another of the brother and his girlfriend.’
Krystie frowned. ‘Girlfriend?’
‘Yes, Natalie, the model. Did you not meet her yet?’
‘No,’ she said faintly. ‘I thought they’d broken up.’
Her mother laughed. ‘It doesn’t look that way in the photograph. I’ll keep it for you.’
‘Great, thanks, Ma. I’ll see you at the weekend.’
When she finally hung up, Krystie sat staring out of the window, stunned. She tried to stay calm. It was a photo, it meant nothing. There was nothing that odd about an ex-girlfriend attending the funeral and offering her sympathies to Max. Only she hadn’t surfaced while Krystie was there and Max hadn’t mentioned her afterwards, and the way Ma had talked it sounded as if they were up close and personal in the photo.
‘Stop jumping to conclusions,’ she told herself. She would wait until she saw the photo and then, if she had doubts, she’d just ask Max about it, simple as that. And if it was true . . . well, she would worry about that if or when she had to.
Chapter Twenty-nine
Sheila glanced over at Karl, practically hidden behind the New York Times. He’d hardly opened his mouth in days. She wanted to scream at him, to provoke some sort of reaction, but Zach had said she should give him time and space to process this. And so she just kept out of Karl’s way, staying in bed until he had left for work and pretending she was going for a walk or to the gym in the evenings and hiding out in Zach’s place.
‘Put yourself in his position, Sheila. His world has come down around his ears,’ Zach had said, but, then, he didn’t have to live in this silent, charged atmosphere.
She had been surprised to come downstairs and find Karl here this morning, although it was almost ten o’clock. ‘Aren’t you going in today?’
He muttered something about arrangements to be made. She was about to ask what, but bit her lip. He would tell her when he was ready. She sat and drank coffee, nibbled on a bagel and waited, but eventually he stood up and left without another word. Immediately, she was on the phone to Zach but he was tied up with a patient and told her to come to the apartment for lunch and they could talk then.
‘He didn’t say what arrangements?’ Zach asked as he made them an omelette.
Sheila set two places at the breakfast bar and climbed onto a stool. ‘No. He barely opened his mouth to me. I wish I’d never told him about that phone call.’
Zach turned to look at her. ‘You know you didn’t have a choice.’
She rested her chin on her hand and sighed. ‘I know. I just hate to see him upset.’
‘Everyone gets hurt sometime. That’s life.’ He divided the omelette onto two plates and carried them to the bar.
‘Sounds like a line from a song,’ she joked, though she didn’t feel like laughing. She watched him and his easy, relaxed manner. ‘I don’t think anything or anyone could hurt you.’
He chewed thoughtfully, looking straight into her eyes. ‘I think I’ve had my fair share.’
She thought of Nancy and wished the ground would swallow her up. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. I’m talking about now. You seem impregnable.’
‘So I’m devoid of feeling?’
‘No, Zach, of course not,’ she cried.
He chuckled. ‘You really have to lighten up, Sheila. It was a joke.’
She glowered at him. ‘Hilarious. Is it surprising I’ve lost my sense of humour after everything that’s happened?’
He pulled a face. ‘Stop waiting for someone to give it back to you. Go find it.’
She groaned. ‘Why don’t men ever get that women just want you
to listen and empathise? Why must they always try to provide solutions?’
He shrugged. ‘We can’t have babies, so we need to feel useful for something.’
Sheila laughed.
‘And I’ve made you laugh.’ He grinned at her in triumph.
‘I don’t think you could make Karl laugh. Somehow I don’t think he’d see the funny side of anything at the moment.’ She took a small mouthful of the delicious egg but she had no appetite. Her stomach seemed to be in a constant knot of anxiety.
He put a hand out and caressed her cheek. ‘I know this is very difficult, for both of you, but there’s nothing you can do to change the past, so concentrate on the future. And remember, you’re not alone.’
She covered his hand with hers. ‘Thank you. I suppose I am anxious because I can’t really do anything until Karl makes a decision.’
‘That’s not true at all, but I’m not going to tell you what to do. You must make your own decisions, Sheila.’
He continued to eat his lunch and she felt a flash of irritation. It didn’t seem to bother him, one way or the other, what she did. He was so self-contained and calm and removed from her and her problems and she didn’t like it. ‘I need to go.’ She stood up and gathered up her things.
He looked up. ‘Aren’t you going to finish your lunch?’
‘I don’t feel very hungry and I have some thinking to do.’ She searched his eyes, looking for some sign that he cared for her, but just saw the same gentle kindness that was always there. Maybe she was so desperate to find someone to cling to that she had imagined that he had feelings for her. But what about the small caresses and gentle kisses?
He swivelled around on his stool and opened his arms to her and she walked into them and sighed at the feel of his breath on her neck.
He held her tight and, tangling his hand in her hair, gently pulled her head back so he could look in her eyes. ‘It will be fine, Sheila. You are so much stronger than you realise.’
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