| |
––––––––
We walked into the dimly lit pub and sat down at a table near the roaring turf fire, welcome after the chill of the spring evening. The place was slowly filling up with people who had been at the Gaelic football match at the GAA grounds nearby. There was a cheerful atmosphere, and many people came up and shook hands with Rory. One of them, a fit-looking man with a boyish face and curly brown hair, grabbed my hand.
“Hi there, Finola. Welcome to our little town. I’m Oliver O’Keefe. TD.”
“Rory’s replacement?” I said, pulling my hand out of the bone-crushing handshake.
“I wouldn’t say that,” he replied, the smile stiffening. “I won on my own ticket.”
“Of course,” I said. “I didn’t mean to imply anything else.” I’d heard about him and his popularity in Cloughmichael, and I wasn’t surprised. This man oozed charm and charisma that would impress the average voter. Except I didn’t buy it. There was something false and self-serving about this man.
“Thanks for the welcome,” I said to cover up my slight dislike.
He touched my shoulder. “Very happy you’ve come to rescue the dear old Knockmealdown News. It deserves to keep going. I’m sure you’ll lift it from the doldrums and make it shine again.”
“I’ll do my best.”
Oliver nodded at Rory. “Great to see you, Rory,” he said before he walked away.
Rory smiled at me apologetically once we had two brimming pints in front of us. “Sorry about that.”
“That’s okay. You’re well known around here, I see.”
“Yes. I’ve been representing this town for the past five years. But now Oliver has taken over my seat. He’ll do a great job.” He raised his glass. “Cheers, Finola.”
I raised my own pint. “Cheers, Rory. I hope your dog will be okay.”
“I’m sure she will. I got Fergal in time. He’s a superb vet, you know.”
“Yes. I’ve seen him in action. I watched him stitch up Jules’s horse the other day. Seems very skilled.”
“That’s for sure.” Rory put down his glass. “But enough about him. I read the piece about you. Interesting. You were one busy girl. Ballet, Irish dancing, gymnastics. And that was only on Thursdays, I bet.”
I laughed and wiped the foam off my lip. “Yeah, I think I must have been hyperactive.”
“Or you were running away from home?”
I squirmed. He’d hit a nerve. I was involved with a million after-school activities in my teens. Not only because I loved being physically active but also because that way, I could avoid going home in the early evening and have to listen to my dad’s bad-tempered rants. Home was not a happy place for a teenage girl.
“So tell me about this town,” I said to change the subject. “I’ve only been here a short time, but I have noticed a few things that puzzle me.”
“Such as?”
“The main street is full of empty shops. Why?”
Rory sighed. “One of my pet hates. You want me to get on my hobby horse?”
“If you can explain the problem, yes.”
Rory took another swig of his pint. Then he put his glass down and leant forward. “It’s to do with the fucking county council and their money-grabbing stupidity,” he said with such venom, I jumped. He started counting on his fingers. “One, the rents of the shops are too high. Two, the rates are also very high, and three, they insist on charging for parking, which is ridiculous in such a small town. All that has contributed to these small businesses having to close down. We used to have some really nice shops in the main street—a hardware store, a jeweller’s, a bookshop, a bakery and an antique shop. All gone because of what I’ve just said. I’ve tried to air these issues to the county councillors, but nobody will listen.”
“Is that why you left politics?” I asked.
“Yes. Partly. Lots of other things too, which I can’t go into right now.”
“Has it got anything to do with Johnny Keegan and why he left?”
Rory nodded, a bitter line around his mouth. “In a way.” He paused while he looked at me intently. “You’re a reporter, Finola. You always tell the truth and get to the root of every problem. Maybe you can raise these issues in The Knockmealdown News?”
I fiddled with my glass. “I’m not sure.” I looked back at him, trying to see the answer in those honest grey eyes. “I was a reporter, Rory. But I was totally burnt out by the last corruption scandal. I wanted to leave all that and do something less...less controversial. I needed a break. That kind of thing is very stressful, you know. I’ve put my career on the line many times. I don’t know if I want to do that anymore. The quiet life is looking increasingly attractive.”
He nodded. “I see. I didn’t take you for a quitter. No more standing up for what’s right, then.”
Angered by the disdain in his eyes, I got up. “You’ve quit, too, Rory Quirke. If you really wanted to fight, you’d have stayed in politics. But now you want other people to fight your battles.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“That’s what it looks like from here. And in my case, I have other people to consider. The paper’s in trouble. Jerry and Miranda need me to turn things around. I want to update the whole look and introduce new features. I want to make it commercial, to use a dirty word in journalism. Yes...cheesy, cute, attractive to people around here. A fun read, something to brighten their week. I’m done with the dirty digging. You never win, anyway. That’s the real deal.”
He didn’t reply. We stared at each other for a moment in a silent battle. I dug into my pocket and threw a five-euro note on the table. “That should cover the cost of the pint. I hope your dog will be okay. I’ll walk back to the B and B. Goodbye.” Then I marched out of the pub, my head held high. And my heart in my shoes.
***
I called him Jake. I don’t know why the name seemed to suit him, but he reacted to it straightaway. Strange how a small puppy can walk straight into your heart, but that’s exactly what Jake did, that first day at Jules’s. Leaving him behind was a huge wrench. I could still feel his warm little body in my lap every time I drove back to town and the B and B that now felt even more soulless and lonely. The two weeks of refurbishing and updating the cottage dragged into three weeks as small problems with plumbing and wiring cropped up. I busied myself with the paper and the modernisations I wanted to introduce.
It was going well. We saw a small but steady increase in circulation with every passing week. The website was also coming along, with the new website designer, an Italian woman working from Cork who was setting up her web-design business and needed exposure. We also got a few new sponsors both for the paper and the website: small local businesses that were happy to advertise with us. But I needed to get more important sponsors, big names in cosmetics, cars, computers and whatever else was trending out there. An exclusive about the movie that would be shot in the town would help a lot to attract these big names. Not likely, but as I’d be living next door to the main set, I could at least do a special with a personal slant.
I didn’t realise then quite how personal it would be.
***
I moved into the cottage the following Sunday, the day before the film crew was due to arrive. There wasn’t much to move, except my two suitcases, my laptop and a box of books, none of which were difficult to handle. Jules had furnished the cottage with items from the big house she didn’t need, and I added to that with a new bedspread for the wrought-iron bed, a mahogany chest of drawers and a leather armchair from a second-hand furniture shop in nearby Clonmel. Jules lent me a beautiful Indian rug from one of her guest rooms for my new living room and a sheepskin for the floor of my bedroom.
I put Jake’s old cushion from Jules’s in front of the stove in the living room, but he ignored it and jumped onto my bed as soon as I’d made it and made himself comfortable on the new white bedspread. I didn’t chase him away. It would have been nice to have company in bed, even if this was the only kind of male I was likely to cuddle up to.
Having gone to sleep enjoying the silence, I woke up at the crack of dawn by a cacophony of noise. A cock screamed in my ear, adding to the dawn chorus of what sounded like a million birds. I groaned and looked at my watch. Five o’clock. Shit.
“I thought the country would be quiet,” I said to Jake, who opened one eye, wagged his tail, snuggled up to my feet and went back to sleep.
My eyes heavy, I managed to drift off, only to be woken up again by the still-excited cock and a tractor trundling up the lane behind the stables. Groggy with sleep, I dragged myself out of bed. It was six o’clock, too early for anything except a cup of tea. I threw on my fleece dressing gown, stuck my feet into my furry slippers and made my way to the kitchen, where the sun streamed in through the sash windows, making pools of light on the flagstones. The kitchen was freezing, so I turned on the electric heater, made myself a cup of tea and took it to the little patio in the front garden. I sat down on the garden seat and enjoyed the warmth of the sun, my cup of tea and the birds singing their little hearts out. Jake padded out to join me. He sat down by my feet and yawned.
“I know,” I said. “It’s too early to be up. But isn’t it pretty?” I added, looking out at the garden with the apple tree in full bloom, the roses just unfurling their buds and further away, the mountains, their slopes like a patchwork quilt of green, brown, yellow and purple. A heavenly view, even if I needed sleep. I made a mental note to myself to buy industrial-strength ear plugs and blackout curtains. I was about to go back inside when something weird happened.
Slurping the last drops of tea from the mug, I noticed a movement in the shadows of the big laurel bush by the gate. Jake jumped up and started to bark. The figure of a man came into view. He was dressed in jeans, a dark-green sweater and walking boots. Not just any man, I realised with shock as he smiled at me. I knew that face, those green eyes and floppy blond hair, not to mention that body. Colin Foley, the heart-throb of the century was standing by my fence smiling at me. I blinked, clutching at my half-open dressing gown, the mug slipping from my hand onto the tiles. This had to be some kind of dream.
“Hi,” he said. “I’m sorry if I disturbed you.”
“No problem,” I croaked, running my hand through my hair in a futile attempt to look a little less wrecked. “Lovely morning, isn’t it?”
“Fabulous. Cute house.”
I picked up the mug. “Thank you.”
Without asking for permission, he opened the gate and strolled up the path, holding out his hand. “I’m Colin Foley.”
Still clutching my dressing gown, I shook his hand. “Hi, Colin, I’m Finola. Finola McGee.”
“Nice to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you,” I stammered. “Shut up, Jake.”
Jake stopped barking and we stared at each other for a while. Well, I stared while Colin bent over to pat Jake. Up close, he looked a little less Colin Foley the megastar than in the media or on screen. Older, tired, unshaven, a hint of bags under those famous eyes, bloodshot from either a lack of sleep or too many beers, I couldn’t quite decide which. Still gorgeous but more human and a lot more normal than in the glossy publicity shots.
He straightened up and noticed me staring. “You okay?”
“Yes. Fine. It’s just, um, a little strange to find you here at this hour.”
He laughed. “Yeah, I suppose. I shouldn’t even be here. But I arrived yesterday and got to the hotel very late. Then I couldn’t sleep. Jetlag or something. So I decided to come and see the set and wander around just to get the feel of the place. And then I saw your cottage and wanted to take a closer look. I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
“That’s all right. I’m already disturbed. I mean, I was already up because of the racket.”
“What racket?”
“The cock crowing at five in the morning, the birds chirping and twittering. And I thought the countryside would be quiet.”
“Not a country girl, then?”
“Definitively not. I’m Dublin born and bred.”
He laughed and nodded. “Yeah. Me too. What part?”
“Glasnevin. You?”
“Inchicore. Working class then, trendy as hell now.” His LA twang became more Dublin-speak. He peered at me. “Your name rings a bell. I’ve been out of the country for a long time, based in LA mostly. But I have a feeling I’ve seen your name in the media somewhere.” He paused, his brow furrowed in thought. Then he brightened. “Finola McGee, the reporter, right? The one who cracked that murder-and-corruption case in Boston. That’s you, isn’t it?”
I held up a hand, forgetting to hold on to my dressing gown. “Guilty.”
“Wow.”
I closed my dressing gown, realising he must have caught a glimpse of my flimsy nightie. “Sorry.”
He looked confused. “About what? Being you?”
“No. About flashing my boobs at you.”
He flicked his hand at me. “Oh, that. Nice, but I get that all the time. Great boobs, though.”
“Thank you.” I suddenly giggled at the ridiculousness of the situation.
Colin shot me one of his trademark thousand-watt smiles. “You’re just like I imagined.”
I stared at him. “You imagined me? Jesus, that’s—I don’t know what it is. Incredible.”
He laughed. “Have you...er...imagined me?”
“I didn’t have to. You’re everywhere. TV, magazines, newspapers, you name it, you’re out there.”
“Yeah, I know. No mystery there. Except they’re all lying.” He pulled out the garden chair beside mine. “Mind if I sit down? The jetlag is suddenly getting to me.”
“Please, sit down. Would you like a cup of tea?”
He sank down on the chair, squinting against the sun. “Only if it’s Barry’s.”
“Need you ask? I only ever drink Barry’s tea. I could even stretch to a slice of soda bread with some Old Time Irish marmalade.”
“Heaven.”
While the kettle boiled, I rushed into the bedroom and pulled on a pair of jeans, a tee shirt and my Aran fisherman’s sweater, quickly brushing my hair and splashing cold water on my face. Then I made a fresh pot of tea and spread butter and marmalade on a couple of slices of soda bread and carried a tray with this feast out to the patio. Colin had scooped a happy Jake onto his lap and was busy cooing at him. Jake licked Colin’s face and jumped down to meet me.
I put the tray on the table. “Here you go. Not a full Irish, but all I have to offer at the moment.”
He grinned. “I wouldn’t say that.”
I rolled my eyes. “How cheesy.”
“Sorry. I can’t help it. It’s like some kind of tic.”
I poured him a mug of tea and splashed some milk into it. “Sugar?”
“No just milk.” He grabbed a slice of bread and took a big bite. “This tastes like home. And you. You’re so...so Irish.” He sighed wistfully. “God, I’ve missed this country.” As the sun rose higher, he slipped on a pair of sunglasses he’d fished out from his shirt pocket.
“Why don’t you move back, then?” I couldn’t help asking.
“Can’t.”
“Why?”
“Money. Tax. Work. Career.”
“Oh.”
He slid the sunglasses down his nose and peered at me. “But what is Finola McGee doing here in the sticks? Writing another book?”
“No. I just got fed up with the rat race. I didn’t have the energy to wrestle with corruption anymore.”
“That’s understandable. You fought the good fight.” He pushed his sunglasses back up. “I know how you must have felt. Dirty business. Ireland sure isn’t the Ireland I left. Dublin isn’t my town anymore. You know what I mean?”
“Of course. That’s why I’m here.”
He kept looking at me. “The good old values no longer exist.”
“Not that they were there in the first place,” I retorted. “But way back, it was more honest. In a crooked way, if you see what I mean.”
“I do. The dirty old town is no more, is it? Now it’s slick and modern and...filthy underneath.” He sounded sad.
I nodded. “Yeah.”
He swallowed the last of the bread, slurped some tea and got up. “Got to go. My publicist is arriving this morning and the rest of the production team. Meetings, rehearsals, the whole ballet. But...” He paused, looking suddenly shy. “I’d like to see you again, Finola. I liked talking to you.”
“Me too.”
“Let me have your phone number. I’ll give you a call.”
“Okay.” I went inside and found a piece of paper and scribbled my number on it and handed it to Colin.
He put it in his pocket. “Thanks for the tea and sympathy. And for the delicious breakfast.”
“You’re welcome. Bye, Colin.”
“Bye. See you soon, I hope, Finola.”
“Me too,” I whispered, as I watched him saunter away.