Chapter 28
28
“Ah.” My tone was grave. “The Joey of old. I should have been expecting you.”
“I’m not the Joey of old.”
“…Sorry.”
“I think it’s your woman, Vivian. The festival one!” His eyes were sparkling. “I don’t know why, there’s just something about her.”
“You’ve gone native!” I was touched. “Thrilled to bits because a new person is in town.”
“She’s out front talking to Courtney. Come on, let’s check it out.”
Having also gone native, I was already on my way…
…only to discover a young woman. Well, probably in her thirties.
Due to her involvement in the festivals, I’d expected a seventy-something lady, serving up old-fashioned glamour. An intimidating, bejeweled creature with throat-catching perfume and rigid hair. Back in the day, when attending charity events was part of my job, those society queens had been an occupational hazard. With their performatively gracious “witticisms’ and overly-languid speech patterns, they’d been hard work.
This woman’s black vinyl jeans were collapsing on her. Her long legs ended at scuffed, pointy-toed boots and her unkempt hair was shortish, wavy and black as pitch.
“Vivian is back!” Courtney cried, flushed with excitement.
From ink-dark eyes, Vivian gave Joey and me an imperious stare. Her intimidating energy was no way diminished by the flecks of mascara scattered halfway down her face.
“Hi, hello, hey…” Joey and I mumbled, suddenly shy.
Vivian raised eyebrows at Courtney, who rattled off, “That’s Anna from Dublin, Brigit’s friend. And that’s Joseph Armstrong.”
“Of course!” As if a switch had been clicked, Vivian was super -friendly. “You’re the one with the sleeping bag coat,” she said to me. Then to Joey, “And you’re the go-boy with all the money.”
She laughed and I admired her teeth, which were white and even. Nevertheless she looked a teeny, tiny bit grimy , as if she’d been sleeping in her clothes for a few days. Her neck, for example, could have done with a wash. And so, perhaps, could her hair.
“How long have you been gone?” Joey asked.
“Six months, nearly. And the first thing I’m gonna do is smoke a giant blunt and lie on the beach in the dark, talking shite.” She directed her gaze at Joey. “Anyone like to join me?”
Wait a minute, now, this was meant to be a polite conversation, not a sexually charged…whatever it actually was.
“Kidding!” Vivian declared. “I’ve been traveling for twenty-one hours. I need a shower but my hot water and heating are MIA.”
Perhaps this explained the hint of filth?
This time she included me as well as Joey. “I live over on Puffin Road, on the way out to the cliff. But I go to Barbados for the winter because even when my heating works, that house is Baltic. Every spring when I get home, I’m amazed the tide hasn’t taken it.
“Courtney.” Her smile was suddenly dazzling. “Any chance I could have a shower in one of the rooms? Or should I clear it with Dan?”
“Feck Dan! I’m the acting manager here,” Courtney said. “Not that my pay packet knows.” She reached behind her for a key. “I’d give you the bridal suite only Dan gave it to Anna here.”
Everyone was astonished. Including me. “That’s the bridal suite?”
“You think those fluffy robes are given to everyone?” Courtney asked. “And those beautiful cardboard slippers?”
“Look, anything will do,” Vivian said. “You know me, Courts.”
“You might as well stay the night, if your heating is broken too.”
Vivian’s white, even teeth made another appearance. “You’re an angel,” she told Courtney. She was grateful, but I would have said not terribly surprised at Courtney’s gesture. I sensed that Vivian Hogan-Bancroft was used to generosity from many quarters.
“Ike said he’d come over to fix the heating et al ,” Vivian said. “But who knows when that will be. He’s a busy man.”
“All those trees to surgeon-ize.” Courtney was in a reverie. “Yip. Aaaall. Those. Lucky. Treeees.”
After Vivian’s departure Courtney raised a finger to her lips. She appeared to be counting in her head. After about twenty seconds, she relaxed, leant closer to us and said, “Right! That was Vivian Hogan-Bancroft. She’s our local…what would I call her?”
“Queen?” That had been Brigit’s word.
“?‘Queen’ will do. Loved by all. If you get my drift. Free spirit.” She winked and repeated, “Free spirit, if you get my drift. Loved by all. Or should I say ‘loved by many’? So her father is Jesper Bancroft. Of Quarter Bond.”
“G’wan,” Joey said in a tone which was “not impressed but polite enough to pretend he was.”
Quarter Bond was a British prog-rock group from back in the mists of time. Five men. I knew more about them than perhaps the average person because, for a short spell in the nineties, Helen had been fixated. Their lyrics were quoted and mocked and a popular game in the Walsh household was Pick the Most Grotesque Quarter Bond Bloke.
“He lives in Barbados,” Courtney said. “Owns a recording studio there. Her mother is Isidra Hogan.”
Now I was impressed: Isidra Hogan was a badass. She’d started modelling at fourteen, married Jesper when she was twenty, did a stint as a rock wife, had three children, left Jesper, became a lawyer, then a politician. Now she was a big cheese in the European Parliament—looking lined but still very sexy—where she issued astute sound bites that made Brexiteers foam at the mouth. (Isidra is often cited as an exemplar of “aging gracefully” by judgy 22-year-old girls, who think aging is a choice and Botox an abomination. I mean, we’d all age gracefully if we had Isidra’s bone structure.)
“And,” Courtney continued, “her half-brother is Tayto McGuffin. The far-right melt? As you can imagine, because of her famous family, Vivian’s met everyone in the world. But even if she’d grown up under a rock, she’d still charm the birds from the trees and persuade them here. She’s a godsend. The big festivals are always trying to poach her but she’s loyal to us.”
“Wow,” I said. “Well. So? I hear you’re married to the copper?”
“God. Don’t remind me.”
“Is that how you’re so good at ‘policing’ crowds?” I stopped. “That was a pun, you two. ‘Police.’?”
Joey and Courtney laughed heavily.
“The way you got rid of those teenage fuckers last night!” I said.
“Two of those teenage fuckers are my sons. Yeah.” Courtney rolled her eyes. “The main lad? He’s Winnie, my eldest. And Hannibal, my youngest, was there as well. Not their real names, but I haven’t the energy to explain. Now you can see why I’d rather be here working day and night, than at home with that shower.”
“Absolutely. Courts, tell us why you hate your husband.”
She brightened. “God, he’s awful. Power-mad. Money-mad. Sex-mad. Lazy as fuck. No sense of humor. Wants everything but thinks it should just be given to him, won’t do the work. Hates anything good happening to anyone. Delighted at another’s misfortune. I was nineteen when I met him and he was a tyrant even then, giving me orders, talking the big talk, then giving me the silent treatment because someone else had pissed him off, ya know? Because I was nineteen, I was mad about him. He had hair in them days. Next thing I’m pregnant, next next thing we’re getting married—I know, pure lunacy—my mother’s dying wish was that I’d jilt him at the altar. Like the silly girl I was I thought we’d be okay. We weren’t, we’re not but we can’t afford to get divorced. Some advice for you, Anna, never marry a man you plan to change. Nicolas Burke hasn’t changed one iota in the last twenty years. Except got worse, I suppose.”