Chapter 72
72
“No more sparkle.” I ducked Teagan’s contour brush. “It’s a daytime thing. I can’t have a sparkly face.”
“The sun sets at five p.m.” Teagan was bouncing with frustration.
“So I might come back and you can sparkle me then.”
“And do eyelashes? Okay. Stand up, gimme a look at you. Not bad .” She hauled me to the full-length mirror.
I was wearing more makeup than I had in the whole of the previous year put together, my hair (courtesy of Karina) was in long, loose waves and I was very pleased with my dress, a low-cost purchase from Dunnes in Eyre Square. Teagan was right: I actually was “not bad”!
“Send Mum over,” Teagan said. “She’s in the barn.”
To me, Kearney’s Farm was always stunning. Even when it was stormy, I loved the soft greens and grays of the land and the wild churn of the sea. But on a calm bright day like today, the clear green water in the bay and the strange, wild landscape would lift the heaviest of hearts.
Brigit’s barn was all action—Colm, Queenie, Ree and Courtney were flitting about, ferrying buckets of ice, uncorking wine, arranging water jugs. Ferne O’dowd had set up a discreet sales desk in a corner. Sully—recently returned from Bolivia—was sellotaping raffle tickets to hangers for the cloakroom.
We were doing well for time. It was only two forty and people were always late; the earliest arrival would probably be at three fifteen.
“Courts,” I called. “You’re up next.”
“God, you look lovely,” she said. “You should wear a metric ton of makeup more often.”
“Haha. Right, lads, what can I do?”
“Tell me if Adam Driver really is coming,” Queenie said.
A rumor was doing the rounds that he was launching the exhibition. To be fair, Ben had directed him in a movie about eight years ago.
“You know I can’t tell you. I’m so sorry.”
“Bad Anna,” Queenie said. “Because you’re so mean, your job is to check the bathrooms.”
I turned to do it—and there was Ben. “You’re not meant to be here yet!” I exclaimed.
His poor, doleful face made me smile.
“I couldn’t stay away,” he said. “I’m being held together by anxiety. Angelo here yet?”
Angelo was lost in transit. His plane had been redirected from Shannon to Cork, where no hire cars were available. He couldn’t persuade any taxi driver to take him on what would have been an eight-hour round trip, so he was making his way via buses and trains. Brigit was aware of his progress but his phone was almost out of battery.
“Come on.” I linked my arm through Ben’s, leading him to the first painting. “Let’s do a walk-through of your beautiful work.”
“The press will savage me?”
We’ve already been through this several times. Se. Ve. Ral. Times. Then! Thank God, Angelo showed up.
“You’re here!” I yelped.
Angelo gathered me into a hug, then moved on to Ben. “So sorry, man. What a journey.”
“Was it horrific?” I asked.
“No way. Just unexpected. Got to see a lot of the beautiful Irish countryside. And those kids are great.”
What kids?
“But I feel bad I wasn’t here sooner for my boy Ben. Your first exhibition is a big deal.”
“You’re here now.”
A ruckus at the door had me turning my head. Holy moly, Ike Blakely had arrived, along with his habitual mood. Which meant that so had the first lot of invitees; Ike had driven them from the Broderick in the Dementia minibus. They were ten minutes early.
Ike made an eek face in my direction.
“Boys.” Urgently, I pawed Ben’s arm. “Action stations. This thing is live.” Then, summoning Ree, “The wine, good boy! Sully! The coat hangers!”
Where the hell was Brigit? We needed all hands .
Angelo and Ben descended on the eleven guests (the capacity of the bus). These, mostly New York collectors, had been a big presence around town for the past two days. A man called Merv was trying to give Ike a fifty-euro tip.
“No need for that.” I smiled. “It was Ike’s pleasure to drive you.”
I pulled Ike away and hissed, “You’re early.”
“Why wouldn’t you let me take your man’s money?”
It was typical of Ike to go on the attack to avoid apologizing. “You’re early,” I repeated. “For the first time in your life, I’d guess.”
“You think I don’t know?” he said, hotly. “I got to the Broderick ten minutes ahead of time. I was afraid of being late because you’d eat the head off me. But Ziryan had them all lined up in their coats, ready to go.” Ziryan and Aber were in charge of the “Town” end of things. “They’re wild keen, probably for a bitta day-drinking.” He looked around. “Vivian not here yet?”
Vivian, of course, was the minder of the “special guest.” Who wasn’t Adam Driver but a solid character actor called Gary Carradine. You’d know the face. He’d popped up in about a thousand movies, often playing a wise stoner. The response when I mentioned him had been, “Nope, never heard of the man.” But as soon as they saw a photo, it was all, “Oh, him ! From that thing, he was a pothead philosophy teacher. Funny fella.”
God alone knew what they were up to right now.
“I’d better get back for the next lot,” Ike said. “But Grinner McGee wasn’t far behind me in the school bus.”
Grinner had been an absolute star. It was obvious where Courtney got her work ethic from. As well as keeping McMunn’s running seven days a week, he drove the yellow school bus, which brought the local kids into Oughterard. He’d volunteered his time and his bus for this weekend and had been back and forth to the private airstrip in Galway, as guests NetJetted in from around the world.
In view of what Ike had said about day-drinking, it was heartening that his busload had surged to inspect Ben’s paintings. In no time, Merv was in conversation with Ferne O’dowd, who was in charge of sales. Next thing, a red dot was on one, two, no three of the works. That man was clearly bursting to offload money.
Lord above, Grinner was here already; it was barely 3 p.m.! His charges were “The Europeans”: British, German, French, Belgian and Dutch art lovers, twenty-seven of them. Bearing trays of wine, Queenie, Ree and a couple of their mates were bobbing around them, like pilot boats around a ship.
What was keeping the food? Oh, thank God . Brigit and Steve had come in, which meant it was ready. Several of Ree’s classmates shoaled away, then returned, bearing trays of miniature food; uptake was enthusiastic. Surprising—because rich people didn’t tend to eat—but good.
“Courtney!” She had returned from the makeup station Teagan was running in the nearest cottage. “You look amazing.”
“If raccoons are amazing.” She assessed the action in the barn. “What the hell happened? They’re here already?”
“Ziryan’s fault, according to Ike.”
“Everything is always someone else’s fault, according to Ike.” The cogs in her head were turning. She grabbed Teagan, who’d just come in. “Go over and help Sully with the coats. Wi-Fi password, madam? Of course, brigitsbarn, all lower case. How can I help, sir? The restroom? Certainly.” She scanned the people around her. Queenie was nearest. “Queenie here will escort you. Phone charger? Right this way…”
Several more red dots were scattered on the wall, looking like an outbreak of some benign pox.
Oh thank God, Ziryan and Aber had arrived. Ziryan could do eighty things at once. But if Ziryan was on site, so was Ike and his second vanload, which meant more people needing attention. Nearly all of the guests were present and correct—and Vivian had finally shown, Gary Carradine in tow. His impressively bushy beard sported a red streak that might be ketchup. Or could be Vivian’s lipstick. Honestly.
Look at her, in spike-heeled shoes and an extremely short denim skirt, her long, pale legs bare. On top she wore a tweed hacking jacket over a beautiful lace blouse.
“Mr Carradine—” My hand was outstretched.
“Gary, Gary—”
“Gary, thanks. I’m Anna. Thank you so much for doing this. What can I get you to drink?”
“Ah, yeah…maybe a little…” He thought about it. “…sherry.”
They can’t help themselves, famous entertainers, they just can’t. Even a B-lister like this man was so used to having his every whim indulged that they evolve past knowing how difficult they’re being. In a blind panic, I was wondering who in town I could persuade to drive out here with a bottle of sherry. Nobody, that was who. Everyone useful had already been pressed into active service.
“Cool,” I said. “Cool, cool, cool. Only thing is, we have none.”
He laughed. “That’s okay. How about a green tea?”
How about a glass of the red wine that’s right there by your elbow?
“Gary!” Ben had popped up. “So good to see you, man.”
“Benjamin!”
Even as we watched, Gary Carradine was finishing a glass of red wine, while reaching for another, then gracefully tipping that second glass down his throat and stretching to pluck a third from a passing tray. He was windmilling in slow motion and if I hadn’t been worried that he’d be too drunk to do his speech, it would have been beautiful.
At three fifty, the Irish guests arrived. Unlike the rest of the invitees, they’d resisted every offer of assistance with transfers, accommodation, directions—anything that might have made it possible to keep tabs on them. They fell in the door, crowing mockingly at something one of them had said. Six people had been invited. Eleven had turned up.
Grabbing drinks, handing overcoats without bothering to get their ticket, they swarmed through the crowd, chatting, laughing, greeting old friends. At four thirty-five, when the rowdiness approached critical mass, I pushed through the bodies to reach Gary. “Time to start.”
“Sure.” He climbed the steps to the temporary stage, which had been constructed, free of charge, by Tipper Mahon.
“Courts,” I hissed. “The wine.”
“On it.”
At speed, she insinuated through the guests, giving our wine servers a discreet shoulder tap: the signal we’d agreed upon to disappear the remaining wine. Ceasing serving felt disgracefully inhospitable but if our guests got messy drunk—and inevitably, with limitless alcohol, some would—they’d have a hangover tomorrow. Forever more they’d associate Ben and M’town with shame and nameless terror and we didn’t want that.
On stage, Gary Carradine tapped the mike. In his gravelly, Hollywood voice, he said, “For those of you who don’t know me, I’m Jeff Bridges.”
We were treated to charming stories about how polite Ben was on set, how rare that was—what about that time Tarantino had threatened to kill him, haha—what a talented artist Ben was, no matter the medium. Proud to know him, proud to call him friend. Gary hit every mark.
Next up was Ben, who, despite his anxiety, was his usual charming self. Scanning the paintings, I couldn’t see a single one which hadn’t been sold. My shoulders were beginning to drop when I sensed a presence low down at my left side. It was a young boy.
Looking up, he said, “Hey, missus.” Then grinned.
I know that smile. Hot-cold with shock, my head whipped around. Joey was at the back of the room, his gaze trained on me. Leaning against him was a boy, older than Hey, missus. In his arms was a younger child.
As soon as Joey’s eyes met mine, he looked away.