Birthday Party, page 27
She took out the thick-nibbed fountain pen that she’d had since school, and a pot of deep purple ink. She’d done a calligraphy course at the local college, and she couldn’t wait. It was going to take her hours to make them look perfect, but it would be worth it. She imagined the invitations perched on A-list mantelpieces all over the country. It was what the Raffertys needed, a good party …
The one thing she didn’t want to think about was what she was going to wear. Delilah had very sweetly given her a cheque to buy whatever she wanted, but Polly had looked and looked online and although she’d seen plenty of dresses she liked, there wasn’t one she’d be able to fit into. And now it was too late to lose all the weight she had been planning to lose when the party was first mentioned.
As if it mattered, she thought glumly, putting an elaborate flourish on the end of the first guest’s name. No one was going to notice her anyway. Dickie Rushe had virtually ignored her at Coco’s screening. Not that she had expected him to sweep her off her feet, but he had been very nice to her when he had come round to lunch, invited her down to watch the filming, and it would have been nice to have been … well, at least acknowledged …
Underneath the desk, Doug the Pug broke wind and gazed up at her, unrepentant.
In a small town, Delilah stopped at a shop that was clearly aimed at tourists: all linen handkerchiefs with shamrocks in the corner. She bought two capacious Arran sweaters – it might be June, but Ireland was running true to form, wet, windy and chilly – a pair of cords, some stout walking boots and a grey tweed flat cap that made her look about twelve. She added a pair of plain sunglasses, a million miles from the large, blingy Loewe pair she usually wore. With her hair tied back she hoped she was unrecognisable – like an outward-bound tourist about to stride up the nearest mountain. She didn’t want people assailing her, asking for her autograph or tips on how to get their cupcakes the same size. Usually she didn’t mind chatting to members of the public in the least, but right now she just wanted to be alone.
Dressed in her new guise, she carried on her journey. At four o’clock that afternoon, she drove over the hump-backed bridge over the river Laune into the market town of Killorglin. Grey stone buildings with gaily painted doors lined the wide street – mostly pubs, bookmakers, hotels and funny little supermarkets. She found a parking place and headed for the tourist office.
‘I want somewhere to stay for a couple of weeks,’ she told the girls behind the desk. ‘Somewhere nice and quiet, but pretty. Which preferably does food, so I don’t have to go out. I’m …’ She searched around in her brain for a plausible explanation. ‘I’m going to be writing my family history. They came from round here.’
The girls nodded. They heard this often enough. Plenty of people came to Kerry in search of their roots. Usually Americans.
‘Your best bet would be Mrs Glass’s place out on the lake,’ said one helpfully, in her singsong lilt. ‘She usually only opens at the weekends out of high season, but seeing as there’s just the one of you …’ She handed her a slim brochure. ‘Will I call her?’
Delilah turned the brochure over in her hands. Gortnaflor, the place was called, which apparently meant Garden of Flowers. It promised traditional accommodation in a splendid lakeside setting, and home-cooked food.
‘Please do.’
‘Will I take your name?’
She hesitated for a moment. She hadn’t thought about a name. Giving her real one was going to be a complete giveaway, if they hadn’t recognised her in her disguise.
She’d give her maiden name, and her childhood nickname.
‘Dee,’ she told her. ‘Dee MacBride.’
Half an hour later, she was on her way, with a garbled set of instructions, and a hastily drawn map.
‘Sure, if you don’t find it, just ask anyone for Gortnaflor,’ the girls told her, and she set off out of Killorglin following the finger sign posts to Caragh Lake.
The scenery was spectacular. Knowing that her journey was soon going to be at an end meant Delilah was more inclined to take in her surroundings. The sky was grey against the bruised purple of the hills, the colours smudged in as if a painter had been over it with a wet brush. The hedges were low and tangled with fuchsia, hot pink amidst the lush greenery. Every now and again she would pass the entrance to a bungalow, often painted a dirty yellow with gateposts proudly displaying a set of eagles or horse heads. She could see scars in the fields where the peat had been cut out. It felt like a very foreign land indeed.
Eventually she turned into a road that followed the curve of the lake, which she couldn’t yet see as it was lined with thick rows of pine trees protecting it from the onlooker’s gaze, as if a glimpse was only the privilege of those who lived on its shores. She slowed down so as not to miss her destination. So many of the gates had no name, it was a guessing game.
Finally she spotted an old wooden sign with painted letters telling her this was Gortnaflor. The drive didn’t look very promising: it was pitted and overgrown. To her surprise it was a good quarter of a mile long, with the trees overhanging – although the rain had stopped the drops collecting on the leaves still fell with a pitter patter. It was eerie, silent but for the raindrops, and from time to time an ethereal wisp of cloud drifted across her path. She felt an increasing sense of unease, not sure what to expect.
Then she rounded the corner and her breath was taken away. The lake loomed before her, the late-afternoon mist rising off it as the sun broke through. It was the most extraordinary colour – a deep emerald green that seemed to glow with phosphorescence. And just by its shores, a grey stone house nestled amongst the trees, its windows winking a coy welcome in the sunlight. The garden surrounding it was a riot of deep pinks and blues and reds, unashamedly glorious and clashing, unrestrained in its ebullience.
She parked the car in the gravelled semi-circle in front of the house and stepped out. All around her she could hear joyous birdsong, the kind you get after heavy rain has just stopped.
She breathed in: the air smelled peaty and damp, but so fresh. She couldn’t fill her lungs with enough of it.
The dark red front door was wide open, leading into a porch area stuffed with wellingtons, fishing tackle, trugs and walking sticks, then on into a large, cool hallway with a stone floor and several doors leading off. There were a few good paintings, and fish in glass cases, a fine grandfather clock, and a vase of carelessly arranged flowers that had obviously been picked from the garden.
‘Hello!’ Delilah called, wondering if there was a reception desk, or a bell. Before she could explore any further, a woman strode out of the kitchen. She must have been in her late seventies, tall, with a cloud of white hair and clothes that had once been expensive – mostly Jaeger, Delilah suspected – but were now rather worn and out of date. But they suited her – tweed and silk and lambswool, and sensible brogues.
She had the gentle Irish accent of one who had spent a lot of time with English people.
‘You found us. Grand. You wouldn’t believe how many people miss the sign. If they’re particularly gullible Americans I tell them the leprechauns have been up to their tricks.’ She gave a wonderfully rich laugh, then looked at Delilah anxiously. ‘You’re not a gullible American, are you? The girls would have said.’
‘No.’ Delilah laughed, warming to her hostess immediately. ‘I’m perfectly English.’
The woman held out a large hand.
‘Elizabeth Glass. Welcome to Gortnaflor. I hope they explained, I only really open at weekends at the moment. So you’ll have to take me as you find me.’
‘Dee MacBride,’ equivocated Delilah smoothly, getting used to her new identity. ‘The house looks wonderful. And I won’t be much trouble.’
Elizabeth peered at her and she suddenly felt the need to validate her reason for being here.
‘I’m going to be writing a history of my family. They’re supposed to be from round here.’ She could go and buy notebooks and pens to back this up tomorrow.
‘Ach, half the world comes from County Kerry, on account of so many people trying to get out of it.’
‘I don’t know why. It looks beautiful.’
‘It’s beautiful all right. But you won’t be getting any Michelin-starred restaurants or nightclubs.’
‘Good,’ said Delilah. ‘I’m delighted to hear it.’
Elizabeth led her up the staircase with its faded rich red carpet to a large bedroom on the first floor. The furniture was antique and well-polished. A vase of sweet peas sat on the bedside table. The bed was wide and high, and made up with proper sheets, thick Irish blankets and a mound of pillows. Best of all was the view of the lake from the window, in front of which was a little writing desk. Perfect for her fictional oeuvre.
‘Will I bring you a cup of tea? And something to eat?’
‘That would be lovely,’ said Delilah gratefully, realising she’d had nothing since her unappetising sandwich early that morning.
Ten minutes later a tray arrived. A silver tea pot, a proper cup and saucer, a plate of thickly buttered soda bread, a glass dish of raspberry jam and another plate with a wedge of sponge cake and a date slice.
‘You’re welcome to have your dinner with me tonight,’ Elizabeth told her. ‘It’ll be nothing fancy. Lamb chops and potatoes, and some vegetables from the garden.’
‘Sounds wonderful.’
Elizabeth left her in peace. Delilah opened her bag and unpacked the few items she’d brought with her, as well as her purchases. She put her toothpaste and toothbrush in the little en-suite bathroom, and carefully positioned her skincare products on the wooden shelf over the sink.
Then she sat on the bed.
Right. So. What was she going to do with the rest of her life?
There was no sound in the room but the ticking of a carriage clock on top of the dressing table. It was just over twenty-four hours since she’d been dropped from her show and her book had been dumped. Coming up to a day since she’d found her husband in bed with another woman. Until now she had got by on the adrenalin of running away. Now she had stopped, she wasn’t sure what to do. She felt a tiny swoop of panic in her chest as her maternal instinct kicked in. She really should phone the girls and see if they were each all right.
Of course they were, she told herself, and decided to run herself a bath before going down to supper. The bath was scarred with rust stains, and the water came out in juddering spurts, but it was boiling hot and the lavender salts provided soon filled the air with their pungent scent. As she slid into the warmth, Delilah felt comforted and cleansed, and she lay there for almost an hour before finally pulling out the plug.
She went down to supper in her new cords and a jumper, her face free of make-up and her hair in a long plait. She felt like an impostor, but she quite enjoyed her new role. It was certainly quicker to get ready.
Elizabeth had laid supper for them in the dining room, and lit a peat fire. They sat at a round mahogany table set with well-worn Irish silver, crystal and linen, all of which had obviously been in the family for generations. Around the dark red walls were ancestral portraits and hunting scenes.
‘All my husband’s mad relatives.’ Elizabeth explained them away with a wave of her hand.
Her husband had been the local doctor, taking over from his father before him. He had retired fifteen years ago, and died five. She hadn’t wanted to leave Gortnaflor.
‘Of course not!’ exclaimed Delilah. ‘Why would you?’
She’d been running it as a bed and breakfast ever since.
‘Though I do dinner for guests I like.’ She smiled, then her face became sad. ‘It’s a struggle. The garden’s a mind of its own. There’s just me and Johnny Roche keep it in hand. But I love it. I’m seventy-eight next birthday, but I’d rather die here struggling than bored to tears in one of those terrible homes. I’ve a girl who comes in from the village to help with the cleaning. Regine.’ She poured Delilah a tiny glass of her raspberry liqueur. ‘It’s a magical place, Gortnaflor. It helps people forget.’
‘Then maybe I was meant to come here.’
Elizabeth’s wise blue eyes gazed at her. Delilah blushed, wondering if she’d given too much away.
‘It was the Tourist Board sent you here, not the leprechauns,’ said Elizabeth gently. ‘But we’ll do our best.’
At ten o’clock, Delilah climbed the stairs. She was exhausted. She opened the window in the bedroom and leaned out into the velvety blackness, relishing the silence, and the cool night air on her face.
She climbed into bed. The sheets were heavy Irish linen, cold at first, and rather scratchy, but somehow they moulded themselves to her body and the blankets soon warmed her up and before she knew it she had drifted off into the most deliciously healing sleep.
The next morning she woke with a lump of dread in her throat and a sudden sense of panic at what she had done.
She had spent so much of her life being responsible that suddenly doing something rather reckless didn’t sit easily with her. She started to run through all the people who would be affected by her disappearance, and felt increasingly uncomfortable. What would the girls think? Did they even know? And poor Polly would be getting the brunt of the drama, running round like a headless chicken. Tony, too, would be pulling his hair out.
She didn’t care how Raf was feeling. Not one jot. In fact, she hoped he hadn’t slept a wink all night.
However, she did feel she ought to do something to stop everyone panicking. She had effectively disappeared without trace. What if the police had been called? They would be combing the country now, trying to track her down. And she supposed they would, eventually – they would find her details on the ferry booking system, and where she had spent money.
The last thing she wanted was to be found. She knew the police wouldn’t do anything until she had been missing for twenty-four hours – it was just coming up to thirty since she had left Bath – so if she got in contact any search would be called off.
She got up and dressed quickly, and went down for breakfast. She could only manage a piece of toasted soda bread and some thick-cut marmalade.
‘I don’t suppose you’ve got a computer here?’ she asked Elizabeth, not holding out much hope. There wasn’t even a television as far as she could see.
‘I have not,’ replied Elizabeth. ‘My son’s always on at me to get one. And a mobile phone. But I can honestly say I have never felt the need for either.’
‘You lucky thing,’ said Delilah. ‘My whole life is ruled by emails and text messages.’
‘The girls in the tourist office will let you use theirs. I’ll ring them.’
An hour later, Delilah was opening her Hotmail account on the Tourist Board computer system. She chewed the side of her finger as she composed a suitable missive. She’d send it to Polly, who was at the centre of operations.
Dear Polly, she wrote. Just a note to tell you not to panic. I expect you’ve heard what’s happened by now. I’ve gone away for a while to get my head together. Please look after Doug for me, or if you can’t get Tyger to move into The Bower. I’m safe and well. Love to the girls. And to you. Delilah
She didn’t put a kiss. She wasn’t in a kissy mood. She pressed Send, then felt a sense of relief. She’d done the responsible thing – nobody could accuse her of a melodramatic disappearance – and the police wouldn’t be interested. She was safe in her little bubble for the time being.
Twenty-Seven
Polly put her hands over her ears while Tony exploded.
He had turned up at The Bower that morning to find Delilah missing, and quickly put together the missing pieces of the jigsaw, finding out from Miriam that both Delilah’s show and her book had been dropped. He got straight on the phone to Raf.
‘Why the hell didn’t she tell me?’ Tony thundered. ‘She knows the bloody rules. It would be pretty embarrassing if the press started phoning for comments and I didn’t even know. What’s she thinking of?’
‘Um …’ Raf said awkwardly. ‘There might be something else on her mind.’
‘What? What else could be more important?’
Raf told him about Pandora.
Tony hit the roof.
‘For God’s sake, haven’t you learned from your mistakes? You’ve got the chance for a clean slate, a new beginning, and you go and fuck it up. Royally.’
‘Nobody knows. We were very discreet.’
‘For fuck’s sake, don’t be so naive. Pandora might as well be walking around with an I’ve shagged Raf Rafferty T-shirt on. Where is she? I need to talk to her.’
‘Calm down, Tony. It’s all cool. Pandora knows to keep her mouth shut.’
‘She’s an actress. If she thinks she can get some good publicity out of this, she’ll squeal. I need to make sure she knows exactly what this all means. I’ll come down. Take her out for lunch. Put her in the picture.’
‘OK.’ Raf knew there was no point in trying to stop Tony when he was on a roll. After all, this was what he was being paid for. And he did have a point.
‘We need a game plan. We don’t want the press finding out Delilah’s done a runner. If we’re going to salvage anything from this fiasco, we’ve got to be watertight. I’ll draft a press release about her being dumped and get it sent out. It’s better they find out from us than someone leaks it.’ He paused momentarily for breath. ‘Tell Pandora I’ll be there by one o’clock.’ And he slammed the phone down.
Polly looked at him.
‘Raf and Pandora Hammond,’ Tony told her. ‘Caught in delicto by Delilah. Full marks to him for a monumental cock-up. I knew this would happen. I warned him to be careful. I must admit, I had my money on Genevieve Duke, but at least she would have had the sense not to get caught. Not like some publicity-hungry little slut—’
