Chapter Twenty-Three

it took ivan’s and elizabeth’s lips a while to pull away from one

another, but when they finally did, Elizabeth half skipped, half walked with tingling lips along the path to her office. She felt if she lifted her feet any higher from the ground, she would float away. Humming as she tried to

control her non-flight, she bumped straight into Mrs. Bracken, who stood in her doorway, eyeing up the tourists across the road.

“Jesus!” Elizabeth jumped back in fright.

“Is the son of God, who sacrificed his life and died on the cross to

spread the Lord’s word and to give you a better life, so don’t take his name in vain,” Mrs. Bracken rattled off. She nodded in the direction of the café.

“What are those foreigners up to at all, at all?”

Elizabeth bit her lip and tried not to laugh. “I have no idea. Why don’t you join them?”

“Mr. Bracken wouldn’t be pleased about that carry-on at all.” She must

have sensed something in Elizabeth’s voice, because her head shot up, her eyes narrowed, and she studied Elizabeth’s face intently. “You look different.

You’ve been spending time up at that tower?” Mrs. Bracken accused her.

“Of course I have, Mrs. Bracken, I’m designing the place, remember?”

Mrs. Bracken’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Your hair’s down.”

“And?” Elizabeth asked, moving into the fabric shop to see if her order had arrived.

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“And Mr. Bracken used to say beware of a woman who drastically

changes her hair.”

“I would hardly call letting my hair down a drastic change.”

“Elizabeth Egan, for you of all people, I would call letting your hair

down a drastic change. By the way,” she moved on quickly, not allowing

Elizabeth to get a word in, “there’s a problem with the order that came in today.”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“It’s colorful. ” She said the word as if it were a disease and, widening her eyes, she emphasized the next word even more: “Red.”

Elizabeth smiled. “It’s raspberry, not red, and what’s wrong with a bit of color?”

“What’s wrong with a bit of color, she says.” Mrs. Bracken raised her

voice an octave. “Up until last week, your world was brown. It’s the tower that’s doing it to you. The American fella, isn’t it?”

“Oh, don’t you start with that tower talk as well.” Elizabeth dismissed her. “I’ve been up there all week and it’s just a crumbling wall.”

“A crumbling wall is right,” she said, eyeing her. “And it’s the Ameri-

can fella that’s knocking it.”

Elizabeth rolled her eyes. “Good-bye, Mrs. Bracken.” She ran upstairs

to her office. On her entry, a pair of legs sticking out from underneath Poppy’s desk greeted her. They were men’s legs, brown cords with brown

shoes moving and squiggling around.

“Is that you, Elizabeth?” a voice shouted out.

“Yes, Harry.” Elizabeth smiled. Oddly, she was finding the two people

who usually irritated her on a daily basis strangely lovable. Ivan was certainly passing the silly smile test.

“I’m just tightening up this chair, Poppy told me it was acting up on ya last week.”

“It was, Harry, thanks.”

“No problem.” His legs slithered up under the desk and disappeared

as he struggled to his feet. Banging his head against the desk, he finally appeared, his bald head covered by spaghetti strings of hair brushed over from one side to the other.

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“Ah, there you are,” he said, popping his head up, spanner in hand. “It shouldn’t spin on its own anymore. Funny that it did that.” He gave the nut one last turn, then looked at her with the same expression as the one he had when examining the chair. “You look different.”

“No, I’m still the same,” she said, walking through to her office.

“It’s the hair. The hair’s down. I always say it’s better for a woman’s hair to be down and—”

“Thank you, Harry. Will that be all?” Elizabeth said firmly, ending the conversation.

“Oh, right so.” His cheeks flushed as he waved her off and made his

way downstairs to no doubt gossip to Mrs. Bracken about Elizabeth’s hair being down.

Elizabeth settled down and tried to concentrate on her work, but found

herself gently placing her fingers on her lips, reliving the kiss with Ivan.

“OK,” Poppy said, entering Elizabeth’s office and placing a piggy bank

on her desk. “See this here?”

Elizabeth nodded at the little pig. Becca stood at the door in the

background.

“Well, I’ve come up with a plan.” She gritted her teeth. “Every time you start to hum that bloody song of yours, you have to put money in the pig.”

Elizabeth raised her eyebrows in amusement. “Poppy, did you make

this pig?” She stared at the papier-mâché pig sitting on her desk.

Poppy tried to hide her smile. “It was a quiet night last night, but seriously, it’s getting beyond irritating now, Elizabeth, you’ve got to believe me,” Poppy pleaded. “Even Becca is sick of it.”

“Is that right, Becca?”

Becca’s cheeks pinked and she walked away from the doorway quickly,

not wanting to be dragged into it.

“Great backup,” Poppy grumbled.

“So who gets the money?” Elizabeth asked.

“The pig. He’s raising funds for a new sty. Hum a song and support a

pig,” she said, quickly thrusting the pig in Elizabeth’s face.

Elizabeth tried not to laugh. “Out.”

Moments later, after they had settled down and gone back to work,

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Becca came charging into the office, placed the pig on the table, and said with wide eyes, “Pay!”

“Was I humming it again?” Elizabeth asked in surprise.

“Yes,” she hissed, and turned on her heel.

Later that afternoon, Becca brought a visitor into Elizabeth’s office.

“Hello, Mrs. Collins,” Elizabeth said politely, nerves forming in the pit of her stomach. Mrs. Collins ran the B&B Saoirse had been staying in for the past few weeks. “Please, sit down.” She displayed the chair before her.

“Thank you.” Mrs. Collins smiled, taking a seat. “And call me Mar-

garet.” She looked around the room like a frightened child who had been called to the principal’s office. She kept her hands clasped on her lap as though afraid to touch anything; her blouse was buttoned up to her chin.

“I’ve come to you about Saoirse; I’m afraid I haven’t been able to pass on any of your notes and phone messages to her over the past few days,”

Margaret said uncomfortably, fiddling with the end of her blouse. “She

hasn’t been back to the B&B for three days now.”

“Oh,” Elizabeth said, feeling embarrassed. “Thank you for informing

me, Margaret, but there’s no need to worry, I expect she’ll be calling me soon.” She was tired of being the last to know everything, of being informed of her own family’s activities by complete strangers. Despite being completely distracted by Ivan, Elizabeth had tried to keep her eye on

Saoirse as much as she could over the past weeks. Saoirse’s hearing was on in a few weeks, but Elizabeth hadn’t been able to find her anywhere. Anywhere being the pub, her dad’s, or the B&B.

“Well, actually it’s not that, it’s just that, well, it’s a very busy period for us. There are a lot of tourists coming through and looking for boarding and we need to use Saoirse’s room.”

“Oh.” She sprang back in her chair, feeling foolish. Of course. “That’s completely understandable,” Elizabeth said awkwardly. “I can call around after work to collect her things, if you like.”

“Oh, that won’t be necessary.” Margaret smiled sweetly, then shouted,

“BOYS!”

In walked Margaret’s two young teenage sons, each with a suitcase in

his hand.

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“I took the liberty of gathering her things together,” Margaret continued, her smile still plastered across her face. “Now all I need is the three days’

pay and that will be everything settled.”

Elizabeth froze. “Margaret, I’m sure you’ll understand that Saoirse’s

bills are her own. Just because I’m her sister it doesn’t mean I can be expected to pay, she will return soon I’m sure.”

“Oh, I know that, Elizabeth.” Margaret smiled, revealing a pink lipstick stain on her front tooth. “But seeing as mine is currently the only B&B that will allow Saoirse to stay, I’m sure you’ll make an allow—”

“How much?” Elizabeth snapped.

“Fifteen per night,” Margaret said sweetly.

Elizabeth rooted through her wallet; she sighed. “Look, Margaret, I

don’t seem to have any ca—”

“A check will do fine,” she sang.

Handing over the check to Margaret, for the first time in a while Elizabeth stopped thinking about Ivan and started worrying about Saoirse. Just like old times.

Ten p.m. in downtown Manhattan, Elizabeth and Mark stared out of the

huge black windows of the 114th-floor bar that Elizabeth had finished designing. Tonight was the opening night of Club Zoo, an entire floor dedicated to animal prints, fur couches, and cushions with greenery and bamboo sporadically placed. It was everything she loathed in a design—she preferred the more minimalist approach—but she was given a brief and she had to stick to it. It was a huge success, everyone was enjoying the night, and a live performance of drummers performing jungle beats and the happy sound of con-

stant conversation added to the party atmosphere. Elizabeth and Mark

clinked their champagne glasses together and looked outside to the sea of skyscrapers, the random lights dotting the buildings like checkers, and the tide of yellow cabs below them.

“To another of your successes,” Mark toasted, sipping from the

bubble-filled glass.

Elizabeth smiled, feeling proud. “We’re a long way from home now,

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aren’t we?” she pondered, looking out at the view and seeing the reflection of the party going on behind her. She saw the owner, Henry Hakala, making his way through the crowd.

“Elizabeth, there you are.” He held out his arms and greeted her.

“What is the star of the night doing in the corner, away from everyone?” He smiled.

Elizabeth smiled. “Henry, this is Mark Leeson, my boyfriend. Mark,

this is Henry Hakala, owner of Club Zoo.” She introduced the two.

“So you’re the person that’s kept my girlfriend out late every night,”

Mark joked, taking Henry’s hand.

Henry laughed. “She’s saved my life. Three weeks to do all this?” He

motioned around at the room decorated vibrantly in zebra print, bear skins draped on the couches, leopard print lying across the timber floors, enormous plants sitting in chrome pots, and bamboo lining the bar area. “It was a tough deadline and I knew she’d do it, but I didn’t think she’d do it this well.”

He smiled at her gratefully. “Anyway, the speeches are about to begin, I just want to say a few words, mention a few investors’ names,” he muttered under his breath. “Thank all you glorious people that worked so hard, so don’t go anywhere, Elizabeth, because I’ll have all eyes on you in a minute.”

“Oh.” Elizabeth blushed. “Please don’t.”

“Believe me, you’ll have a few hundred more offers after I do,” he said before he made his way toward the microphone, decorated with a vine of

leaves.

“Excuse me, Ms. Egan.” A member of the bar staff approached her.

“You have a phone call just outside at the main desk.”

Elizabeth frowned. “Me? A phone call? Are you sure?”

“You are Ms. Egan, yes?”

She nodded, feeling confused. Who would be ringing her here?

“It’s a young woman, says she’s your sister,” he explained quietly.

“Oh.” Her heart beat wildly. “Saoirse?!” she asked, shocked.

“Yes, that’s it,” the young man said, feeling relieved. “I wasn’t sure how to pronounce it.”

At that moment, it felt like the music got louder, the drumming beats

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were pounding her head; the fur prints all coming together in a blur.

Saoirse never called her; something had to be seriously wrong.

“Leave it, Elizabeth,” Mark said rather forcefully. “Tell the woman on

the phone that Ms. Egan is busy at the moment,” Mark said to the member of staff. “This is your night, enjoy it,” he said to Elizabeth softly.

“No, no, don’t tell her that,” Elizabeth stammered. It was ten p.m. in

New York, which meant it was three a.m. in Ireland, why was Saoirse calling so late? “I’ll take the call, thank you,” she said to the young man.

“Elizabeth, the speech is about to begin,” Mark warned her as the room

began to quieten down and people gathered before the microphone. “You

can’t miss it,” he hissed. “This is your moment.”

“No, no I can’t.” She trembled and she left him, heading in the direc-

tion of the phone.

“Hello?” she said a few moments later, the concern evident in her

voice.

“Elizabeth?” Saoirse’s voice sobbed.

“It’s me, Saoirse, what’s wrong?” Elizabeth’s heart thudded in her

chest.

There was silence in the club as Henry made his speech.

“I just wanted to . . .” Saoirse trailed off and was silent.

“You wanted to what? Is everything OK?” she asked hurriedly.

The crowd laughed loudly inside as Henry’s voice boomed, “And last

but not least, I’d like to thank the wonderful Elizabeth Egan from Morgan Designs for designing this place so wonderfully in such a short space of time. She’s created something that’s completely different from what’s out there right now, making Club Zoo the most popular, trendy, and newest

club on the scene, guaranteed to have people lining up down the block to get in. She’s down the back there somewhere. Elizabeth, give us all a wave, let them know who you are so they can steal you away from me.”

Everyone turned around in silence, searching for the designer.

“Oh,” Henry’s voice echoed. “Well, she was there a second ago, maybe

someone’s snapped her up already to do a job.”

Everyone laughed.

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Elizabeth looked inside and saw Mark standing alone with two cham-

pagne glasses in his hand, shrugging at everyone who had turned to him

and laughing. Pretending to laugh.

“Saoirse.” Elizabeth’s voice broke. “Please tell me if there’s something wrong. Have you gotten into trouble again?”

Silence. Instead of the weak sobbing voice Elizabeth had heard previ-

ously, Saoirse’s voice had become strong again. “No,” she snapped. “No, I’m fine. Everything’s fine. Enjoy your party,” and she hung up.

Elizabeth sighed and slowly hung up the phone.

Inside, the speech had finished and the drums had started up again, the conversation and drinks continued to flow.

Neither she nor Mark was in the mood to party.

Elizabeth could see a giant figure looming in the distance as she drove down the road that led to her father’s bungalow. She had left work early and was searching for Saoirse; so far nobody had seen her for days, not even the local publican, which made a change.

It had always been a difficulty trying to direct people to the bungalow, as it was so cut off from the rest of the town. The road didn’t even have a name, which Elizabeth thought was appropriate; it was the road that people forgot.

Postmen and milkmen new to the job always took a few days to find the address, politicians never canvassed to their door, there were no trick-or-treaters. As a child, Elizabeth had tried to convince herself that her mother had simply gotten lost and couldn’t find her way home. She remembered

sharing her theory with her father, who gave a smile so small it was hardly a smile at all and replied, “You know, you’re not far wrong there, Elizabeth.”

That was the only explanation, if you could even call it that, which she got. They never discussed her mother’s disappearance, neighbors and family visiting hushed when Elizabeth was near. Nobody would tell her what had happened and she didn’t ask. She didn’t want that uncomfortable hush to descend on them or for her father to storm out of the house when her mother’s name was mentioned. If not mentioning her mother ensured that

everyone was happy, then Elizabeth was happy to oblige, as usual.

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She didn’t think she really wanted to know anyway. The mystery of not

knowing was more enjoyable. She would create scenarios in her head, painting her mother in exotic and exciting worlds and she would fall asleep

imagining her mother stranded on a desert island, eating bananas and coconuts and sending messages in a bottle to Elizabeth for help. She would check the coastline every morning with her father’s binoculars for sign of a bobbing bottle.

Another theory was that she had become a Hollywood movie star. Eliz-

abeth sat with her nose almost up against the TV screen for every Sunday matinee, searching for her mother’s grand debut. But she grew tired of

searching, hoping, imagining, and not asking and eventually she no longer even wondered.

The figure in the cottage didn’t move from the window of Elizabeth’s

old bedroom. Usually her father would be waiting in the garden for her.

Elizabeth hadn’t been inside its walls for years. She waited outside for a few minutes and when there was no sign of her father or of Saoirse, she got out of the car and slowly pushed open the gate, goose pimples rising on her skin from the noise of the gate’s hinges. She wobbled up the uneven stone slabs in her high heels. Weeds popped up from their homes in the cracks to study the stranger trespassing on their territory.

She knocked twice on the green-paint-flecked door and quickly pulled

her fist away, cradling it as though it had been burned. There was no answer, yet she knew there was someone in the bedroom to the right. She held out her hand and pushed open the door. There was a stillness inside and the familiar musty smell of what she once considered home hit her and stopped her in her tracks for a few moments. Once she had adjusted to the emotions the scent had woken up inside her, she stepped inside.

She cleared her throat. “Hello?”

No answer.

“Hello?” she called more loudly. Her grown-up voice sounded wrong

in her childhood home.

She began to walk toward the kitchen, hoping her father would hear

her moving around and come out to her. She had no desire to revisit her old bedroom. Her high heels echoed against the stone floor, another sound 180

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unfamiliar to the house. She held her breath as she stepped into the kitchen and dining area. Everything and nothing was the same. The smells, the

clock on the mantel, the lace tablecloth, the rug, the chair by the fireplace, the red teapot on the green Aga, the curtains. Everything still had its place, had aged and was faded with time, but still belonged. It was as though no one had lived there since Elizabeth had left. Maybe no one had truly lived there.

She stayed standing in the center of the room for a while, eyeing the or-naments, reaching out to touch them but only allowing her fingers to linger.

Nothing had been disturbed; she felt as though she were in a museum, even the sounds of tears, laughter, fights, and love had been preserved and hung in the air like cigarette smoke.

Eventually she couldn’t take it anymore; she needed to talk to her father to find out where Saoirse was and in order to do that she needed to go to her bedroom. She slowly turned the brass doorknob that was still hanging loose from her childhood. She pushed the door open, didn’t step in, and didn’t look around. She just looked straight at her father, who sat in an armchair in front of the window, not moving.

Date: 2015-04-20; view: 380