The Swan Lake Page 5

  Recently Sinead has discovered she has a strange and thrilling power to render Jamie speechless. They played together as young children, then came long years when he ignored her and she joined the gang of girls who complained loudly at how childish the boys were. Lately she’s been watching him surreptitiously, aware that he avoids her, sloping off with hunched shoulders if she stands too close, his cheeks flaming. Although most of the books she reads have made it clear that the hero pursues the heroine, she has a feeling that, despite his rudeness, he likes her. And Jamie Langford has blossomed into a man recently. Sinead can’t help admiring those legs that seem to go on forever, and the hair that flows down like dark amber onto his collar. He’s staring out at the lake, pretending she doesn’t exist, but she knows he’s very aware of her presence and she’s tempted to lean across and poke him to provoke a reaction, but decides against it. He might take off down the path that she just followed here, or jump into the lake to get away from her.

  ‘What are you guys up to?’ she asks. Jamie grunts, and Bran stifles a giggle then begins to laugh uncontrollably. His mirth is infectious. Jamie’s mouth twitches, and a belly laugh rises that fills the air with rich, deep notes. Sinead looks from one to the other, puzzled. She hates the feeling that she’s being excluded from something. ‘What’s so funny?’ she asks, tossing her hair back with an unconscious gesture. Then she sniffs. ‘Something’s burning. Your biscuit wrapper is on fire.’

  ‘Oh shit!’ Jamie kicks the wrapper aside and stamps on it, while trying unsuccessfully to shield the smouldering joint from her view. Bran is hysterical now. He rolls on the grass, clutching his stomach and making strangled noises, and Jamie glances up in time to see understanding dawn on Sinead’s face. He feels angry and mortified when she raises her eyebrows at him, and smiles knowingly.

  ‘Well, well. What bad boys you are,’ she says, shaking her head. Her auburn hair flows in waves down past her waist, and the sun catches it and sends sparks of fiery gold flying into the air as it moves with her. Sinead’s great-aunt grows a small crop of cannabis in her herb garden, hidden among the tomato plants; she says it helps the twinges in her back, and Sinead is in no doubt about where this was stolen from.

  Her amusement infuriates Jamie even more. He resents it that she is laughing at him, and that his stomach is churning into shreds. He’s angry with himself because the mere sight of her makes him feel like an oaf; incapable of coherent speech, clumsy, uncomfortably aware of his newly feathered chin and the dreams that wake him too early each morning. He picks up the remains of the joint and inhales defiantly, then passes it to her. To his surprise she takes it, and puffs delicately before offering it to Bran, who, calm again, waves it away and closes his eyes. She takes another toke and hands it back to Jamie. Their fingers meet briefly, and he flinches as if he’s been burned. All he can think of as he puts it to his mouth is that her lips have touched it. He’s sure it tastes different, sweeter, and the end is slightly damp. Almost, he can imagine that he has kissed her, and the thought makes him squirm inside.

  They finish the joint, watching each other carefully, eyes narrowed against the smoke. Bran has fallen asleep, and it seems to Jamie that he and Sinead are all alone in the world. Nothing can disturb them. Even the sounds around them have receded. A sense of ease steals over him, and he relaxes.

  Sinead leans back on her elbows and looks across the lake, watching a heron dip its long beak into the water and comes up with a fish. Its neck rises gracefully into the air as it gulps the still-wriggling prey down. Jamie gazes at her profile, entranced. Try as he may, he cannot stop looking at her. The small straight nose and pixie chin are outlined in soft yellow light. Her lips curve upwards at the corners, and he wonders how it would feel, and what she would do, if he were to place a finger against them. His eyes move down to her small, pointed breasts. She stretches out her legs, and his gaze sticks, riveted, at the place where her suntanned thighs emerge from her shorts. He feels utterly, hopelessly lost.

  Without moving or looking at him she asks ‘Why are you staring at me so?’ and Jamie wants the ground to open up and swallow him whole.

  ‘I’m watching the lake,’ he mumbles, and turns onto his side, away from her. She glances at his rigid back, then across at Bran, who is snoring softly, his mouth slightly open. Quickly, before she can change her mind or lose her courage, she edges sideways until she rests against Jamie’s angular shoulder. Waves of heat rise from him, making the air shimmer. His ear is tipped with pink, and the visible curve of his cheek is flushed when she leans forwards. Her hair falls onto his face and slips down over his shoulder like soft warm rain, and her lips are so close that they brush his earlobe. Jamie thinks he might faint. He’s sure that he must be so stoned that he’s having a waking dream.

  ‘Were you really?’ Her voice is quiet; even with her lips to his ear he can hardly hear her, though that could be due to the deafening rushing sound in his head that has pinned him to the spot. He’s afraid to move, but he slowly turns his head as though an invisible thread between them is contracting. Her grey eyes are serious, flecked with green and yellow lights, and he’s finding it hard to breathe because his heart is beating too fast for comfort. When their lips meet, gentle as butterfly wings, a light explodes inside his head, brighter than the sun. He reaches for her, turning his body towards hers, but the kiss breaks and she leaps to her feet, her face scarlet. All he can hear is the pounding of his blood and the rustle of leaves and branches as her feet take her further away with each passing second.

  He touches his lips wonderingly, then sits watching the lake, though all he can really see is her face in every reflection, every leaf, split off into countless fractals that repeat the image to infinity. Every cell in his body rejoices. In the space of a breath his life has changed, and it will never be the same again. This is it, he thinks. This is how it feels to be a man.

  Chapter Nine

  Jack Decker is not a happy man. He has phoned the airline and arranged a one-way ticket for Eden for the following day, Sunday. Tonight is Wembley, the final gig of Eden’s tour, and tickets sold out months ago, within an hour of going on sale. Jack sits brooding in the armchair in his hotel room, tapping his pen against the notepad that rests in his lap, trying to figure out how to get Eden on stage. In his opinion Eden is a mess, but a lucrative mess, and Jack is determined to maintain his prestige as Eden’s manager. If this gig is cancelled the fans will be furious, the press will have a field day, and the bad publicity could cause Eden’s image a lot of damage.

  He could have waited one more fucking day to have a nervous breakdown , Jack thinks viciously, stabbing his pen into the pad until the paper is gouged and useless. These creative types are too highly strung, he muses, and Eden is a disgrace to his position as top dog. He doesn’t even go in for the wild parties that are de rigueur for rock stars of his stature. An idea strikes him, and he grabs the phone and dials.

  Tim, the drummer in Eden’s backing band, answers after several rings. He sounds sleepy and irritable. Jack doesn’t bother with niceties. ‘We have a problem,’ he says brusquely. ‘Eden’s lost it, and the doctor I called in has told him to cancel the gig.’ The stream of invective that pours down the line is so loud that Jack holds the receiver away from his ear until Tim pauses for breath.

  ‘Yeah, yeah, I know. Disaster. We’ll all lose a lot of dosh, mate. Look, can you guys put a bit of pressure on him? You know how he hates to let people down, and it’s the only card that I can think of playing. A good dose of emotional blackmail might get him off his arse and onto the stage.’

  There’s a brief pause while Tim speaks to someone in the background, then the line squawks back into life.

  ‘Great,’ Jack tells him. ‘Right. Get over here as soon as you can. The sound check is in three hours. I’ll keep Eden sweet until you get here.’ He replaces the receiver and runs a hand thoughtfully over his beard, smiling to himself, then walks to Eden’s suite with a spring in his step.

  Eden is
lying on his bed reading a book. His hair is wet from the shower, and he looks more relaxed in old but clean jeans than he did wrapped up in a sheet earlier. The thought of returning home has lifted his spirits, and he sets the book aside and smiles beatifically at Jack when he walks through the door. ‘Did you arrange the flight?’ he asks hopefully. ‘I can call Linda if you haven’t had time to do it. She won’t mind.’

  Jack sits down heavily on the bed, trying to erase the scowl that always appears when Linda is mentioned. She is Eden’s agent, and is an interfering cow as far as Jack’s concerned. The last thing he needs is for her to turn up and start playing the protector; that really would ruin his plans. He quickly arranges what he hopes looks like a genuine smile.

  ‘No worries. Everything’s sorted for tomorrow morning, mate.’ He leans across and punches Eden’s arm playfully. ‘Once you’ve had a holiday you’ll be right as rain. And you can work on some songs for the new album while you’re over there.’

  Eden sits very still, his long legs stretched out, and looks solemnly into Jack’s eyes. He’s like a deer caught in the fucking headlights of an oncoming truck, Jack thinks. Those gentle almond eyes with their vulnerable expression have captured the hearts of women the world over. Jesus, even he feels a brief pang of sympathy – or maybe it’s just heartburn.

  ‘Thanks, Jack. I know this is causing you some real headaches, and I’m sorry. Did you get the pills?’ He sits up higher, tucking his legs up in front of him.

  Jack nods and takes a small bottle from a pocket in his leather jacket. ‘There you go,’ he says jovially, handing the bottle over. ‘Poke a few more down you fast.’ Eden checks the name on the bottle, opens it, and shakes a tablet out, swallowing it down with water from the glass on the bedside locker. He swings his legs off the bed and goes to flick through his travelling CD collection. Jack watches him. He does look better. The look of terror has gone, and his complexion has more colour in it. He stares enviously at Eden as he sorts through the stack, muttering something about an old Irish album that Jack’s never heard of. Jack can almost feel himself turning green. He glares at the profile that drives millions of females from six to sixty to swoon at the thought of him. It’s just not fair, Jack thinks. If he had Eden’s talent and looks (and really, forget the talent, he’d be happy just with this man’s face), he’d be living the high life, not trying to run away from it.

  Eden is the most reluctant rock star that Jack has ever encountered. You ask most of them, he always tells his friends, and they’ll say they went into music because of the easy shags. If you’re talented, so much the better. Usually Jack’s problems involve getting his bands sober or straight enough to perform, and calming down irate hoteliers when rooms have been trashed. Not to mention the parties and the hordes of groupies, some of them the purveyors of unpleasant infections that need private treatment. Eden is quiet, introspective, disinterested in the trappings of fame. And, despite the sacks of fan mail that includes some exceptionally kinky underwear, Jack hasn’t known Eden to have a relationship in the five years since they met. There are rumours of something bad in Eden’s past, but he won’t talk about it and, fool that he is, he sure as hell doesn’t take advantage of opportunities.

  Jack keeps his thoughts to himself when he’s around Eden though. He sometimes has a feeling that, if he’s not careful, Eden will look at him with those gentle almond eyes and know what’s really on his mind, and that would be the end of their association. Eden is big money. Jesus, it’s never occurred to the man that he could buy his own bloody airplane to fly to Ireland in.

  Eden has found the CD and put it on. He waves the sleeve at Jack, his face alight with pleasure even though the song reminds Jack of a load of kids hopping up and down. Jack gets up and goes over to clasp Eden’s shoulder. ‘Look, get some rest,’ he insists. ‘I’ll go and make my peace with that biographer – it was like Niagara Falls down there when I sent her home. Then I’ll come back later and check you’re OK. Everything’s sorted; you don’t need to worry.’

  Eden smiles and runs his fingers through his hair, revealing the scar that runs from his hairline down to his right eyebrow. It changes the pretty-boy effect of his looks, but Jack has never found out how Eden came by it.

  ‘Thanks, Jack,’ he says, patting his manager’s arm. ‘You’re a star. I don’t know what I’d do without you.’

  Jack grins knowingly and winks over his shoulder at Eden as he opens the door, though his expression hardens as soon as he steps into the corridor. Eden lies down with his book again, and relaxes. Jack’s a good man. He can rely on him.

  Chapter Ten

  The builders’ yard is smaller than Astarte expected. She’s had no previous experience of these places, but had somehow imagined it would be a massive conglomeration of piles of wood, men, noise, and machinery. Her grandmother’s house was in dire need of propping up, the roof always leaked, and she quickly learned to have several buckets handy when it rained, but Millie refused to have any work done. She hated the thought of strangers coming into her house, and preferred to wander around getting damp in winter. Astarte’s own house in Portsmouth was bought in a good state of repair, and only needed occasional visits from the plumber when the drains were blocked.

  The place she is now parking in is literally a yard, set beside a small, pretty cottage. Scattered around in fairly orderly piles are planks of wood of various lengths, and in one corner a mud-splashed white van bearing the name ‘O’Malley’s’ in flowing script is parked beside a red Mini Traveller that could almost qualify as an antique but is evidently well cared for. A large shed overshadows one side of the cottage, and the sound of rhythmic sawing issues from it. Astarte feels relieved that someone is here. She can arrange to book the builders then go and relax for the evening. She follows John as he leads the way towards the shed, edging around a concrete mixer that stands by the entrance.

  ‘Hello! Flynn!’ John calls out as they approach the open door. The sawing stops, there’s a clatter, and a man appears in the doorway, shielding his eyes against the sudden glare of daylight.

  ‘John,’ he cries. ‘Good to see you.’ He strides out and claps John on the shoulder, then turns to Astarte. The silence stretches uncomfortably. Cornflower blue eyes framed by curly black lashes meet her startled ones, and widen. She could swear that his pupils are visibly dilating. He stretches out a hand towards her. Embarrassed, she tries to ignore his rippling biceps. The man has no shirt on, and his jeans are so torn that it hardly seems worth wearing them. She’s tempted to tell him to go and get dressed. ‘Hello, I’m Flynn,’ he says. She gives herself a mental shake, and briefly takes his hand. He seems reluctant to let it go, and she thinks irritably ‘Bloody men and their libido,’ as she steps backwards and crosses her arms protectively over her chest.

  Astarte had expected a brace of older men, and is unprepared for a good-looking male in his early thirties, with fair hair that flops over one eye, and a lean, muscular body. It’s clear that he knows he’s attractive. Astarte can’t stand men who are aware of the effect their looks have on women. After the experience with Steve, she’s not sure she likes men at all, and would prefer to have as little to do with them as possible, though she’ll make a grudging concession for John. She steps back a pace as John introduces her and explains that she intends to buy, or rather insists on buying, the ruined cottage.

  ‘Ah, ’tis a beautiful place there, for sure. Did you see the swans?’ Flynn asks. His eyes seemed to be glued to hers, and she can feel herself becoming angry. She nods tersely. ‘I love it around there,’ he tells her. ‘The lake has pike in it. I go fishing there occasionally, though to be honest, I’m not fussed about catching anything. ‘’Tis a good excuse to sit in my boat and savour the peace and quiet. But what am I thinking of? Come and have a cup of tea. I’ll put the kettle on.’

  Astarte has a sudden urge to turn tail and run, but she follows Flynn and John into the cottage, and stands just inside the door, looking around. It’s surprisingly neat
and tidy. The room holds the sink and a small range, a dining table and chairs, a dresser, and a slightly shabby sofa. Two doors lead off into what Astarte guesses must be a bedroom and bathroom. Some abstract paintings hang on the walls, incongruous in the more traditional setting, and several bunches of lavender dangle from a rack over the range, filling the room with their fragrance.

  Astarte notices a photograph on the dresser and squints slightly to look at it, not feeling at ease enough to walk around the room, as she had at John’s house. She’s always found family photographs fascinating, probably because she never saw any of herself with her parents. Leaf has a notion that a photograph can steal your soul away, leaving you like the walking dead. In Astarte’s opinion, her parents are in a zombie-like state most of the time, so she can’t see that it makes much difference.

  The picture shows a couple standing with two teenage boys, outside a different cottage. It looks as though someone has tried to get the family to pose formally, but everyone has assumed a new position just as the shutter clicked. The man is heavily built, with dark hair that sticks out at odd angles around his head. He’s grinning at the taller, brown-haired boy, who is sticking his tongue out at the camera. A pubescent Flynn stands with his arm around his mother.

  Astarte turns guiltily when she hears her name spoken. ‘Pardon?’ she asks.

  Flynn grins. Here is a woman I could fall for, he thinks to himself. She has spirit. And those eyes; well, he could sit and gaze into them all day. She’s not one of these skinny creatures who watches what she eats, either; he can tell that just by looking at her. She has padding. Flynn likes a woman who isn’t afraid to be a woman though, goodness knows, he sees few ladies under the age of his poor dead mother most of the time. Nowadays, many of the girls go to Dublin or Galway as soon as they leave school. But he has a feeling that she’s uncomfortable with him, so he tries not to stare.