The Swan Lake Page 6

  ‘I was just wondering whether you take sugar in your tea,’ he says, holding up a bowl and spoon. She nods, and asks for two spoonfuls. ‘That’s my family,’ he says, gesturing towards the photograph. ‘There’s just my father and meself left here now’.

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Astarte murmurs nervously.

  ‘Well, my mother died six years ago, God rest her soul. And my brother Danny is in America with his wife, making money and babies. My father runs the farm now. I’m a great disappointment, wanting to be a builder and not a farmer. But I never did enjoy sticking my fist up the rear ends of cows, and a plank of wood rarely kicks you.’ Flynn suddenly stops, a hand moving to his mouth. ‘I do apologise for being crude! Sure and I’m quite forgetting my manners!’ he tells her seriously, then grins.

  Astarte merely raises an eyebrow, and quickly looks across to John. This man, Flynn, is so sure of himself that she feels like telling him to go to hell. She doesn’t like the feeling of being watched as if she’s someone’s dinner. He’s almost licking his lips, but she needs a builder and he seems to be the only one around.

  John appears highly amused, and she casts him a disdainful glance. ‘I need to find someone to rebuild the cottage,’ Astarte says firmly, feeling more comfortable about talking business than exchanging personal details.

  Flynn smiles into her eyes as he handed her a cup of tea. ‘Well, you’ve come to the right place, Astarte,’ he says in a voice like liquid honey. ‘I’m your man.’

  Astarte feels herself turn pink with annoyance. Who does he think he is, strolling around with next to no clothes on, trying (and succeeding) to rattle her? This man makes her feel like an awkward adolescent. Still standing up, even though the men are now seated, she delves into her bag to find her notebook and pen, and moves forward to lay them on the table.

  ‘How many of you are there?’ she asks, hoping Flynn is in a partnership and she can employ the other partner.

  ‘Just the one,’ Flynn replies. By now John is openly laughing as he pretends to sip his tea. Astarte ignores him.

  ‘I meant how many people work here?’ she says coolly. The situation is irritating her beyond belief, and she realises with horror that John will be giving a full report to Siobhan when he arrives back home.

  ‘As I said,’ Flynn replies with a devastating smile, ‘Just the one. Yours truly.’ He points to his chest with his index finger, and Astarte refuses to look at it. She keeps her eyes trained on his face, wishing he would at least put a shirt on.

  ‘Can you manage all that work by yourself?’ she asks, aware that she sounds prim and priggish. All I want, God, she prays silently, is an old, decrepit, efficient builder to make my cottage solid. Take this arrogant, talkative man away, please. If anyone’s listening in Astarte’s somewhat hazy idea of heaven, they don’t bother to respond.

  Flynn stands up and walks quickly across to the dresser. He takes out a folder from one of the doors, then brings it back to the table and opens it out.

  ‘Do sit down, Astarte, and I’ll show you these. It’s my CV,’ he says. His voice is more businesslike now; he can’t bear to tease her any more, and besides, he could lose a commission. She clearly isn’t happy about him. Relieved at the change of tone, she sits down and looks at the photographs that he spreads across the table. ‘These are before, and these are after,’ he tells her. She draws a sharp intake of breath.

  Several old ruins have been transformed into idyllic-looking cottages. The stonework is perfect, windows gleam like small eyes, and she’s reminded of an old storybook that Millie showed her once about a gingerbread house. She picks up the photographs and studies them closely, voicing her amazement and admiration. Flynn’s smile stretches from ear to ear and his eyes twinkle merrily as he describes how he did the work, and how long it took.

  Astarte finally looks up and meets his eyes. Her smile matches his own and he heaves an inward sigh of relief. He hasn’t blown it, after all, though it seemed close a moment ago. She’s pretty, but uptight, it seems.

  ‘When can you start work?’ she asks.

  ‘In a month or so,’ he tells her. ‘Once I’ve finished another cottage. Any time after that will be fine.’

  ‘You’re on!’ says Astarte, with feeling. ‘John’s arranging the contract, so perhaps you could take a look around and give me a quote for the work. I could ring you before I move over, and then when I get here we can talk it through in detail.’ She looks askance at John, who has been remarkably silent. He nods in agreement. Flynn takes a business card out of the folder and passes it across the table it to her, and she puts it in her bag with the unused notebook. Astarte stands up and holds out her hand to shake Flynn’s, then John’s. ‘Can I call around tomorrow?’ she asks John.

  ‘For sure,’ he says. ‘Come in the morning and I’ll have the contract ready for you, as you’re so keen on this cottage. I’ll walk to the car with you.’

  Flynn accompanies them as far as the shed, then shakes John’s hand and turns to Astarte.

  ‘’Tis a pleasure to meet you, Astarte,’ he says, with a slight mock bow. ‘I’ll look forward to seeing you again in a few weeks.’

  Astarte is deep in thought as they stroll to their vehicles. As she reaches the car she turns to John and thanks him for his help. ‘Those cottages that Flynn built are incredible,’ she muses.

  ‘Yes, he knows his business. As he told you, Astarte, he’s your man.’ John grins and winks at Astarte, who merely raises a disdainful eyebrow at him before walking to her car and starting the engine.

  Chapter Eleven

  Eden is fast asleep on top of the bed, his dark hair separated into soft feathers that lie across his cheeks and spread out behind him over the white pillowcase. The book he was reading earlier has fallen to the floor, and its pages rustle as they are touched by gusts of cool air that lift the net curtains in a hazy dance. When Tim, Rob, and Col from the band knock loudly and insistently on the door, Eden wakes in a panic and it takes a moment for him to get his bearings before he calls out, ‘Who’s there?’

  ‘Let us in, man, we brought you some Lucozade,’ Tim yells. Eden opens the door. They stand awkwardly for a moment and Tim hands over a bottle of chilled Lucozade. ‘Thought it might help boost your energy, man,’ he says in response to Eden’s thanks. He strolls over to the chair and sits down, while Rob and Col lean against the nearby wall.

  The three of them have been with Eden since Jack took over as his manager. Hand-picked by Jack, they are all good, very good, musicians, carefully chosen for their willingness to accept the perks of fame while allowing Eden to shine in the spotlight. But lately they’ve been muttering a lot between themselves, resenting Eden’s ability to capture the hearts of millions. There have been secret talks about going their own way, with Col, the lead guitarist, as the front man. Col’s blond, Californian good looks are an excellent foil to Eden’s dark Celtic appeal, and he’s gathering a strong fan base among the teenagers. His voice doesn’t have Eden’s raw distinctive quality, but he can carry a tune and they figure that they can just turn the volume of the bass and lead guitar up a few notches and capitalise on the glamour that being Eden’s band has brought them.

  Rob, the bassist, pulls a bottle of whiskey out of his jacket pocket, uncaps it, and takes a swig. He offers it to Eden, who shakes his head.

  ‘We heard you were feeling under the weather,’ Rob says. ‘Anything we can do to help?’

  Eden shrugs his shoulders. ‘Look, I’m sorry, guys. I can’t do the gig tonight. I’m having really bad panic attacks. It’s been a long tour, and I’m wiped out.’

  Col steps forward. His voice is soft, reassuring. ‘Eden, man, it’s only one gig out of thousands. We understand. But think about it – two hours of your life, that’s all it is. Once you’re up there you’ll hardly notice the time passing. You’re used to it. It’s almost habit by now.’

  Rob takes another swig of whiskey and stretches out on Eden’s bed. ‘Two hours,’ he muses. ‘And all those
happy fans, going home with a special memory to share with their friends. Their night of seeing Eden McDonagh in the flesh. It seems such a shame to disappoint them. You’ve never let your fans down before, Eden.’

  Eden reflects that he’d never noticed how shark-like Rob’s smile was, with his bleached teeth and sharp incisors.

  ‘I really am sorry,’ Eden says. ‘I feel bad about it. But just the thought of being up there freaks me out.’

  Tim rises from the chair and walks to the window. He stands looking out, his back to Eden, and drums his fingertips on the window ledge. ‘All those people. We won’t think about how they’ll feel, or how long the kids saved up for tonight’s tickets. We won’t think about how it was them who made us who we are, who buy every record we make, who voted you the most gorgeous man in the music business. That would just make us feel bad, wouldn’t it, Eden, if we thought about it? And we can’t go feeling bad, can we?’ He swings round and stands, legs splayed, facing Eden. His voice rises. ‘You’ve performed with flu, with tonsillitis when you could just about get your voice out, even with a fucking kidney infection. I can’t believe you’d let a little fucking panic attack keep you off the stage. I can’t believe you’d be so fucking unprofessional as to let down your fans.’

  Eden’s breath is coming more rapidly. He tries to consciously slow it down as his heartbeat thuds to a terrifying rhythm. ‘Don’t do this to me, guys,’ he pleads, sitting in the chair. ‘You can’t imagine how it feels.’

  ‘No,’ snarls Tim, ‘but I can fucking well imagine how the fans are going to feel when they hear you’ve let them down. Shit, man, it’ll tear your reputation to shreds.’ He stands over Eden, enunciating slowly. ‘You are going to do this gig. We will be right there behind you, supporting you. And you will thank us afterwards for not letting you back out of it.’

  Rob sits up and swings his legs to the floor. ‘Eden, mate, you don’t have any choice. We want you to do it. Jack wants you to do it. The fans especially want you to do it. Even Linda wants you to do it.’

  ‘You’ve spoken to Linda?’ Eden asks.

  ‘Yep, an hour ago. She’s in a meeting all evening. They’re eight hours behind us in L.A., and her phone’s switched off now, otherwise I’d tell you to ring her to confirm. But she said you should do it.’ Rob looks hard at Eden. ‘You know she always has your best interests at heart, even though she’s busted the balls of every other guy in the business.’

  Eden closes his eyes. ‘Looks as if we’re playing Wembley, then,’ he murmurs. Tim cuffs him on the shoulder.

  ‘That’s the spirit. Come on, man, let’s get to the sound check. It’ll all be over before you know it.’ He pulls Eden to his feet. ‘Party time!’ he says.

  When Eden opens his eyes he feels woozy and disoriented. He’s in a narrow bed, surrounded by machines. A woman wearing a nurse’s uniform is standing beside him holding his wrist. Her eyes are soft and compassionate, and he tries to move his arm but something tugs at it, confining him. He raises his eyes to see a drip set up above him, and hazily follows the course of the thin tube that snakes downwards to disappear into his wrist. He feels deathly ill.

  ‘Where am I?’ he croaks. The nurse smiles and releases his wrist.

  ‘You’re in hospital, Eden. You collapsed on stage last night, but you’ll be fine now,’ she tells him gently.

  ‘What happened?’ he asks, clutching at her hand as she withdraws it. Later she will tell her friends that Eden McDonagh held her hand. She will remember this all her life, and it will warm her heart in the dark times.

  ‘You had a severe panic attack and it made you hyperventilate. You passed out.’

  Eden groans and turns his face away. ‘Oh, Jesus,’ he whispers. ‘I thought it was a bad dream.’

  Nurse Thompson smiles sympathetically. ‘No, it was no dream. But you’ll be all right. No need to worry.’ She drinks in the image of Eden’s face as he closes his eyes. Even pale as death he looks beautiful. She has a fleeting fantasy that he will fall in love with her and whisk her away with him so that she can take care of him forever. Momentarily she forgets that she has a husband and two young children. Then sanity returns as the fantasy fades. Nurse Thompson sighs as she extricates her hand from Eden’s grip. ‘I’ll get the doctor now that you’re awake,’ she says, moving away from the bed.

  Eden’s eyes snap open. ‘Don’t leave me,’ he pleads. She smiles at him as she turns to walk through the door; a smile full of regret for what will never be.

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ll be back.’ The door softly closes behind her.

  Chapter Twelve

  Astarte wakes to rain that does nothing to dampen her spirits. She eases herself gently into the day, then wanders into a small café and sits at an empty table to drink a cup of coffee before going to John and Siobhan’s. The daily newspaper is folded on the table top, and she turns it over and opens it up, almost spilling her drink as the headline leaps out at her. ‘Rock Star Collapses At Wembley,’ she reads, above a photograph of Eden McDonagh on a stretcher, surrounded by a frantic-looking crowd. Astarte frowns as she reads. She loves his music, and has all of his albums.

  The tale unfolds, of how Eden had been pushed onto the stage at Wembley and stood swaying for a full minute before crumpling to the floor. How a riot had ensued, with fans screaming and fighting each other to get to him. How it had taken the paramedics and police twenty minutes to fight their way through the melee to reach him. How his manager, Jack Decker, had made a statement that Eden had been unwell, suffering from stress and exhaustion, but had been keen to finish the tour so as not to disappoint his fans.

  Astarte feels unaccountably upset. She has never met the man, and never will, but she has a feeling that he is a gentle, sweet person. You can see it in his eyes.

  Eden tries to force his eyes to stay open. Despite his exhaustion, he is afraid to close them. Even awake the images flood his internal vision, flashing past like a relentless movie on a fast-forwarded loop-tape. He sees Jack holding his arm, giving him a push onto the stage. He backflips into the pervasive memory of standing, frozen with terror, at the side of the stage, until his feet take him to slowly, automatically, stand before the microphone.

  The introductory music that the band is playing is his own, but he does not recognise it. It dips and swells to create a maelstrom of sound, and overlaying that is the roar of the crowd. The screams, the shouting, the sound of his name being hurled from countless lips is coming from a long way away. They are baying for blood. They want to own him, possess him, devour him. He is drenched in sweat.

  He stands for a moment, surrendering to the inevitable like a sacrificial victim. There is no choice. Behind him is the band, with Jack waiting in the wings. Before him is the crowd, their mouths wide open, waiting for him.

  Eden raises his arms to shoulder height and tips his head back, exposing his vulnerable throat and belly. The lights go up. When the crowd sees him the roar intensifies. Spotlights fix their blinding eyes upon him. He feels the lights sear through him, splitting him into myriads of atoms and molecules. He dissolves into them, and, mercifully, darkness comes, and with it silence.

  In the hospital bed, shaking beneath the thin covers, Eden finally closes his eyes, and sleeps.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The rain eases slightly as Astarte roams the narrow streets in search of flowers for Siobhan, admiring the old buildings that seem about to creep onto the pavements. She wants to thank her with a small gesture for bringing John to a grudging acceptance of her decision to buy the cottage. And she feels a sense of kinship with the other woman, a possibility of budding friendship.

  The news about Eden McDonagh has disturbed her deeply. She wonders how he is and then shrugs, feeling silly for worrying about a complete stranger. But she can’t help reflecting on what it must be like to have every event of your life exposed to the greedy eyes of millions, and she gives silent thanks that her own problems have at least been fairly private.

  Astarte chooses
to focus on the pleasant sensation of rain instead of the tribulations of an unknown man. She raises her face to the sky, letting the cold drops run down her cheeks. She just can’t resist poking the tip of her tongue out a little to catch a few raindrops. Something is shifting within her; a relaxation of self-imposed rules has occurred almost overnight, and she likes the feeling. I can be whoever I want to be, she tells herself, and shivers with delight.

  The sense of liberation is almost unnerving. Over the past few years her life has been governed by others, and the thought of this astonishes her. She has obeyed the tyranny of her alarm clock, leaped to be the first at a patient’s side, waited impatiently for doctors to arrive to sign for medication. She has set her life around Steve like the moon around the sun, rushing home after work to cook for him, when no doubt she was as tired as he was. She has been there, oozing sympathy, each time Marianne decided that the latest man was not The One – and there were many of those. Astarte suddenly feels that perhaps the ending of it all is not such a terrible thing. What hurts most is the feeling of betrayal. Something cracks within her and she is flooded with a sense of wellbeing. She wants to jump up and down in puddles, to dance in the rain, to hug the next person who walks past her. Astarte doesn’t realise that she is smiling, but others do and they smile back and nod at her. This place is so friendly, she thinks, and her smile broadens. When she moves here she will throw away her alarm clock, find the hidden rhythms within her body, allow her days to be governed by the rising and setting of the sun.