Sisters and Lies Page 4

  Now I had to interview the bastard.

  For the next few days, I weighed up my options. If I didn’t do the interview I might lose my job. I had a mortgage to pay, and now that Janet had moved out – well, stomped off – there was no rental income to help subsidize it.

  And it wasn’t as if the world of journalism was exactly going through a golden age either: over the past year I’d sent out twenty applications and got precisely two face-to-face interviews for positions even worse than the one I was presently in – neither of which I got.

  No, losing my job wasn’t an option. But neither was interviewing Donnagh Flood. Just thinking about it reduced me to that fourteen-year-old girl again, biting the insides of her cheeks so she wouldn’t cry and embarrass herself further. I’d have to think of a way out: feigning illness, death of non-existent family member, minor drug overdose.

  If the worst came to the worst, I could pull out the menstrual card. Nigel’s fear of women’s problems was so great he couldn’t even watch an ad for Tampax without gagging and making a face. Perhaps if I came in on the morning of the interview with a hot-water bottle, muttering about cramps, I’d somehow get out of it. It went against all my feminist principles, but it was worth a try.

  However, any thoughts that I could dodge this particular bullet faded the next day when Nigel swaggered up to me. ‘Good news. Donnagh Flood is on for the interview.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I met him last night at that Builders Awards thing. Pure coincidence. Told him this sexy Frenchwoman wanted to interview him and he’d better be ready for her.’

  ‘Nigel, I’m neither gorgeous nor French,’ I said, when what I really wanted to say was, ‘You fucking sexist moron. Some day I’m going to hit you with sexual harassment so hard it’ll knock your balls off.’

  ‘Anyway, he said he’s looking forward to it. Wants you to ring his secretary and she’ll fix up a time.’ He pushed a business card in my direction. Donnagh’s card. ‘Think he said this week would suit best, something about going to Chicago next. So get on it.’

  I stared at the card, taking in its blue logo: two unevenly sized skyscrapers.

  ‘You all right?’ said George, looking up from his computer screen. ‘You’re white as a sheet.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ I said, feeling my head sway a little. Then I ran to the Ladies to be sick.

  7.

  In the end I accepted my fate. I rang the secretary and arranged to meet Donnagh at a posh restaurant in Canary Wharf, near his office, no expense spared. Although I normally preferred interviews that didn’t involve food, this time I was delighted to have the distraction of other diners. I was hoping it would make the whole thing less nightmarish. Maybe Donnagh wouldn’t scare me so much once I knew there was back-up in the form of waiters and other people.

  Maybe.

  But I still needed a plan.

  First off, I was going to look hot: smokin’, as a matter of fact. That would mean getting my nails and tan done the night before, a trip to the hairdresser on the morning of the interview, and no carbohydrates for the rest of the week so I could fit into that knock-off Roland Mouret dress that looked discreet but was actually slutty as hell. I was going to make the guy think twice for having called me unattractive for five long years.

  I also practised my affirmations in my bedroom mirror and a few cognitive-behavioural techniques I’d picked up here and there. ‘You are a strong, beautiful woman,’ I repeated, trying hard not to feel like a complete gobshite. Naturally I didn’t believe it but that wasn’t the point. What was important was that Donnagh believed it. Believed that I had changed.

  And then there were the shoes – my pièce de résistance. Black-patent Jimmy Choo stilettos, bought as a treat for myself on my twenty-eighth birthday, with heels so spiky they could have been used for performing vasectomies. Once I was wearing those, I felt protected. Call it the footwear equivalent of Dumbo’s feather. They would help keep me strong.

  That and the half a Xanax I was intending to slip directly before the interview. Just enough to take the edge off, but not enough to have me slipping into the soup. I’d thought about a line of coke, but decided against it. I needed to be relaxed for this interview, not jumpy. And, anyway, I didn’t do drugs during the week – certainly not class As. I mean, I did have some standards. After that, it was just a case of being my usual charming self.

  How hard could it possibly be?

  Easy, right?

  I arrived at the restaurant early, my heart thumping so hard that I thought the manageress would comment on the sound. She didn’t. Instead, having taken my coat, she guided me towards the table, her blonde ponytail swishing as we walked.

  ‘Can I get you a drink while you’re waiting?’

  I wanted to ask for a large G&T, but I ordered a bottle of sparkling water instead. Mixing alcohol and prescription medication probably wouldn’t be wise. In any case I needed to have my wits about me when that fucker showed up. Even as a teenager he’d been sharp, and I was sure time wouldn’t have dented that.

  I removed my recording device from my bag and placed it on the table, checking for the umpteenth time that it was working. Then I took a sip of water. ‘Some day this will be a funny story you’ll tell your friends,’ I told myself inwardly. ‘The day you met the guy who bullied you half to death when you were a kid and you looked fabulous.’

  I didn’t feel fabulous, though. I could feel sweat patches developing under my arms (thank Christ, the dress was black) and a sinus headache beginning at the front of my forehead. ‘Keep it together. Forty-five minutes, and it’ll be over. You’ll never have to see the bastard again.’

  And then I spotted him. Hard to miss, really, given that he was over six foot and built like a rugby player. Yet somehow he seemed to glide among the tables – balletic, you might say.

  I could feel sweat trickling down my back.

  ‘Ms Durant. Donnagh Flood.’ He proffered his hand. ‘Please accept my apologies for running late. Something urgent came up at the office.’

  ‘It’s fine.’ I was totally overwhelmed by the physicality of him. He seemed to have grown wider and taller since the last time I’d seen him. Not to mention even better-looking. It was like being in the presence of a movie star. The tan, the teeth, the perfect body under the expensive suit.

  There was a second’s pause, and then he pointed at my recording device. ‘I suppose I’d better remember that’s running so I don’t give away too many of my trade secrets.’ He flashed a smile in my direction.

  ‘You don’t mind, do you?’ I spluttered. ‘It’s just so I can accurately quote you. I find it hard to take manual notes when I’m trying to eat.’

  ‘Mind? Of course not. I just need to watch that I don’t shoot my mouth off. I get the feeling you can be very persuasive.’ He flashed that smile again, and something in my stomach flipped. Was he flirting? Already? Fucking hell, he’d barely taken off his coat.

  But then again he was so manly you could practically smell the pheromones coming off him. Was that why my body was pinging to attention? Just like when I’d been fourteen. Sweet Jesus, had it learned nothing?

  ‘So, Durant. That’s French, yet you sound Irish. What’s going on there?’ More teeth. More smiling.

  And then it dawned on me. Slowly. Very, very slowly.

  He didn’t recognize me.

  He. Did. Not. Recognize. Me.

  I began buttering a piece of bread, a delaying tactic while I considered what to say. It seemed indecent not to reveal who I was. And yet …

  God, it was tempting not to. I mean, what did it matter anyway? It wasn’t like I was going to see him again. And what harm could a little bit of deception do? A tiny lie of omission.

  ‘My parents were French but I grew up in Ireland,’ I said, avoiding eye contact.

  ‘Where in Ireland?’

  ‘Clare,’ I replied, the first place that popped into my head.

  ‘So you won’t have to stop and ask me what
I’m talking about when I say things like “feck”, “arse” and “girls”, then?’ He was chomping a piece of bread now, like a lion tearing into flesh.

  ‘Hardly. Father Ted is the greatest Irish TV show ever made,’ I babbled, still not looking at him properly. ‘I can quote the Eurovision episode verbatim.’

  ‘“My Lovely Horse”?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘So you look French, but you’ve got an Irish sense of humour. Wow. You must be popular.’

  I stared at him. Okay, he was definitely flirting now. But please, God, let him not ask me to speak French. I’d learned it at school but I was far from fluent.

  We ordered some food, and then I got down to the business of interviewing him. My hand shook so badly as I pressed the Dictaphone button I was afraid he would comment on it. But if he noticed he didn’t say anything.

  We started at the beginning. The ‘Tell me about your childhood’ stuff.

  ‘I spent most of my early years in Dublin,’ he began. ‘My father was a bricklayer, my mother a housewife. Happy enough childhood, I suppose. I was an only child.’

  ‘Right. Sounds nice.’

  ‘Yeah, it was, until I was fourteen, when my father died unexpectedly and me and my mam had to move to Leitrim.’

  ‘Leitrim?’ I said, my throat tightening. Three minutes in and we were already talking about my home county. There was no way I’d get through the interview undetected. No fucking way.

  ‘Yeah, my mother had family there. Bit of a shock, needless to say, coming from the Liberties …’

  ‘I can imagine.’

  ‘Believe me, you really can’t.’

  ‘So were you popular at school? What kind of boy were you?’

  Donnagh shrugged his shoulders. ‘I don’t know. The usual. Spotty. Arrogant. Full of hormones.’

  ‘A nice boy?’

  He looked at me, his eyebrows raised. ‘Do you always spend so much time focusing on someone’s childhood, Ms Durant?’

  I coughed. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I just like to get a sense of a person’s background.’

  ‘It’s not a problem,’ he said, grinning a little. ‘And to answer your question, no, I was definitely not a nice boy.’ He paused. ‘But, then, who wants a nice boy?’ He caught my gaze and held it, causing my stomach to flip.

  ‘Let’s fast-forward a bit,’ I said. ‘You’re now one of the most successful young Irish entrepreneurs operating in London. How did that happen?’

  Just at that moment, our food arrived. An anaemic piece of salmon for me, rare steak for Donnagh. He dug into his food before answering, a stream of bloody juices erupting, lava-like, onto his plate. ‘Do you want the long or the short version?’

  ‘Um, whichever you prefer, I suppose.’

  ‘Okay, the short version it is. After my dad died I went off the rails for a few years. Hated Leitrim, hated school. Barely passed the Leaving Cert – the final state exam … Well, of course you know what it is.’

  I nodded. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then I started getting into a bit of trouble with the law. Nothing huge. Nicked a car. Was caught with a small amount of drugs. But my mother saw the signs.’

  ‘The signs?’

  ‘That I was on course to do something really stupid with myself.’

  I must have raised an eyebrow because he added, ‘Ending up in prison. Or dead. She was probably right.’

  ‘What did she do?’

  ‘She got my uncle Sean involved. Out in Chicago. He’s the man who founded Hibernian Constructions. We’re in partnership. I head up the London operation. He’s back in the States.’

  ‘And am I right in saying you lived over there?’

  ‘Yeah, for seven years, give or take. I was actually born there, before my parents moved back to Dublin. But Sean brought me into his business. Started as a labourer, worked my way up.’

  ‘And according to my research you also got a management degree.’

  He smiled. ‘Someone’s done her homework.’

  I found myself blushing. ‘It was all on the internet.’

  ‘Well, yes, I did get a degree,’ he continued. ‘I realized that if I wanted to be taken seriously in this game I needed to know the fundamentals, so I did the course at night.’

  ‘Impressive.’

  He shrugged. ‘Not really. Sean and his wife had no kids and they treated me like the son they never had. They were offering me the business on a plate. Would have been a schmuck not to take them up on it.’

  ‘Schmuck? So you really have been Americanized.’

  He grinned. ‘I also say “trunk” for “boot” and “candy” for “sweets”. It drives people crazy. But you’d know all about that, being bilingual, I presume.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ I said, not contradicting him. A regular polyglot, me.

  The interview went on, and I picked at my food, barely able to swallow it. I was focusing so hard on not giving myself away, while at the same time asking credible questions, that I felt like I might pass out.

  Finally, some ninety minutes later, and after I had declined dessert and coffee, the interview drew to a close.

  ‘You never asked me about my love life,’ he said, rising from his chair.

  ‘Um, sorry. It’s not that kind of interview.’

  ‘Every interview is that kind of interview,’ he said, taking my coat from the waitress and holding it open so I could slip my arms into the sleeves.

  ‘And for the record, I’m free and single. No children. And not gay.’

  ‘I was pretty sure you weren’t gay,’ I said, unable to stifle a smile.

  He smiled back. ‘Do you send me the article before it goes into your magazine or do I have to trust you?’

  ‘The latter.’

  ‘Lucky I’m the trusting sort, then,’ he said, shaking my hand. ‘Goodbye, Eve Durant. Or should I say au revoir?’

  ‘Au revoir,’ I said, to his back. Then, under my breath, ‘May I never see you again.’

  Okay, so why did he not recognize me? I wondered the same because, sitting opposite to him, I’d still felt like the terrified fourteen-year-old girl he’d taunted on the first day of second year. But while I still felt like her, I guess I didn’t look like her any more.

  The obvious thing was that I had lost weight. A lot. We’re talking around five stone here. I was a fat little barrel when I was a kid, particularly once I’d hit puberty and had tossers like him telling me how unattractive I was. I comfort-ate and ballooned to about fifteen stone at my heaviest, which, even given that I’m five foot eight, was still pretty barrelly.

  Also, I wore glasses and braces, and rocked an absolutely appalling haircut. And, of course, there was my nose. First you met my hooter, and then you met me. I’ve already described it – Roman, with a huge hump at the bridge – the kind of nose a rugged farmer couldn’t pull off, let alone a young girl with otherwise delicate features. Not that I saw anything about myself as delicate. I used to look in the mirror at my eyes – which were green and some might say pretty – and curse God for playing such a cruel joke. Lovely, delicate eyes, all the better to observe the travesty of a honker I’d been born with. Needless to say, I learned the concept of irony early.

  Anyway, I lost the weight at college and discovered contact lenses around the same time, which sorted out the glasses issue. Not to mention a good hairdresser who bestowed on me honey-blonde highlights instead of the mousy colour Nature had granted me. Which left my nose. That was the hardest thing to change. Not just because it required surgery and the means to pay for it but because it required me to become the kind of person who would have surgery.

  I had been brought up to believe that cosmetic enhancement was the preserve of rich, mad Americans, not ‘normal’ down-to-earth people like me. My mother had encouraged me to love myself and embrace my difference, which was all very easy for her to say, given that she had a perfect snub nose, like Rachel. But when she was alive I had sort of believed her. Even though I�
�d hated myself then I’d trusted that at some point in the future I would grow out of it. With her help. With her guidance.

  But then she died. It took nearly a year – ovarian cancer – and I nursed her through all of it. A week after the funeral, I booked the nose job.

  Rachel and my boyfriend of the time, Artie, tried to talk me out of it, referring to the ‘delirium of grief’, but they might as well have been talking to a deaf person. They told me I should allow myself time to think about it when I was feeling better. But that was the problem. I couldn’t feel anything. Nothing at all.

  8.

  Rachel: day three, 9 a.m.

  Yesterday was hell. I spent hours sitting with Evie, talking to her, willing her to wake up. Nothing. She occasionally twitched and her eyelids fluttered, making me think that she was about to wake up. But then it was back to nothing again. On the doctors’ advice I began speaking out loud, just in case Evie could hear me. I chatted about upbeat stuff: any celebrity gossip I could think of, what the staff were like, the things that had been going on in my life.

  Well, some of the things. I didn’t tell her about Jacob, about the fact that we were separated. She had no idea about that and I wasn’t going to tell her now, when she was lying in a chronic vegetative state with no certainty she would ever come out of it.

  The words Dr Bartlett spoke a few days earlier came back to taunt me: ‘You seem close.’

  I’d always thought so, and I’d been angry with Evie for not telling me about Donnagh. But who was I to talk? Jacob and I had been separated for over two months and I’d never breathed a word of it to my sister. Maybe it was because I knew she’d be so disappointed. She saw Jacob as the brother she’d never had.

  ‘You okay in here?’

  Dr Bartlett had joined me in the room. ‘Fine, yes,’ I replied, trying to smile. My skin felt as if it might rip with the effort.

  ‘Mind if I talk to you for a moment?’

  ‘Sure.’