Family Affairs Page 14

  Ambling back to the centre of a group of old-timers, he caught Frankie’s eye. Grey met blue and held steady. No one watching would know that Dev’s heart kicked up a gear, his pulse started to race and his stomach tightened. All she had to do was look at him. Right at him and he turned to teenage mush.

  Taking a deep breath, he broke contact, knowing he had to keep in the back seat for a while longer and he had to stop sending her such mixed signals – at least until he had some clue as to how she wanted to read them. Which led him back to his plan of a few moments ago. Find Caro.

  Frankie loved this gorgeous low-key event. And no, Diane wasn’t going to be her new best buddy, but she’d been enthusiastic and flattering, and it hadn’t done Frankie any harm to have her ego stroked a bit. God! she was so up herself. She rarely got any flattery about her work from her extended Fitzgerald family – they just accepted her talent and the awards that came with it as part of her norm. She’d been in the limelight while still living with them back in her late teens and early twenties, so if anything, they played down her profession and she loved them for it. It grounded her, kept her vanity in check, but now she realised that maybe she was just that shallow that she missed the attention a little.

  Shrugging off her sudden introspection, she answered another question about life on Broadway from one of Flynn’s friends and happily chatted about famous people she knew on a first-name basis. The evening sky slowly darkened, earlier now, and a chill crept through the greying light. She excused herself and sneaked back into the house then ran upstairs to her room to collect a cardigan to cover her shoulders.

  From inside, the muffled sounds of the party became a low rumble interspersed with bursts of laughter. It was a lovely sound, comforting and secure. Frankie stopped on the turn of the stairs, where a window looked out over the back garden and the mingling crowd. She smiled, knowing that this very moment, this actual moment where her family, her loved ones, her friends were all gathered in one place with intent, was pure and real. No fake Hollywood promises and half-truths, no insincere platitudes and saccharine comments laced with arsenic, no petty jealousies and one-upmanship, no lauding over other’s failures while trumpeting one’s own success, no . . .

  “Francesca.”

  Frankie let out a yelp of fright and whirled round.

  “Jesus, you scared me!” She rested her hand against her suddenly beating heart, staring at the figure at the bottom of the stairs. “And what the hell are you doing here?”

  Chapter 11

  “You don’t fool me for a minute, you know.” Caro nibbled on a carrot stick smeared in hummus as she answered her brother. “You’re so bleeding obvious,” she continued, adding another scoop of dip to her carrot.

  “Hey, don’t double-dip!” Dev snatched the container away from her and swirled his finger into the bowl, heaping it with the creamy garlicky substance.

  “Hey yourself! That’s just as gross.” She whacked him on the arm and grabbed the small dish back. “Just as well we have our own supply – at least it’s family germs.” She stuck her tongue out at him as she left the empty ramekin on a side table. “Now, back to the issue at hand.”

  Caro looked intently at her brother, who was slowly scanning the groups of guests as he picked up his beer and drank.

  “We don’t really talk about Stephen much. I know she really cared for him, but I think if it was a regular break-up there’d be more chance of her moving on more quickly. As it is,” she said, sighing in sympathy with her friend, “the loss will always be more complicated since it wasn’t of their choosing. I suppose it is a different kind of grieving.” She picked up her own discarded drink and, tipping it forwards, scooped out the lemon and sucked the last dregs of gin from it. “Yuck! Don’t know why I did that. Ew! Nasty.” She tossed the decimated lemon wedge over her shoulder towards the shrubbery and shrugged her shoulders. “Who knows if they’d have married if he’d lived . . .”

  “What? Why wouldn’t they? What did she say?”

  “Relax, Bro. She didn’t say anything. Just a feeling I’ve had when we discussed him before. Don’t get me wrong.” She took a swig from Dev’s beer. “I have no doubt her feelings ran deep. It was just my feeling.”

  Dev took back the beer and finished it. “Come on, you need another G & T and I need to find Frankie. I haven’t seen her in the last while and . . .”

  “Yeah, I know, I know you want to check on her.” She snagged her arm around her brother’s waist as they headed back towards the kitchen.

  He hooked an arm around her shoulder and gave a quick squeeze. “You’re the very best of sisters, you know that, don’t you?”

  “Yeah, yeah, and so are Molly and Ali! You are, I repeat, bleeding obvious about some things. Come on, you go check on Frankie and I’ll check on my baby.”

  “A word to the wise, Sis. I think it’s time you stopped calling your teenager a baby.” Dev felt obliged to stick up for his beloved nephew.

  Caro snorted. “You’re such an authority, I assume? Ah, don’t worry, I’m not that daft. I only do it among family and I promise, never in front of his pals. Oh, there he is.” She disengaged from Dev and changed direction. “Find me if you need me,” she threw back over her shoulder.

  Dev gave the impression that he was meandering through the throngs of guests, but he was in actual fact moving stealthily and intently towards the back door on the other side of the patio. He perfected the art of the casual comment tossed at a question or remark as he kept moving in his chosen direction, his goal to ensure Frankie was safe and secure. He sidestepped an elderly neighbour, who could talk for Ireland, an old friend from his college days and frantic beckoning from Ali, who was surrounded by what appeared to be a pack of giggling women all taking selfies on their respective phones.

  Dev shook his head both at his sister’s invitation to join them and the very fact that they couldn’t seem to manage to live for five minutes without documenting it on their phones.

  Christ, I’m getting old. Dev dragged his hand over his jaw and pushed open the back door. As he did, he realised that it shouldn’t, in fact, have been closed at all. It was their party, for God’s sake – open house literally and metaphorically. On edge, he moved silently through the kitchen to the hallway. He heard voices, low and intense.

  He walked towards the sound, all senses on alert, his mobile phone already out and finger on Flynn’s speed dial. The hall was empty but the voices seemed to be coming from the study. His footsteps quiet on the hall rug, he carefully reached forwards to open the heavy door as silently as he could. His eyes flew first to Frankie’s face – she looked cross but not afraid. He noted she had her arms folded tightly across her chest and her chin had that “don’t mess with me” angle that he knew so well.

  Satisfied she was, for the moment, okay, he turned his attention to the owner of the other voice. Medium height, slight build and fair hair. With his back to Dev, the man’s features weren’t yet apparent. He wore pressed jeans and a blue shirt with a sweater thrown over the shoulders. European? Certainly the style seemed to say that. Dev pushed himself forwards into the room, alerting them to his presence.

  “Babe,” he spoke to Frankie directly. “Who might we have here?” His voice took on an extra-firm tone, a neutral accent he’d perfected over the years, so that he couldn’t be judged based on his home town. The other man swung round, his eyes a steely blue, and Dev could see himself being assessed and instantly dismissed.

  Shrugging, Dev didn’t care. It was a party, for Christ’s sake – he was supposed to look relaxed and casual. Bare feet shoved into old canvas deck shoes, faded khaki cargo shorts, his beloved old denim shirt hanging loose and open over an equally ancient T-shirt with a graphic of the head of James Joyce. His face was showing signs of a five-o’clock shadow and his hair . . . well, how the hell was he supposed to know what his damned hair looked like? Let this snazzy “visitor” think what he liked – looks can be deceiving and in fact Dev reminded himself to keep t
hat salient point in mind, too.

  Frankie moved away from her rigid stance in front of the cold fire grate. She reached out to snag her arm through Dev’s and so they faced the newcomer together.

  “Be nice, Dev.” Her mouth smiled. “This is Jason de Bruin, my manager,” she announced, “and this, Jason, is Devlin Fitzgerald, my . . . well, this is Devlin.”

  “Fitzgerald.” Jason stuck out his manicured hand and waited while Dev shifted his beer bottle from his right to his left.

  “De Bruin.”

  God, weren’t they just charm personified. Frankie rolled her eyes as they greeted each other.

  “What brings you to this private party, Jason?” Dev raised his eyebrow enquiringly.

  “Business with my client, naturally. And I do apologise for barging in. I had sent several messages to Francesca but they’ve been ignored.” He looked pointedly at said client as he spoke. “But no matter, I’m here now and we can get some work done to clear up a few outstanding matters that she’s left unattended.”

  I was mistaken, thought Dev. The accent is pure New England, clipped, educated and direct.

  “Your client,” Dev tilted his head towards Frankie, “is on an extended holiday and is not to be disturbed.”

  “Gentlemen, I’m actually standing here, you know, and can speak for myself.” Frankie’s sarcasm was loud and clear. “Jason, although Devlin is correct in that I am on vacation, I do appreciate that I should have answered your emails, et cetera. But perhaps you can gather from that that I didn’t wish to be bothered by work? Honestly, as I was just saying before Dev came in, what’s so important that can’t wait till I get back in a few weeks?”

  Dev glared at her. “You’re leaving?”

  “Not now, Dev,” she warned.

  Jason watched the interplay between these two very attractive people with deepening interest. Francesca was even more beautiful than usual – her skin had a glow that had been sadly lacking in the weeks before she vanished. Her gorgeous hair was lustrous and her eyes had lost the deepened shadows. Her companion looked like he’d stepped off a Ralph Lauren advert, everything was so naturally tousled and oozed shabby chic.

  Jason’s gut clenched. He wouldn’t lose her to this imbecile, who appeared so proprietorial, his arm now draped around her shoulders as he took a swig of beer. Uncouth, too, Jason decided, so probably not much of a threat, after all. Francesca liked her men suave and sophisticated, men like her late fiancé, a man like himself.

  Jason smiled. He put both hands up in the air as if giving in. “You’re absolutely right. No business talk at a party. Absolutely.” He practically beamed. “Francesca, darling, perhaps you could introduce me to your hosts, so I might beg their forgiveness for my untimely intrusion.” He started to walk towards the door as he spoke, effectively insinuating that he was back in control and Devlin and his opinions didn’t matter.

  “That would be my parents, then,” Fitzgerald stated as he and Frankie moved to follow Jason from the room. “I’m sure they’ll be delighted, no, thrilled to welcome the person who’s been badgering their adopted daughter during her visit with us,” he continued smoothly.

  Jason started. He wasn’t used to the Irish delivery style and couldn’t quite make out if Devlin was insulting him or not. He decided not, as it suited himself always to be in the right, so he eagerly followed the pair, who’d edged in front of him in the hall, out to the garden, where a party, by all accounts, was in full swing.

  De Bruin eventually took himself back into Clifden, where he was staying in a suite in the Abbeyglen Castle Hotel. He’d greeted the hosts and made his apologies while also making it clear, in a not-too-subtle way, that he was only here because his client had been “unavailable” and that he was here at considerable expense to himself – to Frankie, more like, Dev thought sourly as he watched the American lay on the charm for some of the locals.

  Thank goodness Irish people were so very good at acting, as no doubt Jason thought his charm offensive was reeling them in, but Dev knew better. A few of his own friends, when passing him during the rest of the evening, had said, “Jaysus, who’s your man?” or similar, and Dev realised that fake interest in people’s “cute little lives” never worked. The only person who seemed delighted and indeed enthralled by Jason was Mary Louanne, who’d arrived late to the party but began chatting and dispensing southern belle charm by the bucketload.

  She did look better, thought Dev, who’d never gone for the slightly over-the-top debutante style – maybe she was being influenced by Irish fashion, whatever that was. All he knew about it was if a woman looked nice or not. He didn’t care what they wore or how they did their hair and he didn’t know many men who did. He could appreciate a pretty girl as much as the next chap, but considering he’d been ruined for them all since aged fifteen, he wasn’t really the best judge.

  He liked when his sisters prettied up and this evening all three looked, he supposed, pretty. Well, Caro was probably considered beautiful in a classic way, sophisticated and groomed. Ali was more gamine charm and impish-looking with her chopped hair and boyish figure, combat trousers and skimpy tops. And Moll was all curvy and earthy and, well, hair. She had a lot of it, masses of curls that were the bane of her life, inherited from Grandma Fitz. But Dev thought she looked rather Pre-Raphaelite and she wore long floaty dresses and berry-coloured cardigans teemed with Doc Martens. She, along with her older sisters, always seemed to ooze sex appeal. Dev wasn’t sure he was supposed to know that, but he was certainly aware what his friends thought; even from an early age they’d come round the house in Dalkey to catch a glimpse of a sister or three when they could.

  Mary Louanne flirted with Jason de Bruin as if her life depended on it and it was almost funny to watch his uptight, buttoned-down personality practically wince every time she opened her mouth. But since she linked her arm through his and proceeded to mingle while attached to him, he didn’t have much option.

  Close to midnight, Dev made his way to where his parents were sitting with friends, sipping brandies next to the glowing embers of the outdoor fire with cosy woollen throws around their shoulders. He knew the neighbours, local friends from years ago, and he dragged over a chair to sit next to them and join in the conversation. Several small groups had formed around the other fires, and low laughter and music drifted on the cooling night air. The stars were putting on a show and a few couples lay draped around each other stargazing and murmuring quietly.

  He smelt her first, before she laid her hand gently on his shoulder.

  “Shove over,” she whispered as she tried to scoot in beside him on the wide Adirondack chair. “I’m wrecked.”

  Dev briefly, very briefly, contemplated pulling her down onto his lap and holding her close. Discarded it just as quickly. “Here,” he slid off the chair and onto the ground, “you take it and I’ll prop you up. No arguments,” he said as she began to protest.

  “Okey doke, if you insist.” Frankie settled herself into the deep chair, her knees lying next to Dev’s shoulders as he leaned back against the seat.

  He readjusted himself so that his arm could lie across her lap and hang down the other side. He heard her give a contented sigh as she relaxed into the mood of the moment – and he felt himself relax, too.

  Conversation continued as the oldies discussed the latest government debacle and blame was laid squarely at all number of doors, depending on whose party was being supported. Frankie sipped her almost cold coffee and let the chat go over her head. Irish politics wasn’t her strong point. Truthfully, most politics fell into that category, but she loved a good healthy debate and especially an Irish one, where people seemed to live and breathe the latest scandals, carrying their loyalty and familial allegiance through to a ridiculous degree. Dev got stuck right in and she realised he was as passionate about it as he was about his photography and his family.

  She hoped that her new-found career of writing would stir passion like that. She missed the feeling of being enthralled b
y something, devoured by something, and that’s what she used to get from her acting. But was Jason right? Would she regret her decision to retire so early? Would she hanker for the roar of the crowd? Or was the quietness, the steadiness she was discovering in herself, as important in the long term for her personal satisfaction?

  She was finding that her writing made her feel at peace and that wasn’t a place she was used to. Before, it had always been one adrenalin rush after another, one more appearance, one more PR trip after another – and she had enjoyed it, fed off it, even. But now, since Stephen’s death and the emotions and soul-searching that came with it, she knew, she believed she really knew, that that old life was hers no longer.

  So, what am I? she thought. A washout in my early thirties? Or a risk-taker on the verge of something new, something more internally complex and complete?Time, she understood, would tell. But maybe a trip back to New York to finalise things was a good plan and would also give Jason time to set up a few interviews for her retirement announcement while also giving them all time to adjust to her new direction.

  As she mused these things over she became aware of Dev’s fingers gently brushing up and down, on her calf, and the second she became aware of it, it seemed her skin came alive with feeling. Breath held, she took stock – thank goodness it was too dark for anyone to see. In fact, she realised that Dev was probably unaware he was even doing it – and what did that mean? Would any leg do? Did it feel natural for him just to stroke any girl’s leg, or did it have to be hers?