Ninemile House Page 17

  Delighted with this turn of events, Derry passed no remarks regarding her apparent change of mind, just wished her a nice time, waved her off at the door in a studiedly casual manner and was straight on the phone to Sheila.

  For his part, Mahendra too was equally careful not to embarrass or frighten his injured bird and so he kept a respectful distance between them, regaling her with even more stories of his native land and never prying into her past. Once, she stumbled over a half-buried stone and, putting out a hand to save herself, came into contact with the warm brown skin of his arm, causing her to jump back almost as if she had been burned. Pretending not to notice, Mahendra just continued walking and talking and soon she had calmed right back down again and matched her step to his.

  “Do you miss India?” she asked him, shading her eyes as she followed the boastful flight of a seagull, its wings tipped with the gold of the setting sun.

  “Sometimes,” Mahendra admitted. “India is still home, even though I have lived in Ireland almost as long. It is in my blood. Do you know what I mean?”

  Gabby shook her head. “No. Not really. I never really had a home, you see. Or not for a very long time.” It was the first time she had ever volunteered any information about her background. It was a start.

  Bending down Mahendra picked up a flattish blue pebble, rubbed the gritty coating of sand from around it and with an expert flick of his wrist slewed it into the sea where it bounced once, twice, three times before sinking from sight.

  “How did you do that?” Gabby laughed delightedly “Show me.”

  Pleased out of all proportion, Mahendra scrabbled about searching for another flat pebble and when he had found one, his hand gently encircling her wrist, he introduced her to the delicate art of skimming stones. And this time she didn’t leap away at the touch of his bare skin against hers. Even after the stone had bounced for the last time, she left her wrist braceleted in his, knowing instinctively that it was safe there and that here was one man who would never harm her in any way.

  As the sun sank low in the sky turning the sea into a furnace of fiery reds and oranges, they stood close together etched in charcoal against the flaming sky, two figures that, viewed from a distance, might have been just one.

  “Beautiful,” Gabby murmured as the sunset unfolded all around her.

  “Beautiful,” Mahendra agreed, but he was not looking at the sunset, or the sea or the sky but at her, at the amber filaments of light caught in her black hair, the soft glow of her skin, tinted almond-gold by the dying sun and the glowing embers of banked down passion in the depths of her dark eyes. Mahendra was looking at Gabby with love.

  CHAPTER 19

  Derry finished off her piece on the state of the Irish healthcare system. Depressing in the extreme, it showed just how low standards had fallen over the past few decades. Gone, apparently, was all common sense out the window and in its place was mindless bureaucracy, too many chiefs and the Indians running around like headless chickens , overworked, underpaid, understaffed. And some of them barely able to speak English, which helped not at all in matters of vital communication. In the olden days, Derry recalled, people were terrified of being admitted to hospital, conditions being so bad, it was tantamount to being handed a death sentence. But back then the medicine was basic and the medical staff ill trained. Strange how in these modern time with the best of everything to hand and the enormous medical advances that had been made over the last century, people were once more doing their utmost to avoid being admitted to hospital, because the chances were if your illness didn’t kill you, then MRSA or some other super bug would. Derry only hoped and prayed none of her nearest and dearest would need to seek medical attention any time soon. Ca plus change mais c’est la meme chose, she thought grimly, parcelling the article up in an email attachment and clicking on the envelope icon that sent it on its way to David Mercer, editor in chief at the Dublin Oracle.

  With only half an hour to go before lunch, it was hardly worth her while starting on something else, so calling up Google on the internet she tapped Mick Roberts’s name into it and pressed the search button. Immediately it sent back a raft of Mick Roberts who seemingly had made their homes in every corner of the world and in every possible field of employment. Hopeless, it would take her hours to trawl through that lot, so searching again, she narrowed it down by ticking the Ireland & UK only box and adding the words property developer. Bingo! There he was, staring back at her from a picture which had clearly been taken fairly recently. The camera loved him. His was the kind of square-jawed, symmetrical face that photographers and modelling agents adored, because it translated so well onto paper. In his younger days he could easily have been a model, Derry thought, examining his picture, though somehow she thought that most unlikely. Despite his undoubted good looks, Mick Roberts certainly hadn’t struck her as the vain type. Although she’d only been in his company for a short time, her natural instincts and journalistic training enabled her to assess a person’s character fairly quickly and generally fairly accurately, and he’d struck her as a serious minded sort of man. There was a sadness in his eyes too, as if behind the eminently successful façade, lurked a soul that was unhappy and unfulfilled in some way. Embarrassed, she caught herself. Now she was beginning to think like a tabloid journalist or a writer of purple prose. Still, it felt vaguely wrong to be staring at his photograph like that, almost an invasion of privacy, like sneakily reading someone’s diary in an attempt to divine their innermost thoughts. She gave herself a little shake. Nonsense! She was an investigative journalist, prying into other people’s lives was all in the job description.

  Briefly she scanned the many entries listed against his name, noting with disappointment that they concentrated mainly on the business aspects of his life, the projects he was involved with – many of them environmentally friendly, a tick in his favour, and the latest additions to his ever-expanding property portfolio. A slightly juicier article, written by a vacuous gossip columnist Derry knew and disliked intensely, put him fairly near the top of Ireland’s rich list and lauded him as one of Ireland’s most eligible bachelors.

  Conspicuous by its absence was the amount of information pertaining to his personal life. Nowhere was there a mention of where he was born and bred, nothing of his parents or background, no hint of siblings, schools or universities he had attended. Anyone might suppose he had been set down on the earth already a man full grown. Anyone with a suspicious nature, Derry for instance, might wonder if Mick Roberts, highly successful business developer and entrepreneur and pillar of society, might just be hiding something.

  “So, who are you exactly, Mr Roberts, Derry mused, her eyes travelling over his picture once more. “And what on earth is your connection with Sunday’s Well? More importantly, what is it about you that frightens my sister so much?”

  “Fine thing, isn’t he?” Derry jumped, as Mollie came up behind her and peered over her shoulder at the screen. “I’d give him a spin around the block a time or two and no mistake.”

  “What do you know about him, Mollie?” Derry pushed her chair back slightly, picked up a biro and chewed reflectively on the end.

  “Not a lot really, I suppose.” Molly perched half her sizeable bottom on the corner of Derry’s desk. “Apart from the fact that he’s as good looking as any film star, loaded in the monetary sense and possibly in other ways too although, as I haven’t any personal experience of that, I can’t say for sure. Added to which, he’s one of Ireland’s-“

  “Most eligible bachelors,” Derry guessed, with a grin.

  “Exactly,” Molly laughed.

  “And does that not strike you as a bit odd?” Derry tapped the biro on the desk. “The dearth of personal information? I mean, nowadays most of your successful business men and moguls are virtually media stars in their own right, like Richard Branson and Alan Sugar. For goodness sake they’re never off the TV screen, pontificating on some matter or other or even hosting their own programme. And as if that wasn’t
exposure enough, we’re bombarded in the press and magazines with images of them schmoozing at some high profile event or other, or dressed to the gills at the latest in-place with the latest in-model hanging off their Rolex’d arm.” She raised her eyebrows. “But Google Mick Roberts and what do you get. Nowt! Nada! Just a couple of sketchy articles relating to his business acumen.”

  “Odd? Not necessarily, but unusual I grant you.” Mollie picked up a packet of chewing gum from Derry’s desk and, without asking, helped herself to a couple of tabs. “Yes it’s the era of the cult of celebrity, but not everyone is a media bunny, hard though it is to believe. Mick Roberts is probably one of those rare birds who values his privacy.” She chewed thoughtfully. “Anyway, isn’t he a friend of your husband’s? I’m sure I’ve seen them pictured together. Have you not met him yourself?”

  “Only briefly,” Derry admitted. “Not long enough to really get to know him. Anyway, I’m not sure he and James and friends, exactly. I daresay he’s involved in some political gambit of James’s and the relationship is purely business. That said, he has invited him for dinner.”

  “Well, sure can’t you poke and pry then to your heart’s content, although why you can’t just appreciate him for the fine hunk he is, is beyond me. Must be your paparazzi antennae. You’re never off duty.”

  Derry chuckled. “I expect you’re right. Now then, let’s get on to something far more interesting. Tell me, how is Orlando Depp McCarthy coming along?”

  And given this irresistible opening, Molly, the proud grandmother, was off and running and although Derry looked as though she was riveted by his apparent charms, never surpassed by any baby, even the Holy Child, Derry’s mind was elsewhere, worrying like a terrier with a bone over the enigma that was Mick Roberts.

  When Molly finally ran out of steam and went off in search of lunch, Derry flicked quickly into Outlook and called up her electronic list of contacts, searching for somebody in the Cork area, she could trust to do a bit of digging around on her behalf. One name in particular jumped out at her, a journalist who now worked on the Cork Examiner, and who she had been friendly with at the college where they both trained. Derry picked up the phone, her finger hovering over the buttons, then set it back down again with a decisive thump. To trust someone else was to make yourself vulnerable, to put yourself in their hands and to open yourself to their questions. On reflection this was a matter best deal with by herself. She wasn’t sure how she knew that, just that she did and Derry was a woman who trusted her instincts implicitly and, to date, they’d never let her down. One day soon, she would have to invent a reason to go to Cork, because there was no way she could tell James the real nature of her visit. He would think she was mad. Why the sudden obsession with Mick Roberts? And she wouldn’t be able to answer him, because she didn’t know herself – yet!

  The logistics wouldn’t be all that difficult. Before the twins were born, she’d flitted off on a regular basis, thither and yon, at the drop of a hat. These days she tried not to take any assignments that would take her away from home, but if it was only a question of one night, then it shouldn’t prove too problematical. Sheila, who doted on the twins, would be more than happy to keep an eye on them for a night and, of course, now there was Gabby too. Derry was confident there would be no repeat of the smacking performance. Gabby was adapting very nicely and as her romance with Mahendra blossomed she was starting to come very much into her own, bearing little resemblance to the scared, half-emaciated creature, who had stumbled through the door of Ninemilehouse, with such a haunted, dejected air about her, that just remembering it made Derry want to cry. These days her sister was beginning to smile more and even to laugh in a shy, quiet sort of way. Day by day, Derry was beginning to feel more optimistic that eventually, one day, she would be able to lead a normal, happy life. More and more, she was beginning to feel confident that taking her out of Ninemilehouse had, indeed, been the right thing to do.

  ***

  Gabby got a job. Nothing more than a few hours a week helping out in Mahendra’s shop, but it was a definite step in the right direction, one more on the road to independence. Of course she didn’t serve the customers – she was still far too shy and lacking in confidence for that and though she was learning she was still getting to grasps with the currency.

  “I’d have you bankrupt in one week,” she’d told Mahendra, without realising that with that bit of information, she’d give more of herself away. As usual, Mahendra passed no comment, just set her to unpacking boxes and stacking shelves which kept her more than happy and gave her a sense of purpose again, something she’d been sorely lacking in since she’d come to live with Derry. Without making it obvious, Mahendra watched out for her, neatly averting anything that might send her into a panic and sending her out back for frequent tea breaks and the little Indian honeyed cakes that had rapidly become a favourite of hers and of which he kept a ready supply.

  On Wednesdays, he would shut up shop early and together they would stroll down to the beach where Gabby would try her hardest to skim stones, while Mahendra looked on and laughed at her dismal attempts. The day she allowed him to hold her hand, he almost burst with happiness and later neither one of them was ever sure who made the first move, whether he had reached for her or she for him or whether, in some perfect moment of synchronicity, both had moved towards the other.

  At home, Gabby shyly hugged her secret to herself, completely oblivious to the fact that the sparkle in her dark eyes and the glow that seemed to surround her like an aura, not to mention the number of times she managed to bring Mahendra’s name into any conversation, was something of a dead giveaway, that had both Derry and Sheila at fever pitch and Sheila demanding to know if whether she was too old to be considered for the role of bridesmaid.

  ***

  As Derry’s worries about Gabby eased a bit, her worries about Peter O’Donnell seemed to rise in direct proportion. Without fail, every time she looked up for her desk she found him staring at her, sometimes doing just that, staring unblinkingly over at her, as though at a specimen under a microscope. At other times, it was more of a leer and occasionally, having made sure no one else was watching, he did that quick knife across the jugular gesture, then grinned horribly at her discomfiture.

  “He’s really beginning to freak me out,” Derry complained to Molly over a cup of dishwater coffee in what passed for a staff room. “Honest to god, he always seems to be on my tail lately. I’m getting so nervy, I’m beginning to jump at shadows and it’s beginning to affect my home life too. Everybody’s on tenterhooks round me., I’ve become so snappy. If the twins were old enough, I’m sure they’d emigrate.”

  Molly put down a large doughnut, from which she’d been licking the jam. “Why don’t you just tell him to fuck off?”

  “I have, more than once.” Derry stared at Molly’s doughnut like it was a bomb primed to explode. “It’s like water off a duck’s back. Let’s face it, somebody at some time every single day of the week, and sometimes more than once, tells Petey to fuck off. It has the same effect on him as saying hello. He just gives me that Beelzebub smile of his and goes right on staring.”

  “Wanker! Maybe you should report him to personnel.” There was a battle going on in Molly’s face. Half of her knew she should resist the doughnut, but the greedier half won and so she picked it back up again and sank her teeth into it.

  Derry snorted. “Personnel? Behave yourself Molly Kimble. Since when did the Oracle have anything as PC as a personnel department?”

  “Well report him to the big boss, Dave Mercer, then. Tell him the Slug is stalking you and if he doesn’t take action to step on him pronto, you’re going to write an article about victimisation at the ‘O’ and distribute it amongst our main rivals.”

  Derry chuckled. “Evil, but I like it and maybe you’re right, I should report him. Okay, it things don’t improve in, say, the next week or so, I’ll make a formal complaint and take it from there.”

  “That’s the spir
it,” Molly said polishing off both tea and doughnut, whilst simultaneously managing to check her watch. “Right that’s it, it’s back to the salt mines. I’ve got five hundred words to write on who’s shagging who and about five minutes in which to do it. After that, my ass is grass!”

  “I’d better be getting a move on too.” Standing up, Derry headed for the door, just as it opened and the Slug, almost as if he’d been conjured up simply by speaking about him strolled in.

  “Something I said?” Insolently his gaze went from one to the other.

  “No, something we smelled,” Derry said, shouldering her way past him.