The Brightest Star in the Sky Page 7

  “The priesthood?” Conall asked.

  “Or perhaps a doctor who cures blindness?” she suggested. “They probably get a lot of love.”

  Conall stared wistfully after Katie as she strode from the shop maintaining admirable, straight-backed posture in her four-inch heels. Impressive girl. Not that she was really a girl, he acknowledged. She was older than his usual type—he’d read all about Katie in her personnel file so he knew her salary, her address, her age: thirty-nine. But he was forty-two and perhaps it was time he had a girlfriend who wasn’t a decade younger than him, someone who shared the same cultural references as him, who remembered David Bowie from the first time round. And the second time round.

  Conall Hathaway was badly smitten. It was that comment Katie had made yesterday: “One day we’ll all be dead and none of this will matter.” For a moment it had opened up a sliver of insight into an entirely different way of thinking. He was always so caught up in the extreme focus of his work, of the brutal choices he had to make, but suddenly all that anxiety had diminished and he saw his life as a small, unimportant thing, his decisions as essentially meaningless, and he was astonished by how free he felt. He was intrigued by Katie’s originality, her courage and, most of all, her wisdom. Even more impressive was that she had laughed at him, at his manifest shock.

  If only he had known that the truth was far, oh yes far more complex. First and foremost, Conall’s and Katie’s heart vibrations were in harmony. In addition, the shape of Katie’s face—the wide-spacing of her eyes and the sweet tapering of her chin—stirred a murky memory in Conall’s subconscious of the teacher he’d had a tearful crush on at the tender age of five. Into this incendiary mix came a compelling petroleum smell—from Danno’s thick black marker—which cast Conall back into his illicit yet thrilling teenage years. And, of course, Conall had noticed Katie’s generous bosom, buttoned up in a clinging cashmere cardigan which, in a delicious, delirious conflict, made her seem both maternal and very, very unmaternal.

  What was he to do, he wondered, staring balefully at a container of colored thumbtacks as if they had just farted. He could hardly ask her out, then sack her. Or sack her and then ask her out. Another option, of course, was to not sack her, but he wasn’t sure if that could be justified.

  It was a hellishly awkward position he found himself in. Usually, when he wanted something, it was his. I’m Conall Hathaway, he thought, and I always get what I want.

  Disconsolately, he picked up a slab of red heart-shaped Post-its and made his way to the checkout.

  Day 60 . . .

  In the park, Grudge dreamed of being a steeplechaser. He sprang high and long, clearing invisible obstacles, while Jemima sat on a bench and inhaled the oxygen-rich, life-giving morning air. Grudge bounded and soared, his long donkey-like ears flattened against his head, his crimped gray hair flying in the wind. A man sat down beside her and watched Grudge’s athletics with an interest bordering on the fascination. “Look at that dog,” he said.

  “He’s mine,” Jemima said briskly. “And much beloved.” She said this in order to save the man from embarrassing them both by saying, “Isn’t he the maddest-looking article you’ve ever seen?”

  “He’s full of vim, that’s for sure . . . Ah . . . what kind is he?”

  “They told me in the pound that he was a cocker spaniel—”

  “A spaniel? Not a bit tall for a spaniel?”

  “—crossed with collie—”

  “Collies, lovely creatures, very even temperament.”

  “—with a smattering of box terrier—”

  “Box terrier? Actually, yes—” the man squinted doubtfully—“maybe I can see that . . .”

  “—and I’m told one of his great-grandparents was an Irish Wolf-hound.”

  “Nice patriotic dogs.”

  Jemima got to her feet and whistled for Grudge. “Must get on,” she told the man. “My son Fionn is coming to stay. Want to get the place in shape.”

  She didn’t really have to go home, she just wanted an excuse to say those delicious words: My son Fionn is coming.

  Of course he wasn’t really her son, he was her foster son, but no need to tell the man that.

  “He’s a gardener.” She couldn’t stop herself, the pride was simply too great. “And he’s just been given his own television show. For six weeks. Initially. But if it flies . . .” Yes, she checked with herself, flieswas almost certainly the word Fionn had used. “If it flies, they might recommission it.”

  “Very good.”

  “He lives in Monaghan, but he’ll be staying with me for the filming. They offered to put him up in a hotel but he said he’d prefer to be with me.”

  “Very good.” The man shifted a little.

  “There’s a gap in the market—indeed, one could call it an echoing void—for a good gardening program. I’ve been doing a survey and their paucity beggars belief. Last night I had the misfortune to watch something hosted by one Monty Don and, really, such balderdash . . .”

  “But Monty Don is marvelous!”

  “Hardly relevant, though, is he?”

  “He’s a gardener who does gardening programs about gardens. How much more relevant does he need to be?”

  “My son’s show will offer much more. ‘An entire support system for our twenty-first-century lifestyle.’ ” She was quoting directly from the pitch Fionn had sent her. “ ‘Our lives are moving ever faster, but we have a need to get back to the land. The buzzwords are Fresh! Organic! Grow your own!’ ”

  “Fair play.” The man got to his feet.

  “It’s called Your Own Private Eden,” Jemima called after him, as he hurried away. “Watch out for it. Channel 8, coming soon.”

  Day 60 . . .

  Maeve’s journey to work was such a high-risk performance you could have sold tickets to it. She was even more daring and audacious than she’d been four and a half years ago when Matt had first noticed her orange bobbled-hat moving through the traffic. Now, she zipped like a streak of light through narrow canyons formed by buses and trucks, she zigzagged complicated patterns between nose-to-tail lines of cars and—most breathtaking of all—she hurtled through red lights and wove miraculous paths between the startled drivers who poured at her from both the left and the right. An adrenaline-riddled exercise that seemed quite at odds with her gentle, nerve-soothing alarm clock.

  She no longer worked in a software company but was employed in the reservations department of Emerald, a smallish hotel chain. Emerald’s administrative staff were housed in the basement of their flagship hotel, the Isle. Maeve passed through the long office, nodding and smiling, and arrived at her desk, which was right down at the end.

  She switched on her monitor, reached into her in tray and began work immediately. All around her, her many colleagues were discussing what they’d each had for their dinner the previous evening but Maeve kept her eyes on her screen and tapped away diligently.

  It seemed that Maeve not only worked in the reservations department, but that she was the reservations department. Just her. Her twenty or so co-workers were payroll people, or procurements, or goods inward or outward, which meant that Maeve had little need to stop by anyone’s desk and say something like, “See this reservation, can you sort out the four weasels they’re asking for?” However, she didn’t indulge much in banter and chat with her colleagues either. Everything perfectly civil, don’t get me wrong, but Maeve kept herself to herself, which was surprising. As was the uncomplicated, unchallenging nature of her work—frankly, a well-trained monkey could have done it and it wasn’t at all what you’d expect from a woman of her charm and ability. Who knew what had happened since the glory days in Goliath when she’d shown such promise that her training period had finished two weeks early? Perhaps, after Matt had spurned the lovely Natalie in favor of Maeve, things had become awkward and they had found it preferable to work elsewhere, and in the current economic climate this was all she’d been able to find?

  All morning Maeve
carried out her duties, allocating non-smoking suites and twin-bedded rooms according to request. She experienced a certain pride in her endeavors: people visited strange cities and found beds awaiting them because Maeve made it happen.

  At one o’clock sharp, she left her cubicle and went to a nearby sandwich bar, where she was greeted with warmth by the mumsy woman behind the counter.

  “Hi, Maeve. What’ll it be?”

  “Hi, Doreen. Ham salad—”

  “—sandwich, brown bread, no mustard? Bag of plain crisps and one can of Fanta? Don’t know why I bother asking.”

  “One day I might surprise you,” she said.

  “Don’t. I couldn’t take the shock. There’s too much uncertainty in life as it is, I like it like this.”

  Armed with her lunch, Maeve sat in the sunshine on the flight of steps outside the Central Bank, scanning the swarms of tourists and shoppers, looking for a chance to do her daily Act of Kindness. Was she right in thinking that it was easier in the colder months, she wondered. She’d started this back in March, a month when people were still trailing highly droppable items like gloves, scarves, hats, and all Maeve had to do was pick up the abandoned garment and race after the person then bask in the glow of their gratitude. Then again, the summer had brought tourists, poor foreigners who were perplexed by Dublin’s illogical street systems, and in the last few weeks Maeve’s daily duty had often landed right in her lap, when some baffled Italian or American asked for directions. She always made a big effort to ensure the visitors knew exactly where they were going, sometimes even accompanying them part of the way. But today was a slow one. No one was consulting a map in bewilderment, nobody needed help carrying a pram up the steps, no one needed to urgently borrow a phone. It was ten to two, almost time to go back to work, and she still hadn’t found a person to be kind to when—aha!—she saw her prospects. A young couple, obviously tourists. The girl was standing next to a very Irishy-looking green letter box and the boy was taking a photo of her.

  Maeve pushed herself to her feet. She didn’t want to do this, she never wanted to, but she’d feel better afterward. She walked into their line of sight and forced herself to smile. “Would you like me to take a picture of both of you together? Next to the letter box?”

  They stared at her as if they’d been turned to stone. Maybe they didn’t understand English?

  “French?” she asked. “Voulez-vous—”

  “We’re American,” the girl said.

  “So would you like a shot of the two of you together? Next to the, um, mailbox?”

  “Er . . .” the boy said, cradling his camera protectively.

  Then Maeve understood. “Look, I’m not going to steal your camera. Here—” she offered the girl her satchel—“have this as security.” The girl resisted. “Please,” Maeve said. “I only want to help.”

  “Is it like a random act of kindness thing?” the girl asked.

  “Exactly!” Maeve’s face lit up.

  “It’s okay,” the girl said to the boy. “I get it. Give her the camera.”

  Maeve took several shots and the pair were lovely and grateful and said that she was “pretty solid” and “If you’re ever in Seattle . . .”

  “You’ll take a photo of me and my husband?”

  “Yeah!”

  All in all, she felt considerably better. The thing was that the book that had recommended this daily practice—some self-help yoke—hadn’t taken account of the fact that recipients of Maeve’s kindness weren’t always grateful. Often they were confused or mistrustful or downright blasé. Only last week she’d spent twenty minutes of her lunch hour carrying a Brabantia kitchen trash can—not that heavy, but very awkward—through the crowds, all the way from Abbey Street to Tara Street Dart station, and the woman, the random stranger who owned it, had seemed quite put out that Maeve wasn’t going to get the Dart with her and help her carry the trash can at the other end.

  But today was a good one. She wondered how Matt was getting on with his AOK. Bound to be something to do with his car, letting another driver out of a side road, that sort of thing. It always was. In many ways she and Matt were so different that it was mad they’d ended up together. But she’d always had a tenderness for him and she could still pinpoint the exact moment when she’d started to fall in love . . .

  It was four and a bit years ago, a Saturday evening in April. Maeve was curled up in David’s bed, half-in-half-out of a dreamy doze, when suddenly she jolted back into alertness. She grabbed his wrist to look at his watch.

  “Cripes, David, it’s half-eight. Get up! Who wants to go in the shower first?”

  “Wait.” He dismissed her agitation. “Slow down a minute.”

  “But the others will be waiting! If we don’t get going, we might even miss the band.”

  “Easy,” he soothed. He stared into her eyes, and she felt herself eddy back down into calmness. “Easy,” he repeated. “Five or ten minutes won’t make any difference.”

  “Okay,” she said, releasing all her anxiety in one long breath.

  “Okay.”

  David and Maeve. Maeve and David. In a way, Goliath was like one big dating agency. There were over two hundred employees, the vast majority of them under the age of thirty and they tended to travel in large packs, doing communal Galwegian-style things like going to gigs and festivals and benefits. If you fancied someone you made sure you ended up in the same gang as them. Proper dates, like one-on-one dinners, were scorned, at least among the worker bees. Of course it was different for management—team leaders like Matt and Nat were another breed, into country hotel mini-breaks, couples massages, room service, all that caper. But no judgment was made; it was horses for courses, each to their own.

  Soon after Maeve had started her training at Goliath, she realized that her colleagues were great believers in “giving back.” Almost before she knew where the coffee machine was, she’d found herself roped onto a committee to organize a comedy benefit in aid of the homeless. David was the driving force behind it. He and the other volunteers persuaded several well-known comedians to do a gig—waiving their fees, of course—for Goliath’s staff, with all the proceeds going to the charity. During the following month, when Maeve gave up many of her evenings to help pull the event together, she became aware of David’s focus on her, which became more and more intense as the event got nearer. She also noticed that some of the other girls on the committee were jealous of David’s interest in her—and she couldn’t help feeling a bit flattered. David was well traveled and brainy and passionate about injustice and he was a little bit older than the rest of them, yet she was the one he liked. Her previous boyfriend, Harry, whom she’d met in college in Galway and with whom she’d gone to Australia, had been nice and all that, but not impressive the way David was.

  The night of the gig finally arrived and it went great, thanks to the very efficient organization. Thousands of euro were raised and afterward, when the committee had finished their celebratory drinks, Maeve did what she knew for weeks she’d be doing on this night: she went home with David.

  And that was that, they were together. They had plenty in common. Bicycles. Pints. Touareg bands. Boogie-boarding in Clare. Hummus in the fridge. Barbara Kingsolver novels. Altruistic tendencies. David was the most principled, the most truly good person Maeve had ever met.

  “Right, I’m getting in the shower,” Maeve said.

  But David pulled her tightly to him and twirled one of her curls around his finger. “Let’s not go.”

  “What? Where?”

  “Let’s not go out tonight.”

  She was taken aback. “What would we do instead?”

  “I can think of plenty.”

  But they’d spent the afternoon in bed. She’d had enough of it for the moment.

  “I’ve never seen Fanfare Ciocărlia,” she said. “I want to go.”

  “And I want to stay in with you.”

  “We’ve paid for the tickets.” That would work, she thought. He
didn’t like waste of any kind.

  “It’s only money.”

  “Yeah, but . . .”

  “Okay.” He sighed. “You’d prefer to be with the people you work with than with me.”

  “David—” But he’d slid from the bed and was on his way to the bathroom.

  Then at the gig—a group of gypsy musicians frenetically playing James Bond themes on tubas—who should she bump in to, only Matt! He was dancing along madly with everyone else! It was a surprise because, other than Friday-night drinks, team leaders didn’t tend to socialize with their staff. But it was a nice surprise because everyone loved Matt. His was the best team to be on. Right enough, it was work and it was often frustrating, anxious work, but because of the way Matt was always cheery and upbeat, you had a laugh. “Matt!” Maeve yelled over the music. “I didn’t know you liked this sort of thing,”

  “Neither did I, but it’s fecking mighty!”

  Fecking mighty?

  “Where’s Nat?” she shouted.

  “Not here. Not for her.”

  Fair play to him for coming without her, and what made him even more endearing was that he was so . . . he was . . . well, he was such a bad dancer. Flinging himself around like a puppy and no fear of being laughed at. It was cute. With a heart softened by his sweetness, Maeve thought, Matt . . .

  This popping in and out of their memory pools—I’m able to do it but it’s not clean. I can’t just jump into their pasts, find what I want and hop out again, leaving everything as it was. I’m already causing ripples, disquiet, upsets. I’m weaving my way into their lives, showing up in their dreams, haunting the edges of their thoughts. In the days and weeks afterward, everyone will admit they’d felt this was on its way. That they knew.