The Women Who Ran Away: Will their secrets follow them? Read online

  Grace had returned to reading her book as she ate, and didn’t look up when Deira sat down again. Deira supposed that the older woman would have liked a table for one just as much as she would. And yet it had been nice to speak to another person. Besides, there was something comforting in Grace’s calm, melodic voice, something stabilising about her serenity. Somehow Deira could easily imagine her driving sedately the length of France and Spain. She had no idea how long such a journey would take, but it would certainly be a good deal more than the six or so hours from Roscoff to Paris. After Gavin had booked the ferry and Deira had looked at the route to the French capital, she’d wondered why he hadn’t chosen a ferry to Calais instead. Paris was less than two hours from Calais by car. But he’d told her that he’d wanted to do the Cork to Roscoff journey again. That it had been lovely when he’d done it before and he wanted to share it with her. That had shut her up, because they never talked about his time before her. When he was married to Marilyn and part of a family with two children of his own.

  Deira had never intended to become part of his life.

  But she had.

  And for a while, it had been the best thing that had ever happened to her.

  Chapter 5

  Dublin, Ireland: 53.3498°N 6.2603°W

  She was twenty-five years old and had been working in Hagan’s Fine Art Gallery and Auction Rooms for almost a year when Gavin Boyer walked in. She noticed him straight away, a tall, confident man with jet-black hair who ignored the carefully curated displays and strode up to the mahogany desk where she was seated. After introducing himself, he asked to see Kevin Hagan.

  ‘Mr Hagan isn’t here today.’ Deira was polite despite the fact that Gavin had been abrupt. ‘He’s at an exhibition in London. Can I take a message?’

  ‘He can’t be in London. I have a meeting with him,’ said Gavin.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Boyer, but he’s very definitely in London, and if you arranged a meeting with him, he’s somehow mixed up the dates.’ Deira knew she was right, but nevertheless she tapped on her keypad to check the online calendar. ‘There’s no meeting in his diary.’

  ‘I should’ve texted him to confirm,’ Gavin said irritably. ‘He’s hopeless.’

  Deira kept quiet, but privately she agreed with the attractive man standing in front of her that Kevin was hopeless when it came to meetings, especially if he set them up himself. Never knowingly missing a detail when it came to arts and antiquities, he was forgetful about everything else.

  ‘The earliest I can schedule a meeting for you is Monday afternoon, if that helps,’ she said.

  ‘Monday it is, so.’ He smiled suddenly, and looked less like a grumpy old man. Not that he was old in the first place, Deira thought as she logged the meeting. But he was older than her. Late thirties or early forties, she reckoned. She tapped the keyboard again.

  ‘As you’re here, would you like to browse the gallery?’ she asked. ‘We’ve got some great new work or, of course, you can look at our auction items.’

  ‘I’ll take a glance around,’ said Gavin. ‘Not that Kevin deserves it.’

  Deira watched him from behind the computer as he walked around the gallery, pausing in front of some of the paintings and ignoring others. He was distinguished, she thought, and knowledgeable too, because he gave more time to the better artists, studying the paintings carefully. She smiled when she realised he was examining one of her favourites – a mother and child sharing a riverside bench, both holding bright orange umbrellas over their heads.

  ‘Isn’t it lovely?’ She walked up to him with a brochure. ‘It’s a Thelma Roache. We’ve got more of her work here. It’s very vibrant.’ She turned and pointed to another painting, this time of a woman hurrying for a train, an emerald-green bag over her shoulder and her yellow coat flapping open.

  ‘Yes, it is.’ Gavin took the brochure from her, but continued to study the painting of the mother and child.

  ‘I like how the brightness of their umbrellas contrasts with the surroundings,’ said Deira. ‘And how the river looks so dark and gloomy but the painting itself isn’t.’

  ‘Is that your critical analysis?’ He sounded amused.

  She glanced at him, embarrassed at her unvarnished praise for the painting, but he was looking at her with interest.

  ‘Not so much a critical view, more a personal one,’ she admitted. ‘I like Thelma Roache and I think she should be better known. We’ve only recently started to show her work, but she’s great. An older woman, which may be why she doesn’t get the recognition. She’s been painting since the seventies.’

  ‘Oh.’ Gavin looked surprised.

  ‘But of course women don’t get the same recognition as men anyway,’ Deira said. ‘No matter how good they are.’

  ‘Women in general or women artists?’

  ‘In general. But particularly as artists.’

  ‘You’re sure about that?’

  ‘It was part of my thesis,’ she said.

  ‘You studied art?’

  ‘Art history and modern literature,’ she told him. ‘My brother told me it was a useless degree, but it got me the job here.’

  ‘You don’t want to be an artist or a writer yourself?’

  She shook her head. ‘I can appreciate other people’s work, but I know my limitations. What I like doing is matching people with paintings they love. Or helping out with exhibitions. Because it brings the beauty of art – whether it’s paintings or sculpture or jewellery or books – to more people.’

  ‘Have you organised many exhibitions?’

  ‘Just one. But it was excellent. We sold all the paintings.’ She beamed at him.

  He said nothing in reply and she wondered if she’d overstepped the mark with him. But he simply told her that he’d be back on Monday to meet with Kevin and that he hoped to see her too.

  After he’d left, Deira couldn’t help feeling that the gallery seemed very empty.

  Kevin came back from his exhibition full of enthusiasm for some new names, and apologetic about having forgotten his meeting with Gavin Boyer.

  ‘I didn’t realise it was a definite thing,’ he told Deira. ‘But no harm done, we’ve been in touch and he’s fine about it.’

  He was in his office when Gavin called at exactly four o’clock on Monday afternoon. Deira brought coffee and biscuits to them and then went back to logging the items for their upcoming antique jewellery auction on the computer.

  Afterwards, Kevin told her that Gavin was looking to exhibit some art himself.

  ‘Huh? He’s a rival?’ Deira was taken aback.

  ‘Not at all,’ said Kevin. ‘He’s an executive with a life and pensions company. They’re trying to reach out into the community a bit more and support cultural events.’

  She grimaced. ‘All these corporations trying to make nice when we know they’d rip the face off you if they could.’

  ‘Perhaps.’ Kevin grinned. ‘But it’s a worthwhile endeavour all the same. Solas Life has recently moved into a new building and they have a space they think could be used to display artwork. He’s also thinking about historical retrospectives on aspects of the city, or great musicians or writers. Anyhow, his first idea is an art exhibition and he wants us to come up with some content.’

  ‘That’s exciting,’ conceded Deira.

  ‘Actually, you’ve already given him an idea he likes. He was very taken by Thelma Roache’s work. He wants to exhibit some women painters.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Deira.

  ‘He said that you were so aggrieved they don’t get enough recognition that you based your thesis on it.’

  ‘Gender inequality in the arts,’ Deira said. ‘Not only painting. You should know. You read it.’

  ‘Well, you poked a sleeping beast with it anyhow.’ Kevin didn’t confirm or deny that he’d read the thesis he’d asked her to send him after he’d interviewed her for the job. Which made her wonder if he’d actually bothered. ‘So, off you go. He’s talking about twenty or so pai
ntings, but you’ll need to have a look at the space they have and see what you think.’

  ‘You want me to do it?’

  ‘Why not?’ Kevin said cheerfully. ‘You’re the one with the big ideas around here.’

  Deira had great fun curating the exhibition for Gavin Boyer, who was unexpectedly easy to work with. The space in the company’s building on Dawson Street was ideal, and Gavin himself was supportive of the suggestions she made. On the night of the opening, he made a speech to the invited guests in which he thanked her profusely for all her help. Deira couldn’t help being charmed by him and delighted by his compliments. It was good to be praised for doing a job that she’d loved, particularly as that praise was in front of the Minister for Arts and other important people in business and industry. Hopefully, she thought, as the glass of white wine she was holding grew too warm to drink, hopefully these people would remember that it was Hagan’s that had sourced the paintings and put everything together.

  ‘Deira, isn’t this lovely!’ Thelma Roache, dazzling in a raspberry velvet dress, her normally loose silver hair pinned in a neat chignon, caught her by the arm. ‘Thank you so much for suggesting my work. I want to have it seen by as many people as possible, and more people come into an insurance company building than an art gallery.’

  ‘Gavin – Mr Boyer – has highlighted this new cultural space to all the company’s customers,’ said Deira. ‘But it’s not only for customers; it’s open to everyone. I’m sure loads of people will want to come.’

  ‘Obviously I want that to happen.’ Thelma beamed at her in return. ‘I’m not so much of an artist that I still dream of starving in my garret. Knowing that they’ll be seen is a big thing.’

  ‘I’m sure they’ll sell,’ Deira said. ‘And I’m sure the other artists’ will sell too.’

  The exhibition had concentrated on four female artists. Deira had chosen them for the diversity of their work but also because their paintings were alive with colour and movement. Thelma, at almost seventy, was the oldest. Looking around the room now, Deira was delighted at how well all of the work was presented, and she couldn’t help feeling another thrill of pride that she’d been involved.

  ‘Great job, Deira.’

  This time it was Gavin Boyer himself who was beside her. ‘Hugely successful.’

  ‘It is, isn’t it.’ She beamed at him. ‘And you know what I like most?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That it’s going to be part of everyday life for people who come in and out of your building. That the art is just there. Not something they have to make an effort to go and see. I have to admit that I was a bit sceptical about your motives at first,’ she added, ‘but I’m really pleased to have been part of it.’

  ‘I’m pleased you were too,’ he said. ‘I’ve never met anyone as enthusiastic as you about their work.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure everyone who works for Solas is equally enthusiastic,’ she said.

  Gavin laughed as her tone betrayed her doubt. ‘You’d make a terrible liar,’ he said. ‘But whatever their enthusiasm for working in pensions, at least they’ll all love the artworks.’

  At that moment, a slender, dark-haired woman in a stylish blue shift dress joined them, accompanied by two teenage girls in jeans and T-shirts.

  ‘My wife, Marilyn,’ said Gavin. ‘And my lovely daughters, Mae and Suzy.’

  Deira knew now that Gavin was forty years old and that his wife had stopped working outside the home when his second daughter was born. They must have married very young, she thought, as she greeted his teenage daughters, neither of whom seemed overly thrilled to be there.

  She spent a few minutes talking to Gavin’s family before being approached by one of his colleagues who wanted to introduce her to the Minister himself. This is me now, she thought, with a jolt of pride, as she said goodbye to Marilyn Boyer. I’m the sort of person who gets introduced to the Minister.

  I’m on the way up.

  Two weeks later, Gavin came into the gallery and told her he was taking her to lunch.

  ‘You can’t,’ she said. ‘I have a heap of stuff to do.’

  ‘I’ve already squared it with Kevin,’ said Gavin. ‘It’s not a problem. I want to thank you properly for everything.’

  ‘I was doing my job, that’s all,’ said Deira. ‘I enjoyed it.’

  ‘And now you can enjoy the fruits of it with me,’ said Gavin. ‘It’s a business lunch.’

  Deira had never been out for a business lunch before. Occasionally she and Kevin had eaten together in the small sandwich bar around the corner while they talked about an upcoming auction, but an actual sit-down lunch was an entirely different proposition.

  ‘I’d better check with him first anyway,’ she said, and ran up the stairs to Kevin’s office.

  Her boss had no problem with her going to lunch with Gavin and told her he’d keep an eye on things.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘You think I can’t manage my own gallery?’ He raised an eyebrow.

  ‘I don’t entirely trust you not to knock a few hundred euros off a painting if you think someone really loves it,’ she admitted, which made him laugh.

  Gavin put his hand on the small of her back as he opened the gallery door and escorted her outside. ‘I’ve booked the Saddle Room at the Shelbourne,’ he told her.

  Her eyes widened. The Saddle Room was a Dublin institution. She’d never eaten there. In fact she’d hardly ever gone into the Shelbourne, which was just as much of an institution. Her salary didn’t stretch that far. She wished she was wearing something a little more elegant than her floral-sprigged V-necked dress and ballet pumps. But this was her working look.

  The maître d’ nodded at Gavin in recognition when they arrived, and led them to a table for two in a quiet corner of the room. It was a table from which one could observe without being observed, and Deira was impressed to see Eamon Dunphy, the sports pundit, at another table, while Bono, easily recognisable in his yellow-tinted sunglasses, was seated at a third.

  ‘It’s a kind of who’s who,’ she murmured to Gavin, who laughed and said that it was one of his favourite places to eat.

  Deira knew it was far too expensive to become one of hers, but she was happy to allow him to lead her through the menu and choose a bottle of wine to accompany the lamb she’d selected. She was only going to drink a glass. She didn’t want to arrive back at work half-cut.

  ‘So tell me more about yourself,’ he asked when the waiter had left them alone together.

  ‘You know everything there is to know,’ she replied. ‘We’ve talked a lot over the last few weeks.’

  ‘We’ve talked about the exhibition,’ agreed Gavin. ‘But not that much about you. Where are you from? That accent isn’t entirely Dublin.’

  ‘Galway,’ said Deira. ‘But I’ve been here since college.’

  ‘Would you like to go back?’ asked Gavin.

  ‘To Galway? No.’ Deira was vehement.

  ‘Have you family in Dublin?’

  ‘No.’ This time Deira’s tone was more relaxed. ‘But I’m happy here. I see my life here.’

  ‘With Kevin Hagan?’

  ‘For the time being, at any rate.’

  She looked up as the waiter returned with her grilled prawn starter.

  ‘Gosh, this looks great,’ she said. ‘I didn’t realise I was hungry, but seeing it has made my mouth water.’

  ‘Good.’ Gavin smiled. ‘So, getting back to what I was saying – where do you see yourself in five years from now? Still at Hagan’s? Or is that a stepping-off point for you? Do you have other plans?’

  ‘Jeepers, you sound like you’re interviewing me!’ Deira squeezed lemon over her prawns, then, when Gavin didn’t say anything, looked up at him. ‘Are you interviewing me?’

  ‘Maybe,’ he admitted.

  ‘I don’t want to work in pensions,’ said Deira. ‘I don’t know how you could possibly think I would.’

  ‘I’m totally aware that you wouldn’
t want to work in pensions,’ acknowledged Gavin. ‘That’s not what I had in mind at all.’

  What he was thinking about turned out to be a position in Solas Life and Pensions as a corporate responsibility executive. Deira would look out for projects that suited their brand and ethos, he told her, as well as being responsible for the cultural space in their Dawson Street building. Obviously their next exhibition would have to be something very different to the four women painters, but he was sure she could come up with an idea. Solas wanted to be seen as promoting Irish heritage. He could think of no one better than Deira to do that for them.

  ‘I’m not sure I’m qualified,’ she said.

  ‘You’re supremely qualified,’ he told her.

  ‘All the same . . .’

  ‘You’re a ray of light in a dull, dull business,’ he said. ‘We’d love to have you on board.’

  Then he mentioned the salary, which was double what she was earning at Hagan’s, and she knew her decision was already made.

  It was the job she’d been born for.

  By the end of the year, she’d arranged a second exhibition, this time of photographs of Irish cities. The photos were a mixture of black-and-white and colour, and although some were of iconic features, like Christ Church Cathedral or Galway’s Spanish Arch, others simply reflected a slice of city life. Deira’s personal favourite was a photograph of a woman coming out of a café, a takeaway cup in one hand, a sandwich in the other, her hair blowing in the wind.

  Both the art and photographic exhibitions had been given good write-ups in the press, and Deira herself had even been interviewed with the caption ‘The Young Woman Who’s Bringing Business and Heritage Together’. Gillian had sent her a congratulatory text when the feature had been published, and Deira had saved it, because Gill’s praise of her younger sister was seldom and therefore doubly important.

  At the Christmas party that year, Gavin told her that the company was more than delighted with the good work she was doing and the excellent publicity it had brought them. ‘We’re all about making a difference,’ he said, ‘and you’ve shown us how.’