Crazy For You E-Book

Domhnall O'Donoghue

• Herausgeber: Mercier Press
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 362

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020

Beschreibung

When Clooney Coyle promises Vonnie Gallagher they'll be friends for life, he has no idea what he's letting himself in for. The lonely and eccentric Vonnie quickly becomes obsessed with the kind-hearted but insecure actor, and her misguided crush soon develops into something much more sinister, which leaves Clooney's career in tatters.  But when fate takes a strange turn and elevates the pair into an overnight celebrity couple, Clooney must decide whether to embrace the fame he has longed for since childhood or end the ridiculous charade before Vonnie's jealous – and murderous – inclinations spiral out of control.

Leseprobe

MERCIER PRESS

3B Oak House, Bessboro Rd

Blackrock, Cork, Ireland.

www.mercierpress.ie

@MercierBooks

@MercierPress

© Domhnall O’Donoghue, 2020

ISBN: 978 1 78117 779 2

eBook ISBN: 978 1 78117 780 8

This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

Contents

PRAISE FOR COLIN AND THE CONCUBINE

PROLOGUE

PART ONE

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY-ONE

TWENTY-TWO

TWENTY-THREE

TWENTY-FOUR

PART TWO

TWENTY-FIVE

TWENTY-SIX

TWENTY-SEVEN

TWENTY-EIGHT

TWENTY-NINE

THIRTY

THIRTY-ONE

THIRTY-TWO

THIRTY-THREE

THIRTY-FOUR

PART THREE

THIRTY-FIVE

THIRTY-SIX

THIRTY-SEVEN

THIRTY-EIGHT

THIRTY-NINE

FORTY

FORTY-ONE

FORTY-TWO

FORTY-THREE

FORTY-FOUR

FORTY-FIVE

FORTY-SIX

FORTY-SEVEN

FORTY-EIGHT

FORTY-NINE

FIFTY

FIFTY-ONE

FIFTY-TWO

FIFTY-THREE

FIFTY-FOUR

FIFTY-FIVE

FIFTY-SIX

FIFTY-SEVEN

FIFTY-EIGHT

FIFTY-NINE

SIXTY

SIXTY-ONE

SIXTY-TWO

SIXTY-THREE

SIXTY-FOUR

Acknowledgements

About the Author

PRAISE FOR COLIN AND THE CONCUBINE

‘Full of Irish nostalgia. Hilarious, charming and a little bit bonkers - I loved it!’

Jennifer Zamparelli, 2FM

‘Hilarious’

RTÉ.ie

‘Characters that jump from the page with an entertaining and engaging plot … Domhnall’s novel ties Ireland to Istanbul in a surprising and hilarious way. The perfect antidote to a chilly winter.’

Áine Toner, Woman’s Way

‘O’Donoghue has a natural gift for comedy, and his prose reads with a musical quality. Perhaps aided by his experience as an actor and screenwriter, he has created dialogue that pops, bounces and crackles: you won’t see the pages turning as you get caught up in this charming battle of wits.’

Sophie Grenham, The Gloss

‘A gifted weaver of witty prose, O’Donoghue follows up his hilarious debut Sister Agatha: The World’s Oldest Serial Killer convincingly. This laugh-out-loud tale of sibling rivalry takes us from Navan to Istanbul and finds Colin Saint James looking to trump his brother in something … the Housewife of the Year contest. But can a Turkish concubine help Colin prevail?’

Patrick Lawlor, Irish Mail on Sunday

‘You will love this book – there’s humour in it, you’ll smile, you’ll enjoy reading it. It’s brilliant like that … Even though the topics in this book are heavy, they are treated brilliantly. [O’Donoghue] has a winner on his hands’

Gerry Kelly, Late Lunch, LMFM

‘Wonderful’

Galway Bay FM

‘Fantastically witty’

Connacht Tribune

‘It’s a delight. It’s funny and well-paced and really entertaining. With a real balance of comedy and “noir”, this engaging caper will keep you guessing.’

The Meath Chronicle

‘I really enjoyed Colin and the Concubine.’

Liffey Sounds FM

‘A gripping book.’

Connemara Community Radio

PROLOGUE

Clooney stormed the hotel corridor, scantily dressed in a white singlet and matching boxer briefs. He gripped a phone in place of the loaded gun that had scorched his hands moments earlier. If the stakes hadn’t been so high, the vainglorious thirty-seven-year-old might have paused his rescue mission and stolen a glance at his impressive, tanned physique in one of the gilded mirrors lining the walls on either side. He might even have chanced a selfie to excite Instagram – the moody lighting in the property was particularly flattering. ‘The more flesh the better!’ his millions of followers would often comment on his hourly posts. He’d always been happy to accommodate – just not now.

Clooney’s late grandmother was to blame for his love of expensive undergarments – how many times had she said, ‘Everyone should own good quality pants unless you want to be embarrassed in the morgue’? And the morgue was precisely where he feared he would soon end up.

What the near-naked actor lacked in actual body armour, he made up for in steely determination. Such was the intensity of the situation, he wasn’t even aware of the bestial grunts escaping his mouth. Thankfully, the exclusive ski resort was teeming with eccentric millionaires, all dab hands at behaving oddly; otherwise, Clooney would surely have received inquisitive glances – even been tackled to the ground by those fearful of terrorist attacks.

Ironic, given that the building’s only terrorist had fled moments earlier.

For now, nothing was going to prevent him protecting the woman he’d loved ever since he was in britches: the only person who had genuinely motivated him. Inspired him. Fascinated him. Never in his wildest dream had he imagined he would one day be responsible for averting her assassination; the world’s most famous person.

Yet here he was.

Breathless, Clooney reached the elevator and slammed the call button with as much energy as he could rally. As he waited, a disorientated lady waving a Bloody Mary slurred, ‘Nice bulge,’ before staggering past him, unconcerned that her potent vodka and tomato juice concoction was sullying the plush ivory carpet. On an average day, Clooney couldn’t resist a compliment. Today, with his laser-like focus on saving a life, her praise went over his pretty head. Frustrated that the elevator doors remained shut, he hit the button for a second then a third and fourth time.

‘Jesus Christ, would you open!’

A waiter, delivering breakfast to one of the bedrooms nearby, offered Clooney an apologetic shrug.

‘It is often busy in the morning,’ he said by way of explanation. ‘If you are in a rush –’

‘I am in a fuckin’ rush –’

‘Then you could always take the stairs. We’re only on the second floor.’

Without so much as a thank you, Clooney cleared the corner and sprinted down the stairwell, five steps at a time. He could hear the waiter shout after him – ‘Would it be possible to get an autograph?’ – a request that would have normally gladdened the heart of this world-famous ‘trailblazer’, as The New York Times had recently referred to him.

Again, not today.

How could you be so stupid, Clooney?

He felt his forehead moisten, briefly reminding him of those horrid periods earlier in his life when he’d battled social anxiety; his body publicly and embarrassingly unravelling at the first hint of awkwardness: sweating, blushing, stuttering.

Remember all those invitations you turned down? Locking yourself in your flat, too self-conscious and panicked to even greet the postman? Well, you should have stayed put, you absolute cad, and then all of this drama could have been avoided!

He finally reached the foyer. Guests sashayed across the marble floors en route to the restaurant to sample the local Alpine cuisine. How Clooney envied them: their most challenging decision that morning was choosing between a bowl of muesli and a sliver of schinkenspeck. Not that he could have entertained a morsel of food; in the past few moments, his stomach had become quite spirited, and he wanted to avoid discolouring his white underwear if possible.

As he hopped over a leather suitcase, cast aside by a new arrival too tired or too rich to position it out of harm’s way, he spotted her through the glass doors. Not the woman whose life he was trying to save but the woman – if you could even call her that – who was the cause of all these histrionics.

Vonnie. His nemesis.

Despite resembling the Michelin Man in her over-sized ski gear, her menacing presence was clearly evident. She briefly locked eyes with him and winked coquettishly before disappearing in the direction of the slopes. Clooney had always known that the fame and adulation he’d craved since childhood would come at a price. It seemed that this wench – the supposed love of his life – was hell-bent on making him pay.

Pay the ultimate price.

PART ONE

ONE

Seventeen Months Earlier

‘Let me take those dirty bin bags off ye, my love. The only place a woman of your beauty should be surrounded by such filth is in the bedroom!’

Clooney always felt a need to help others, and the evening of Isla’s fancy-dress party – a gathering that would change his life forever – was no exception. Kitted out like his childhood idol Madonna, he’d arrived at his best buddy’s house an hour early. As soon as he and his conical bra had crossed the threshold, the actor had begun playing a supporting role to the hostess, assisting with last-minute, tedious chores.

Cutting lemons.

Filling ice trays.

Plumping cushions.

Nothing that would burn any calories, granted, but help that had been appreciated by his jittery pal who could, in turn, focus on other aspects of her to-do list, like cooking food or preparing cocktails. Or simply releasing her frustration that the clock was against her by slamming presses and drawers – as she was currently doing.

‘Jesus, hold them from the bloody bottom, will ye?’ Isla, dressed as Catwoman, growled in her thick Navan accent after spotting Clooney dragging the two black bags across the spacious, ultra-modern kitchen floor and out to the bins in the back garden. ‘The last thing I want is leftover dinners scattered across me lovely Moroccan tiles.’

While Clooney was a good foot taller than Isla, this evening the hostess’ stressed state meant she dominated the room. He suspected her feline costume, which perfectly showcased her athletic physique, was also encouraging her to release her inner claws. On an average day, his pretty, blonde buddy was the personification of calm, cool and collected. This wasn’t one of those days. So Clooney didn’t dare tell Catwoman to cool her jets, fearful she might take the knife she was wielding to the Jean-Paul Gaultier-inspired costume that had cost him the best part of a week’s wage. In addition to the golden corset and matching pointy bra, his ensemble consisted of fishnet stockings, a pair of ankle boots and a curly blonde wig. Determined to impress guests later that evening, he wanted his tribute to the Queen of Pop to remain free from attack. Instead, he suppressed a laugh, entertained by Isla’s out-of-character hysteria, and animatedly lifted the bags a good metre above the tiled surface.

‘Thanks, babes!’ she eventually yelled out from behind him, clearly having taken a couple of breaths (and knowing that everyone’s threshold for abuse had limits). ‘What would I do without ye?’

Emerging onto the patio, Clooney basked in the knowledge that he was being of assistance. Nothing made him happier than receiving praise. Growing up gay in Navan in the 1980s and 1990s had meant being ridiculed and ostracised, particularly by the male contingent. As well as developing a sharp tongue to protect himself from hairy moments, Clooney had discovered that the most effective way to diffuse another’s unmerited contempt for him was to be supportive, helpful and of value.

To that end, he’d facilitated cheating amongst his less academic classmates.

He’d lionised their modest talents to the high heavens.

He’d set them up on dates with his many female friends.

As a result of these efforts, when others discussed him, Clooney’s sexuality – along with the inevitable judgement – was relegated to the bottom of the list, superseded by more favour­able descriptions such as warm, kind and ‘fucking sound’. In comparison with many of his gay contemporaries growing up at the same time, Clooney had survived his youth relatively unscarred. But the do-gooder instinct had never left him.

Of course, it hadn’t been his oratorical artistry alone that had protected him in his youth; he’d also had Isla, whose side he’d barely left since meeting her in playschool at the tender age of three. Despite her snotty nose and obsession with building houses from toy bricks, the boy had been smitten by her, and they’d been a two-person army ever since.

‘Don’t think I haven’t noticed that you’ve said nada about my costume,’ Clooney teased, back from the garden – although he immediately regretted interrupting her, seeing how consumed she was with brushing egg-wash over a tray of vol-au-vents.

‘Deadly, yeah.’

‘Thanks.’ He decided not to push it and simply washed his hands instead. Hopefully, the guests due to arrive shortly would be more forthcoming with their appreciation. ‘So how many people are you expecting?’

‘What? Em, about fifteen. Although, at this stage, I’d be delighted if nobody turned up because I’m worried I won’t have enough food – particularly if yer man from two doors down comes. That savage would ate the dirt from under your fingernails. Please, God – let me have enough!’

Isla was being hyperbolic. Tonight’s mistress of ceremonies had spent the afternoon in three different supermarkets, and judging by the way the fridge door, and the two presses beside it, kept popping open, Clooney wouldn’t have been surprised if Marks & Spencer had shut up shop due to empty shelves.

‘Before I forget, as a reward for all your help this evening, m’dear, here’s some good news for ye: Vonnie is coming,’ Isla revealed dramatically as she began preparing a large jug of Sangria. ‘You’ll get to meet her at long last!’

‘You’re kidding me! Please don’t be kidding me. Are you kidding me? You know I’ll start crying if I find out you’re lying to me!’

‘I’ll give you good reason to start crying if you don’t sweep under the table – there’s so much dust under there, ye could almost stuff a cushion with the shite!’

What was there was about the size of a stamp, but Clooney decided to do as he was told.

‘I’m not kidding ye, by the way,’ she added, pouring a bottle of red wine into the jug. ‘She’ll be here with bells on. Figuratively and literally, knowing her love of crazy costumes.’

‘I thought you were allergic to her?’

‘I am. I most certainly am. But she overheard us talkin’ about the party in the staffroom and she asked if she was invited. I couldn’t say no – much as I wanted to!’

‘Do you know what I wouldn’t say no to? A glass of bubbles! Meeting Vonnie at long last deserves some celebration. What do you say?’

‘Yes, please, Louise!’

‘Maybe that will help ye to …’

‘Help me to what?’

Relax.

Calm down.

Chill the fuck out.

‘Get into the party mood, my love!’

‘Good save.’

Clooney had been hearing about Isla’s new workmate for the past few months, although ‘workmate’ might have been overly generous when describing the gal’s position. Since the beginning of the year, Vonnie, a self-described ‘visionary artist’, had been volunteering in the local primary school where Isla worked, teaching arts and crafts to the Junior Infants. The principal had felt sorry for her and had cautiously agreed to welcome her into the school for a one-off workshop but, months later, she was still there – showing up every Wednesday and Friday morning, despite having been told politely that her services were no longer required. Clooney had always thought Vonnie sounded only fabulous and applauded this I’m-not-taking-no-for-an-answer attitude. Frustratingly, since he spent the majority of his year in Connemara, filming the Irish-language soap opera Brú na hAbhainn, the pair hadn’t yet met.

‘I can’t wait for us to be introduced, Isla!’ he said, his annoyingly chirpy voice indicating his excitement. ‘I knew there was a reason I came tonight.’

‘Eh, what about my Sangria and all my lovely nibbles?’

‘Those too.’

‘You’re not allowed touch them until everyone else has gotten some, alright? Well, maybe the odd one or two. Ye don’t mind, do ye? Although, by the looks of things, ye seemed to have lost your appetite recently – there’s not a pick on you these days, ye lucky bastard!’

Isla’s kind words were almost drowned out by the racket she was making, carrying trays and slamming the oven door.

‘Stop! But don’t! Do you think I’ve lost weight? Do I look well, babes?’

‘That’s all the flattery you’ll be getting from me tonight, d’ya hear?’

Clooney made his way to the fridge to retrieve some Cava. ‘I wonder what she’ll be wearing,’ he mused as he popped open the bottle. ‘It better be fuckin’ outrageous, or I’ll be left devo.’

‘Three guesses.’

‘Okay, em … Cleopatra?’

‘No, Marie Antoinette.’

‘Oi! I’d two guesses left!’

‘Sorry, I haven’t time for stupid games; I have to finish my make-up. I’ll be back down in a minute. What time is it, m’dear?’

‘A quarter to eight.’

‘That gives us about fifteen minutes before the madness starts! I’m getting into the mood now! Thanks for all your help – you’re a keeper, that’s for sure.’

Alone, Clooney sat down at the table and looked at the bubbles rise in his flute. He was adamant he wasn’t going to get intoxicated tonight. When in the company of his best friend, he tended to lose the run of himself – polishing off six or seven bottles of wine between them was a regular occurrence. It was never a pretty sight – certainly not the next morning. But he was due to fly to Jamaica on a press trip with a group of fellow travel journalists – a fruitful sideline he’d carved out for himself – the following week, and that was all the motivation he needed to be measured with his intake. In preparation, he’d been working hard in the gym to shift his ever-threatening moobs and trim his waistline so he could be in somewhat presentable shape for hitting the Caribbean beaches. And so hangovers, along with carbs, were a no-no. It was encouraging that Isla had noticed his efforts.

He would have this one tipple and nothing more, he decided.

Clooney would soon realise that worrying about his alcohol consumption was pointless. His night was going to be spent, glass-free, chatting to a certain French queen.

Unlike everyone else, Clooney would delight in listening to Vonnie’s quirky anecdotes.

TWO

‘If you’re fortunate enough to be the chosen one, there are a few house rules I insist you respect.’

Vonnie was showing Sally, a prospective tenant, around her dark and damp terraced house – a familiar experience for the petite forty-three-year-old. Since taking on a lease some ten years earlier, she’d shared the two-bedroom premises with no fewer than forty housemates, some of whom had only tolerated her insufferable dictatorship for a matter of days. 

‘You’re not permitted to cook chickens in the oven, it’s far too costly,’ Vonnie instructed, toying with the hefty skin tag positioned between her lower lip and chin. ‘If you have a hankering for a roast, I’d suggest you purchase one, ready-made, from Tesco. I’m sure you’ll agree it’s far more economical.’

Now in the pokey living room, Vonnie directed Sally to take a seat, which the immaculately groomed young lady did somewhat unwillingly: the sofa was deathly black – a far cry from the cream shade its manufacturer had initially afforded it. In addition to its questionable colour, it emanated a waft of cat wee, and Sally suspected that the wet-looking patch perilously close to her was not part of the initial design.

‘Seeing as we’re discussing house rules,’ Vonnie continued, remaining vertical, thereby affording her the all-important power in the relationship, ‘be sure to bring a nice, warm coat – I’m unwilling to turn the heat on unless there’s a blizzard outside. And even then … I trust you’re of the same thinking?’

Vonnie caught Sally examining some of her creations on the walls. Her furry nostrils flared with pride. 

‘I see you’re admiring my work. As an adult, I’m an artist, did I mention that?’ she boasted.

‘Three times. Do you mind me asking, why do you say “as an adult, I’m an artist”?’

‘I don’t understand your question.’

‘Sorry.’

‘You should be.’

‘Indeed. What I meant was, why don’t you simply say that you’re an artist rather than prefixing it with “as an adult”?’

The situation left Vonnie torn: on the one hand, she apprecia­ted the interest being shown by this woman, but on the other, she was irritated by her tone. She detected a measure of patronisation.

‘Everyone’s an artist as a child, aren’t they?’ Vonnie eventually replied, keeping her temper in check. ‘How many hours did you spend colouring pictures in school? To be an artist as an adult means it’s your profession. Your vocation. Your calling.’

Sally continued to be confused.

‘You wouldn’t understand. So few do. Oh, and no more than three showers per week,’ Vonnie added, steering the conversation back on track. ‘If you want more, I suggest joining a gym. By the looks of things, you could benefit greatly from a membership. No offence, obviously.’

Sally decided not to challenge Vonnie on her ridiculous demands or tartness. Even though the rental market in Ireland was worse than ever, within minutes of entering this cesspit she’d deduced that sleeping under the stars would not only be safer, but also warmer and cleaner.

‘I see.’

‘And speaking of bills,’ Vonnie said, removing her jam-jar glasses and rubbing her eyes, ‘I suppose I should be upfront about how they are split.’

‘Fifty-fifty, I’d assume.’

The grimace that quickly hijacked Vonnie’s face told Sally her answer was way off the mark.

‘My dear father passed away a couple of years ago …’

‘I’m sorry to hear –’

‘And he always had a dream.’

Sally tried to give the impression she was sympathetic and interested, but not too much so; she reminded herself of their initial introduction an hour earlier when she’d made the mistake of revealing that her sun-kissed skin was the result of a recent holiday to Marbella. Stood in the chilly hallway, Vonnie had swiped the conversation from her, and for over forty minutes – without appearing to take a single breath – had delivered an exhausting monologue detailing the time she’d purchased a flight to the south of Spain. At the last minute, Vonnie had cancelled because her late cat, Snuggles, had astutely concluded that ‘Mama was going away and raised hell!’

‘Daddy’s dream was to build a pond in the garden,’ Vonnie explained now, as she finally took a seat, safe in the knowledge that Sally knew who ruled the roost. ‘He had cut-outs from gardening magazines pinned to the walls of his garage – he knew exactly what he wanted. Then – BANG! – cancer struck.’

‘I understand; both my parents died from can–’

‘So as we buried him, I decided there and then I would realise his dream on his behalf and build the pond. The owner of the house has given me his full blessing. He knows it will only add to the value of the property. I’ve almost everything in place and am just waiting until the end of summer when the weather improves. The rain has been relentless, hasn’t it? You’d hardly think it was June.’

‘What a wonderful thing to do. I’m sure your father would be very prou–’

‘Because of the expense, I am only able to contribute a small amount to the household bills – a token, really.’

‘I see.’

Having accepted that her tiresome search for accommodation had not concluded that evening – along with the fact that her new pencil skirt was now fit only for the scrapheap thanks to Snuggles or one of his undomesticated comrades – Sally decided to indulge Vonnie. At the very least, she would come away from the encounter with an excellent story to tell the girls when they met for chicken wings the following evening.

‘How do you suggest dividing the bills then?’ she quizzed, trying not to stare at Vonnie’s bushy moustache.

‘I’ll contribute about €10.’

‘A week?’

‘Every two months!’ Vonnie corrected, outraged by this auda­city. From the off, she’d battled an instinct that the young woman wasn’t the right candidate for the house, and this lack of compassion only verified it.

‘That seems reasonable,’ Sally mocked.

Vonnie examined Sally’s face. ‘You probably don’t have a boyfriend? If you do, he isn’t welcome, I’m afraid – the space isn’t big enough. That goes for friends as well.’

‘I don’t have a boyfriend at the moment.’

‘No, I didn’t think so. Your looks aren’t your strength. And if you’ll allow me to be candid, you’re also a little bit selfish.’

‘You think?’ Sally replied, fighting the urge to burst out laughing.

‘Don’t take it to heart – you are still very young. I was like you at your age: “Me, me, me!” Hopefully, you’ll grow out of it. Maybe then, men might find you more attractive. Might. You’d have to lose a few pounds as well, I’d say. Yes,’ Vonnie decided, reaching over and squeezing Sally’s waist, ‘take my advice and join the gym, and maybe then your fortunes might change. Might.’

‘I take it you have a partner.’

‘No. I have my cats and my gallery, and that’s more than enough for me. I did tell you that as an adult, I am an artist.’

‘I don’t think you did. You can tell me another time – I’m in a bit of a rush tonight, unfortunately.’

Vonnie’s arched eyebrows indicated that she wasn’t impressed her artistic endeavours were receiving such little respect.

‘Thank you very much for your time,’ Sally said as she rose to her feet.

‘My own gallery! ’

‘Good for you,’ the visitor praised, pulling her soggy skirt away from her legs. ‘I hope it is a big success.’

‘Do you know, you are the first person who hasn’t asked me about my gallery. Everyone is usually fascinated.’

‘I’m sure they are,’ Sally quipped under her breath, making her way through the hallway and towards the front door.

Vonnie had had enough.

‘Look, everyone who knows me, knows me to be honest, so here you go: I don’t think you’re the right person to share this house with me.’

‘I’m saddened to hear that, but I understand your position.’

‘You have no curiosity. You’ve got an opportunity to hear exciting and, possibly, life-changing stories and adventures, but you don’t even care.’

‘Actually, there is something that I am curious about.’

‘Really?’ Vonnie beamed; she knew there was no way anyone could be so indifferent to her distinguished personality and colourful life. ‘Do you want to come back in?’

‘No, I must go, but I’ve been wondering why you’re wearing a Marie Antoinette costume? Is that your usual outfit of a Friday?’

‘This old thing,’ Vonnie casually replied, secretly delighted that her sartorial efforts were receiving the attention they deserved. ‘It’s what’s known as a robe à la Française! You’d never think I got it in a car boot sale!’

While the tattered, eighteenth-century replica had cost as little as the price of admission to Versailles Palace, the dress was undoubtedly impressive. Complete with gold fringes and tassels, ribbons and ruffles, the funnel-shaped cream bust and matching billowing skirt was one of Vonnie’s favourites, and she jumped at any opportunity to give it an outing.

‘I’m going to a fancy-dress party, Sandra.’

‘Sal–’

‘Although I hardly need an excuse – I just love dressing up!’

‘Well, I hope you’re going to bring some cake and let them eat it!’ Sally teased as she opened her car door.

‘Why would I bring anything? I’m not throwing the party, my friends are. It’s their job to provide their guests with food and drink – and cake.’

‘I was trying to make a joke. You know, the famous quote … Never mind.’ Sally got into her red Ford Fiesta and, after turning on the engine, rolled down the window. ‘Wait, just to clarify, you turn up empty-handed at a party? Don’t you bring anything? Not even a packet of biscuits?’

Vonnie slammed the front door shut, having indulged this upstart’s ignorance long enough. Walking towards her bedroom to apply her make-up, she wished there was a guillotine at her disposal: there were a few heads she’d love to chop off, ­starting with that brazen madam.

THREE

With the party in full swing, Isla and Clooney peeped through the living-room curtains, uncertain whether to laugh or call the police. Outside, Vonnie, beautifully dressed as Marie Antoinette, was arguing with an unimpressed taxi man. While they couldn’t make out exactly what they were debating – haggling over the price of the fare, perhaps – the two friends realised things were getting ugly when the former French monarch chased the driver around the car and whacked him across the back of his head with her fan.

‘Ouch!’ Isla mocked, closing the curtains so as not to be associated with the drama taking place in front of her house. As a new resident in the estate, she didn’t want to get a reputation – she’d already felt the presence of a few squinting eyes from across the road. Navan was a big town with bigger mouths. ‘She better not carry on with that shite in here. I’m ragin’ she convinced me to invite her! And everything has been going so well so far.’

‘She’s even more fabulous than I’d previously imagined, babes! I love her attitude!’

‘Clooney.’ Isla wasn’t in the mood for joking. After all the work she’d put into the party, she was determined that this reluctantly invited guest wasn’t going to hijack proceedings. Come Monday morning, she didn’t want the only aspect of the night discussed in the staffroom to be Vonnie.

‘Hopefully, she has all that rage out of her system now,’ Clooney said, trying to reassure his hostess. ‘Although I wouldn’t like to have that poor driver’s head in the morning. That whack looked sore.’

‘Given the way you’re currently drinking – or not drinking, more to the point – you’ll have no head in the morning. Unlike me.’ Isla topped her glass up with the last few drops from the bottle of Cava. ‘You sure you don’t want some more bubbles, m’dear? I don’t want to be the only one who’s three sheets to the wind.’

‘Positive. Sure, I’ll need to have my wits about me if things kick off with herself.’

‘If she puts a foot out of place –’

‘Relax, Catwoman – I’ll keep an eye on her. And it will be my pleasure.’

Isla scanned her best friend’s face. ‘It’s good you seem to be feeling so well in yourself these days. Unlike … ’

‘Unlike?’

‘You know what I mean. I don’t have to worry that you’re going to …’

‘What? Start sweating? Like I did at your brother’s wedding?’

‘Or that time the chef came over to enquire if we’d enjoyed our meal?’

‘Or when we bumped into Nuala on Watergate Street?’

‘Water is right – you were wetter than the Boyne River!’

Isla was referring to Clooney’s battles with social anxiety, which had arrived with great fanfare a few years earlier. Randomly breaking out in a sweat was one symptom; cheeks reddening like the strawberry currently draped on the edge of Isla’s glass was another. For all the highs that went hand-in-hand with being an actor, Clooney had discovered that the lows were more devastating and frequent. On the one hand, the industry asked artists to be open and vulnerable – traits that could be called upon on set or in the rehearsal room. On the other, it demanded they should also be as tough as old gumboots, able to deflect the constant rejection and indignities that were common occurrences in the world of entertainment.

A few years ago, it had all gotten too much for Clooney, and his body had had no qualms about letting him know. Making matters worse, the physical manifestation of this anxiety had left him in a permanent state of embarrassment and upset, ashamed that the body he’d once thought so robust was continually letting him down – even in the most mundane situations, such as asking how much the lamb cutlets cost at the butcher’s, or giving a stranger directions to their hotel.

‘Don’t worry, Isla, my love – I’ve got it under control.’

Clooney was telling the truth. As soon as he’d realised what was happening to him, he’d sought help – making simple yet effective changes to his life. Upping his exercise regime had been top of the list, which had the added benefit of eliminating that belly so prevalent amongst men navigating their mid-thirties.

‘Anyway, enough about moi,’ Clooney said, ensuring his wig and corset were in place, ‘I can hear the front door opening. Marie Antoinette has arrived. Hump the diet; I hope she’s brought cake!’

FOUR

Vonnie glided into Isla’s semi-detached house, triumphantly shaking off all residue of the tiresome exchange she’d just endured with that greedy taxi driver. The journey from her home to Isla’s was less than a kilometre – and she would gladly have made it by foot, but her magnificent, regal costume wasn’t cut out for such expeditions – and yet the skinflint had demanded €12.

‘How about I give you a 10 per cent discount on the admission for my art gallery instead?’ she had tried to barter. Unsuccessfully. So in the end, he’d received his full fare, along with a little surprise for later – as the driver climbed back behind the wheel, Vonnie scratched the side of the car with one of her decorative and sharp-edged hair clips.

That will teach him.

Passing the other guests, Vonnie knew no one would be able to compete with her outfit. Nobody ever could. And that was saying nothing about her chalk-white skin and plump, rosy cheeks, entirely in keeping with the style of the eighteenth-century. She knew there were many things at which she excelled – painting, cooking and the art of conversation being just three – but she took particular pride in her reputation for always being the best turned-out at fancy-dress parties. This talent, like many others, came effortlessly. For as long as she could remember, Vonnie had always adored escaping reality and dressing up. If it weren’t for the fact that, all too often, she’d been at the receiving end of rocks, rubbish and whatever else those jealous thugs who walked Navan’s streets could get their dirty hands on, she’d have been only delighted to showcase her treasure chest of outfits daily. The real world rarely interested Vonnie. What took place in her imagination was far more enjoyable.

‘I’m a typical Piscean, the dreamer of the zodiac – my head is constantly in the clouds!’ was the justification this astrology fanatic would always use.

Her bedroom was akin to the Abbey Theatre’s costume department, with railings and shelves weighed down by dresses, cloaks, shoes, wigs, masks and props. Vonnie detested spending money, apart from on this, her one true passion (art aside). For costumes, she’d happily pay a king’s ransom – although that never prevented her from bartering with the seller at the jumble sale or taking advantage of the kind-hearted volunteer working in the charity shop.

But that night, her Marie Antoinette ensemble wasn’t receiving a shred of the attention it deserved.

‘Jealousy isn’t a good colour on you, Siobhán,’ she hissed at an unforthcoming colleague standing outside the downstairs toilet – her name was actually Sinéad – ‘and neither is pink. Maybe you should head out to the garden. The subdued lighting out there is much more forgiving.’

Unlike most Irish people, who would sooner have their eyes gouged out than be complimented, Vonnie readily embraced any kind sentiments directed at her. And if they didn’t arrive, she simply tooted her own horn instead. ‘It is magnificent, isn’t it?’ she said to a cluster of underdressed guests gathered by the kitchen sink. ‘Can you properly see the detail at the back? Let me tell you a little about the history of fashion – judging by your outfits, you could benefit from my insider knowledge.’

‘Maybe later.’ It seemed fellow guests were happy to smile when Vonnie praised herself, but were determined not to get caught in a corner with her.

Vonnie forced a smile. ‘Okay so, maybe later then.’

She didn’t know her hostess well and even felt that Isla was a bit of a bitch, one who lacked appropriate enthusiasm when Vonnie discussed her life’s adventures in the staffroom every Wednesday and Friday. She’d enjoyed the self-appointed role of ‘artist-in-residence’ for over eight months and, initially, all the teachers, Isla included, had been only delighted to interact with her – especially if that meant they got their classes taught for them. However, as the weeks had come and gone, Vonnie had begun to notice that she now passed the majority of her time in the school alone, or being told by other staff members – especially Isla – that they couldn’t talk as they were ‘in a rush!’ But when she’d accidentally heard about Isla’s end-of-term fancy-dress party, she had decided to park her reservations about the hostess and other staff members, and make an appearance. And it was a good job she had because, without Marie Antoinette’s fabulous and decadent presence, the entire affair would surely have been a disaster.

As small pockets of guests chatted away to each other, Vonnie decided to overlook the fact that she was – once again – being excluded and took an unopened bottle of Prosecco from the fridge. Even though its quality wasn’t worthy of ballads or poetry, it was better than going thirsty. After filling a glass, she discreetly placed the bottle behind the curtain; she could tell by the look of some of the attendees that they were the very reason people locked their cars. Was it any wonder they weren’t inviting her to join in their conversations – the magnanimity for which Vonnie was famed would only highlight their shortcomings.

‘What on earth is a gal as spectacular as you doing drinking on her own?’

Vonnie looked around. Standing in front of her was Madonna, complete with an Adam’s apple, a hairy chest and even hairier armpits. He was unsightly, she felt, but at least he’d made an effort, and, unlike the other guests, he gave credit where it was due. Little did she know it at the time, but he was the only person at the party who basked in compliments more than she did.

‘I’m just taking a moment to catch my breath,’ she explained, sitting down at the kitchen table and using her fan to punctuate her point. ‘Everyone has been harassing me since I arrived, bombarding me with questions about my costume.’

‘Can you blame them?’ Clooney teased. ‘If there were awards, you’d surely saunter off with top prize!’

‘I’d imagine so,’ she nodded before taking a generous mouthful of her Prosecco.

‘May I join you?’ Clooney took a seat without waiting for her agreement.

Vonnie examined him. ‘You have nice eyes. Kind eyes.’

‘Have I?’ Clooney beamed, delighted that he’d used eye drops to clear the windows to his soul of any bloodshot redness.

‘Maybe not, actually,’ Vonnie corrected. ‘I have contacts in, and they are barely any use. And the lighting is terrible in here. Like the rest of the décor.’

‘I see.’

‘At least somebody does. I feel like one of those old blind monks living in a derelict monastery up the mountains. I can just about make out the tip of my nose.’

‘And what a lovely nose it is too – if I may say so.’

It was Vonnie’s turn to beam. ‘You may.’

Clooney pulled his seat closer to Vonnie; the Queen of Pop had much to discuss with the Queen of France, and there was no time to waste. ‘You know, Madonna has channelled Marie Antoinette on numerous occasions. Probably her best-known incarnation was for a performance of “Vogue” for the MTV Music Awards in 19–’

‘Speaking of alcohol …’

‘I didn’t mention alco–’

‘Do you think you could top me up?’ She pushed a now-empty glass towards him.

‘It would be an honour. I’d hate to get on the wrong side of Marie Antoinette! I think most people have brought their own bottles, which one is yours?’

Vonnie decided that the stolen Prosecco currently skulking behind the curtain should remain where it was for later on in the night, so she told her new admirer a little white lie. ‘I brought so many with me and, with careless abandon, shared them out with everyone. I’m too generous for my own good! In saying that, I think a communal spirit is far more rewarding than everyone being out for themselves, don’t you?’

‘You’ve certainly changed your ways since the eighteenth century,’ Clooney joked. ‘I quite like this philanthropic version of you, Marie Antoinette.’

‘Are you a Scorpio by any chance?’

‘I most certainly am! How did you know – I haven’t a clue about star signs, I’m afraid. I’ve always thought them to be a little silly.’

‘Of course you have – Scorpios are suspicious of everything.’

‘I suppose you could say that.’

‘I did say that.’

‘The one thing I remember about astrology is that we Scorpios apparently make the best detectives – very curious. Is that right?’

‘Okay then, Sherlock Holmes – what’s my sign? It’s straightforward. I’m a textbook example!’

‘God, I barely know –’

Before he could finish his sentence, a loud crash sounded from the sitting room.

‘Isla’s new table!’ Clooney gasped. ‘I bet she’s langers! I’ll be back in a minute – stay where you are!’

‘Typical Scorpio, always wanting to help others.’

‘Guilty as charged! Give me a minute, your Majesty.’

While unimpressed that this strange, oddly handsome Scorpio had opted to salvage a piece of tatty furniture rather than tend to her more pressing needs – he can’t control how the stars and planets made him, I suppose – Vonnie found her mood to be light and merry. She wasn’t 100 per cent sure whether it was the bubbles she’d just polished off or the praise she’d been receiving from Madonna, but whatever the case, the night was turning out to be much more pleasant than anticipated.

FIVE

‘That one is annoying my happiness tonight,’ Isla said.

‘So what, you’re trashing your gaf as a result?’ Clooney took the overflowing glass of wine from her hand and returned the wooden table to its rightful position. Isla had been living in the house on the outskirts of Navan for just under a year – her first rung on the property ladder – and all the furniture was straight off the factory’s conveyor belt. Clooney knew she would be depressed if anything broke.

‘All I’m going to say,’ his best friend slurred, the stress of the evening having resulted in the alcohol hitting her in almost record time, ‘is, give her an inch …’

‘She’s harmless. Unlike you tonight, my love!’ The two of them would have needed a calculator to work out how often they’d taken care of one another after a few tipples; tonight, it was clearly Clooney’s turn. ‘She’s obviously a bit lonely, that’s all.’