Blood And Water Read online

  Lunch at last served, Cormac could no longer avoid taking his seat in the dining room, where he silently celebrated another average Bertram Sunday lunch: whoopee. His knee hopped under the table in anticipation of the meal’s end. He had no idea what was on his plate or how much of it he eventually ate – all he knew was that when the end came he eagerly sought the opportunity to follow Kathryn into the kitchen.

  “I’ll clear,” he announced, leaping from his seat to pile the plates one on top of the other.

  “What’s up, Bro?” Enya asked, catching the wineglass that he accidentally tipped with the edge of a plate. “You look a bit pasty – you feeling all right?”

  Cormac, lost in his thoughts, was unresponsive.

  “Cormac?” she repeated and, placing her hand on his arm, asked, “What’s up?”

  Disrupted from his trance, he looked at her, confused and distant. “What? Sorry … I’m grand, really. Just a bit off. Must have eaten too much.” He gathered whatever else he could carry in his already overladen hands and hurried into the kitchen.

  He had done his best so far not to react to Kathryn’s unusually tactile behaviour, but now he was unable to control his body’s instinct to jerk as if electrocuted when, holding him from behind, she pushed herself against him. Was she laughing at him? He pulled himself away and turned to face her.

  “Oh for God’s sake, Cormac, don’t go all innocent on me,” she mocked. “I’ve seen the way you watch me. I’m not shy, I’m open to it. We’re both too long in the tooth to play games. How old are you – forty-one, isn’t it? Don’t deny you fancy me.”

  She was a very attractive woman, there was no denying it, but she was his brother’s wife.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. What about Seb?”

  “What about him?”

  “What about him? Are you serious? He’s your husband for Christ’s sake and my brother!”

  “Is that all that’s stopping you?” she asked, moving towards him.

  “Don’t,” he begged, unable to trust himself.

  “Well,” she told him, “now you know what I want.”

  “What?” he asked incredulously, amazed that she had managed to translate his predicament into a salacious come-on. “When I came to your office the other day I asked for your help, that’s all.”

  “And I said I would think about it, didn’t I?”

  “So what’s with all this – this stuff?” he asked with a quiet shriek, prodding the air with a pointed finger.

  “Well,” she replied with a sigh, “let’s just say I’m testing the water.” Then, smiling sweetly at him, she turned to fix the coffee cups on the tray.

  “Kathryn, for God’s sake!”

  Picking up the tray she shimmied past, keeping her back to him, moving slowly, enjoying their close proximity and making sure her curves connected fully with his groin as she passed.

  “Why did you come to me?” she asked when she’d reached the door.

  He didn’t bother to answer. He wasn’t supposed to. It was a game. Her game. He had handed it to her.

  “You think I don’t know what you want, Cormac?” She smiled while pushing the door with her backside. “I think you like me, and I think I’m intrigued by your . . . frisky little antics,” she whispered, punctuating her words with a slightly caustic smile. And, like a conquering diva, she swept herself from the room, leaving her lingering scent and a powerful emptiness behind.

  Jesus Christ, the woman was stark raving mad. He had gone to her because he’d thought she’d understand – she was a psychologist after all. Ha! She’d understood the situation alright and now was taking advantage of him.

  What the hell had he just done? His phone vibrated in his back pocket. He knew what it would be. This day was just getting better and better. Taking the slender, state-of-the-art device from his back pocket he swiped his thumb across its screen and waited for the message to appear.

  Just like the last time the image made him blush: he recognised the bare freckled arms of Mark, the fine sweep of his leg and the beautiful curve of his behind. And despite his fear Cormac felt a perfunctory yearning stirring inside. Oh for God’s sake, he chastised himself, glancing down with repugnance at the bulge that had grown in his trousers.

  The delicately patterned walls of the kitchen danced around him, closing in tight, their edges blurring dangerously as the enormity of his situation intensified.

  He had just assumed Kathryn would help. She was the problem-solver, the rational one. He could have used any number of adjectives to describe his sister-in-law: organised, mature, solid, calm, serious, boring even. And now, it seemed, he could add horny to that list too.

  “Bloody hell,” he sighed desperately, closing down the image and the words that goaded him: “Two more sleeps. Don’t forget now!”

  Forget? How could he possibly forget? It was a hundred grand they were looking for, not fifty cent. How the hell was he supposed to forget about that? He placed his phone carefully on the counter, wanting nothing more than to smash it. Bash it into smithereens. Past panic and knee-deep in trouble, his stomach churned as Kathryn’s fake cackle rattled through the door from the dining room.

  “Cormac, pet, do me a favour and bring us through more cream from the fridge!” she called.

  Bitch! He stood, feet apart, and putting his hands on the island he dipped his head deep between his outstretched arms. He was free-falling.

  His gaze followed the hairline cracks on the expensive and expansive tiled floor, their chaotic pattern so much like himself: erratic, confused and going nowhere. A mess. He was a mess and his single best idea for a rescue was fast turning into his worst.

  Well, she might still help him. But in return she intended to take advantage of him and his weakness. For a split second, he was almost flattered by her proposition: she wasn’t a bad-looking woman, fit for her age. But his ego was immediately subsumed in his fear and loathing.

  “Oh, and bring in the brandy too!” she shouted from the dining room.

  Cormac looked first at the door then at the bottle of expensively beautiful and utterly inebriating liquor, and he wondered what else he might do with it. The colour blanched from his knuckles as he gripped the marble top tight. Accepting he could fall no further, he felt an inner calm descend over him, beginning at his head, percolating all the way down to his Converse-clad toes. There was very little he could do now. He was well and truly snookered. Might as well just get on with it and accept the consequences.

  Raucous laughter from Kathryn once again ripped through the room. He knew it was staged. Knew she wanted him to hear her. His family never laughed like that at these compulsory monthly lunches.

  “Yep, I’m done,” he said to the still-echoing kitchen and, standing tall, took a fortifying breath before sweeping up the brandy bottle and walking out the back door into the early-afternoon sun.

  He secured the bottle to the back carrier of his bicycle then stuffed his jean bottoms into the tops of his socks, swung his leg effortlessly over the crossbar and freewheeled along the side passage of the house, down the short gravel driveway and out onto the street.

  Turning left, he pedalled his way down the tree-lined avenue, oblivious to the iridescent amber, yellow and rust autumnal colours that collided overhead to hide the sky beyond. This was such a beautiful street – as a child he always dreamed of living here, with his gorgeous but imaginary wife with big boobs and full hair. When Seb and Kathryn bought on this street, initially he was so pissed off: they had invaded his dream. This was his entitlement not theirs. Now he could never fulfil his ambition. The fact that he didn’t and probably never would earn enough to afford one of these detached mansions was irrelevant.

  He crossed over Main Street and cycled the fifteen-minute journey without noticing the rain that had started to spit at him. He felt his phone vibrate in his back pocket but ignored it. It could wait. But its presence was like a burning coal against his skin.

  Had it been it worth it, he asked himself as the rain, heavier now, peppered his scalp. The drops streaming down his face could easily have been mistaken for tears. How had he let it come to this?

  But they did have a lot of fun together, he and Orla – well, the sad part was that he actually thought she had enjoyed herself too.

  “What a fool!” he whispered into the rain, letting the breeze take his words.

  He should have known it was too good to be true. As his grandmother had told him so many times when he was young: “If it looks too good then it is too good.” How right was she? Thank God she was dead, though. She’d never forgive him for this. Small mercies, eh?

  The lights turned red at Hillview Road and he slowed to a stop.

  He stared blindly down the pretty tree-lined street that led to the beach and remembered the first time he had seen her. She was dancing, well, gyrating really, on a table top at the club. They were all at it, the guys as well as the girls, but she was the master: every part of her body moved in fully synchronised rhythm. She looked absolutely incredible and she knew it too, knew they were all watching her. It was only his second or third time in the exclusive members-only venue. That night he was with Gillian, a great girl with a face as sweet as sugar and a body made to touch. But, with Orla, there was no real comparison: she was out of this world. Out of his world anyway. Her long, sculpted, chocolate-brown hair reflected the dull glow of the lights in the darkness of the club which intentionally made it hard to see faces that didn’t want to be seen. Easy to keep secrets. And, when she lifted her head, everything about her seemed to shine. She gleamed: her eyes, her hair, the soft sheen of her skin, the sweet swell of her lips, the long undulating journey of her body from her head to her stiletto-clad feet. She was breath-taking and in the company of Gillian he did his best to ignore her, but oh my God that body was impossible to deny.

  Yes, he would always remember the first time he saw her. He would have done well to remember his first instinctive thought. She’s so outta my league, he had told himself. And he was right: she was.

  Months later, long after Gillian had ceased to entertain him he almost wept when Orla approached him. Her tall, elegant and seductive frame bee-lined towards him through the red-and-yellow haze of the lights. Like the cartoon cliché of the geek, he actually looked around, first left then right to make sure it wasn’t someone behind him that she was targeting.

  Me? he mouthed silently, pointing towards his chest with his thumb.

  She nodded, amused by his reaction, and crossed the last few feet between them with a slow smouldering smile designed to disarm and hypnotise.

  Without offering her name, she hooked her thumbs through the loops of his jeans and leaned in to kiss his lips. Forward and delectable, she felt soft but demanding and he responded accordingly.

  “Orla!” she shouted into his ear.

  “Cormac,” he replied with a feeble swallow, amazed by what was happening to him.

  “I know,” she said, grinning, and he nearly choked. “You like us brunettes.”

  It was more of a statement than a question, to which he raised his eyebrows in response, amazed that she had even noticed him, never mind who he was with.

  Again, she leaned straight in to kiss him. “You taste of JD,” she remarked, licking her lips.

  His confidence boosted, he took a nonchalant swig of his drink, allowing his lips to soak up the smooth woody liquor before lowering his glass to swallow and letting her kiss him again, enjoying the warm fuzzy haze that followed.

  “Come on, let’s dance,” she invited, leading him by the hand to the small dance floor. She moved expertly around him, sweeping her hands over his torso, grinding her hips into his, making him see and feel her excitement. Gyrating she dipped and swung herself low, using the loops of his waistband to drag herself slowly back up, pausing briefly at his groin. A titillating move heightened by his intoxication. She was gorgeous. He was lucky.

  But when the lights came on she left alone. She was like a whirlwind: a tornado that had torn through his senses. He returned to the club the following night and the following weekend but it was two weeks before she walked through those doors again, this time in a very tight and very short leather skirt and strapless top that left almost nothing to his imagination – just enough to make his heart skip and his groin tingle.

  He turned his back to the door and watched her in the mirror as she descended the few steps into the club then paused, scanned the room, saw him and smiled. He assumed she would play hard to get, maybe ignore him and delay their undoubted encounter, make him work for her attentions, but she came straight to him.

  “Waiting long?” she asked.

  “Only about three weeks.”

  “Sorry it took so long, babe, but I’m here now,” she said with a sultry smile and, draping her arms about his neck, asked, “Now, where did we leave off?”

  She pulled him in to her and held him tight. He felt her heart beat and her hips move against him. She smelt of tangerine and vanilla, an aroma he discovered ignited each and every sense in his body. He could just about contain himself. She was incredible. He returned her fevered embrace with urgency. Taking hold of her face he brought his lips to hers and kissed her. She responded with roaming hands that made their way from his shoulders, down his back and inside his shirt to massage and awaken the flesh on his chest . . . The memory hurt.

  A short beep of a passing car tugged him back to the present.

  One of the most disappointing things about the whole sordid debacle, Cormac thought as he set off again and pedalled his way down Strand Road, was that he actually thought they were good together. He thought together they ticked a lot of boxes. Fun: tick. Laughter: tick. Conversation: tick. Sex: tick, tick tick. Damn, they even looked good together, although he had to admit she tipped the balance on that one.

  By the time he reached his apartment the rain had stopped and a few weak spears of light fought valiantly to break through the grey muteness of the afternoon. He chained his bike to the railings, took the bottle from the carrier and went inside. His apartment was elegant, bright and beautiful. The first floor of the Georgian building was all his. Heading straight for the living room, he pulled back the shutters and opened up the full-height sash windows then sank into his wingback chair to watch the world go by: just him and his brother’s bottle of vintage brandy. This was the brightest part of the whole four-room, one-bedroom apartment. From here he had the best vantage point of the whole street and the park opposite. This was where he sat of a Sunday, armed with the full spread of newspapers and a long coffee that chilled as he waded through the pages and pages of newsprint but he drank it anyway.

  But this afternoon it was just him and the bottle. Looking out at the quiet streets it seemed that even passers-by had absconded in sympathy, leaving him to sit and stare and ponder his predicament alone. But he was being ridiculous, just feeling sorry for himself. It was still early, not even seven, yet judging by the level of the remaining liquid in the elegant bottle he’d have been forgiven for thinking it was later. Despite himself, in an almost drunken haze he let his head fall back as he smiled, recalling the memory of the incredible excitement he had experienced getting into this unfortunate mess and pondering the trouble he was going to have getting out of it. In the wonderful Cognac-induced languor he could almost taste the JD on his lips just thinking about her.

  Always the free spirit, at forty-one he was one they had begun to ask: ‘Would you not find a nice girl and settle down?’ But the very idea of it made him nauseous. He never dreamt of walking down the aisle, quite the opposite, but explaining that to his inquisitors was pointless. They wouldn’t understand, so instead of wasting his time he’d smile forlornly, lift his hand to his heart and declare that he hadn’t yet crossed paths with his soul mate. The notion that he wasn’t even looking was really none of their business.

  His phone, cast aside earlier on the side table, rang out then vibrated for the umpteenth time but again he chose to ignore it. It had been going nonstop but Cormac was too busy thinking about her and now thinking about him. Thinking about Mark.

  Chapter 2

  The middle one of the three brothers, Rian was always both Ciara and Enya’s favourite. In their youth, when politics seemed to consume their lives, they found solace in each other and fun, somehow, in the endless packing of election envelopes around the dining-room table, walking the legs off themselves doing door drops and smiling saccharine smiles for the cameras at one chilly hustings after another. And, as they got older, he was the source of many boyfriends and unfortunately ex-boyfriends. But it worked both ways: neither tall nor handsome, he possessed a devilish charm that was a magnet for most if not all of the girls’ friends. It was, most agreed, his smile that reached the depths of his deep brown eyes and the unkempt tufts of chestnut hair that made up for his slightly smaller than average stature.

  His sisters always wondered where he got his innate nurturing instinct from as, it seemed, neither of their parents had a caring bone in their bodies. Instinctively he stood up for his sister at the ‘family’ lunch, irked as always by the way his father provoked and bullied them.

  “Leave her be, Dad,” he told their father as he needled and goaded her.

  “I beg your pardon?” William Bertram blasted, apparently surprised by his son’s insubordination.

  “You heard me,” Rian replied. “She’s only just in the door and you’re already on her case.”

  “How dare you!” William turned to him with furrowed eyes and squared-off shoulders, preparing it seemed to ramp up to one of his usual high-volume lashings, but a glance at Rian’s fiancée Martha seemed to change his mind. Lowering his voice to a patronising hum, he said, “I’ll ask you to remember just who it is you are speaking to, boy.”

  “Come on, come on,” Seb interceded, standing up to refill the wineglasses while throwing dagger eyes at his little brother. As the eldest in the family he commanded a level of respect from his siblings that was unspoken. “What do you think of the wine, Dad?”