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It was my desire to get the project started and then leave the expert to finish it. I shouldn’t have to stay here indefinitely, even though the thought of staying at Donadea was very appealing, besides I had work in London that required me there regardless. Always.
Work, or trying to stay off the paparazzi grid—something I never quite managed to do for very long.
The Olympics had gone off without a hitch until just after they wrapped. The events ran smoothly, and my announcing contract had actually been a refreshing change of pace for me. The Games were a smashing success despite Great Britain’s team performance on native soil in the archery competition. I’d loved every moment of it. Nobody had set off any bombs and I was still in one piece. Just when I’d felt like I might take a breath and let my guard down for two seconds, more shit was dredged up.
A ridiculous assumption on my part, of course, because my absence in the trash presses couldn’t be tolerated for more than a month before something sordid needed to be fed to the inquiring public. I sold them a shit ton of papers. I often wondered what my rank was on their “favorites” list. I had to be top five.
The blonde in the trench coat who’d come to my flat had been bought by somebody, and when she’d set down her bag on my coffee table, it’d been a strategic placement. A good portion of the blow job had made it onto video. And really, who should give two shits about who I fuck? Or how? But apparently some did.
The gossip headlines had been brutal and getting it taken down had cost me a horrifying amount of brass. Again. This fucking crap was becoming status quo for me.
The incognito escort service was off my list, too. I didn’t have a choice about that. They’d been compromised and my privacy couldn’t be guaranteed anymore. I’d miss the sex, but I’d survive. One doesn’t need to fuck in order to live. It’s nice, but not a necessity.
I knew what would make me feel a little better, though, so I headed outside for the field targets, stopping to collect my beloved Kodiak Recurve and a quiver on the way. I’d never be able to stop my shooting completely, and hopefully would never have to. The freshness of this place, the stillness, the peace, the goodness… It was what I needed more than any other thing.
I told myself this was the reason I’d abandoned London to come up to Donadea. But who was I fooling? This time of year was always the same for me. I had to get away from everything that reminded me of the past, and this was the only place I had left to go to where that was even possible.
10th August
THE sun was starting to dim when I decided I might as well admit to myself I was lost.
Really lost.
The perfect metaphor for just about everything in regards to my life.
I pulled to the side of the road and looked at the directions I’d printed out from my computer. Trouble was, this was a huge estate and most of the roads were unmarked, meandering peacefully in all directions over the rolling green. The GPS that came with the rental in Belfast wasn’t worth a damn in places like this. It was likely to have me driving over a cliff if I depended on it.
The words blurred together on the paper anyway. My reading glasses were in my suitcase, which was sitting in the trunk of the car, where they could do me absolutely no good at the moment, of course. My night vision sucked, so I was screwed there, too. I fumbled for my cell phone and dialed the number Professor Langley had given me.
After several rings voice mail picked up. “Everley. Leave a message.” The voice was curt and clipped, somewhat cold. No greeting. No other information offered. Nothing to make me feel even the slightest bit comfortable about showing up for a job at a gloomy Irish manor house, filled to the brim with god knows what. I highly doubted it would work anyway.
I was only here as a favor to Paul Langley, one of my academic advisors at the University of London. He’d pulled me into his office and basically said if I wanted to be recommended for the M.Phil. in Art History, then it would be prudent of me to accept this appointment, and thereby, please the patron. Professor Langley was fair, but he could be tough, too. He’d told me there was a substantial amount of funding riding on this job and that there was nobody better to take it on. Paul Langley was also on the boards for every art society known to man. One did not tell him no. Not if I wanted to get a job in my field someday. And apparently one did not tell Mr. Everley “no” either.
“This is Gabrielle Hargreave from the University of London. I—I’m having some trouble with the directions to find your place. It’s getting dark. I suppose...I’m lost. Please call me back.” I left my message and sank down in the driver’s seat. I figured the best thing to do was wait for someone to return my call. All of those survival shows always said so. If you are lost, stay put until someone finds you.
The sun slowly dipped below the horizon in a gorgeous display of red and purple. I watched the whole thing and waited. And waited some more. Nobody called me back. I checked for messages every few minutes but it remained silent. The idea of spending the night in this car, afield in the Irish countryside did not appeal to me either. How on earth had I ended up in such a mess?
I called the number again and left another message. I hoped my voice didn’t sound too pathetic on the recording. God, didn’t the man have some servants? He was an earl or a viscount or something, according to Professor Langley. Didn’t they have staff at their beck and call to handle every little problem that arose? How much longer would I have to wait out here in the dark? And it was getting colder. I needed the loo. Trying to get a handle on my rising panic, I got out of the car, opened the trunk and unzipped my suitcase.
My jacket would be a good start. For August, the weather was mostly mild but this was Northern Ireland and I was pretty confident rain was imminent. And of course, the temperature always dropped with the sun even if it did set late in summer. I retrieved my glasses, and put them in my pocket.
Truth be told, I didn’t feel at all well. I had a headache starting and my muscles felt stiff and achy. I prayed I wasn’t coming down with something vile. I couldn’t afford to be sick right now and try to do this favor for Professor Langley. Just—no.
Scanning the landscape, I looked for anything that might resemble a manor house. Nothing. It was so dark now that the only light was from the risen moon, glowing serenely above the fast-moving clouds. If I didn’t want to get soaked I needed to get back in the car. I mi
ght as well start driving again, too. Enough of this “staying put” bullshit. It was getting me literally nowhere. The dark, the rain, and the morose feelings of helplessness matched my life perfectly at the moment.
FOUR
I felt my jaw twitching as I checked my watch. This was bloody irritating and then some. Next, I re-read the email Lowell had printed out for me for the third time. Gabriel Hargreave will be driving in from Belfast today to assess your collection. – Paul Langley
Well, whoever Gabriel Hargreave was, he certainly couldn’t tell time. Or know how to use a telephone. Useless artsy twit.
I’d stayed home purposefully this evening in order to be here to greet the student Langley had found for my archival work. So far, Hargreave didn’t impress me in the slightest.
I was convinced that young people today didn’t have the drive to be successful. No initiative. Little commitment. It was pathetically shameful what I had to put up with. I refilled my drink and went to the window to look for the possibility of headlamps coming up the drive. Nothing. What a waste of time. The twit was probably one of those Bohemian art students who lived life on a whim with no idea whatsoever of keeping to a schedule or the job he’d agreed to. The job I was paying him to do. Christ, what did it take to get some help around here?
Seeing my mobile blinking on the sofa, I went over to retrieve it, realizing I must’ve set it down when I was watching ESPN earlier. I had a bad habit of doing that.
