The Words That Fly Between Us Read online

  Book two, baby two,

  Sadhbh, mo chroí,

  this one’s for you.

  Words can be sticky. They nudge their way into the grooves of the tiles, and get wedged in tiny cracks in the plaster, and seep into the grain of the floorboards. And they stay there. If you look closely, you can see them. Our house is filling up with them. People don’t realize, though. They think you can just fling them around.

  SATURDAY

  CHAPTER 1

  I hate when Mum and Dad fight. Dad says they don’t, they have heated debates. Your mother gets heated while I debate.

  I’m with my sketch pad and pencil in the nook by the window in the living room. I’m not drawing anything in particular, really.

  ‘Did I tell you, “Don’t get white wine”?’ Dad says from behind the double doors into the kitchen.

  Mum must have made a mistake with the order for his party tonight.

  ‘Yes. You said you only wanted red—’

  The higher Mum’s voice goes the flatter Dad’s stays. ‘Did I say, don’t get white.’ He’s doing that thing where he rolls the words around in his mouth before he spits each one out, just to be sure that there can be no mistake.

  ‘Here, look . . .’ She’s probably pointing to the piece of paper she’s carried around all week. It’s been opened and folded so many times it’s beginning to tear along the creases. She’s right, there was no white wine on the list. ‘You wrote down—’

  ‘I’m aware I didn’t specify that you should buy white wine. I didn’t specify that we needed toilet paper either. Should I check the toilets?’

  I know Mum’s searching Dad’s face right now, looking for just the right words. No more. No less.

  ‘Should I go out now . . . ?’

  ‘Oh, forget it, Alice.’

  An intimate get-together, Dad had said. Starting around seven-thirty. Mr Reynolds will be dropping in.

  Mr Reynolds, who practically owns the bank.

  No fuss. Just enough hors d’oeuvres to keep the shareholders from dropping dead with hunger, so to speak. Four trays from Donnybrook Fair should do the trick. And champagne, of course. We’ll take one . . . No, wait, better make it two truck loads of the usual. I realize I’m sketching Dad as he’ll look in a few hours, big smile, waving a fancy bottle around. We’re a champagne house, ha, ha. What’s that, you’re not a champagne drinker? Not to worry. Paula here will pop open a delicious little red. Oh, pardon me, it’s white wine you’re after . . . but . . . but . . . there is no white . . .

  Catastrophe. The whole night ruined. Dad’s head explodes.

  I don’t draw that.

  ‘You’ve had all week, Alice. I’ve so much on my plate, and I asked you to do one thing . . .’

  The kitchen double doors open and I sit on my sketch pad so Dad doesn’t see. Wasting time drawing is bad enough. But I definitely don’t want to be caught drawing him.

  He’s already in his suit and a bright pink tie. His fun tie. He folds one door back so it’s flat against the wall. He sighs and shakes his head.

  Mum is standing behind him. She’s wearing her red silk dress. She’s had her hair curled and has her diamond earrings on too. After a while, she looks up. ‘Actually, I think there’s a box of leftover white in the cellar.’ Dad acts like he hasn’t heard her, so she says, ‘I’ll go check.’

  When she’s gone, Dad disappears through the kitchen too and I relax back against the wall.

  It’s got worse since he won that contract for The Old Mill last Christmas. It’s like underneath, things started turning bad, but from the outside you can’t see. Like an apple getting eaten up by a tiny worm. If you look closely you can see the hole, but that’s all.

  Take yesterday, for example, when Dad couldn’t find his golf shoes. Mum swore she left them on the washing machine, and she ran around looking for them while Dad stood in the kitchen shaking his head and complaining that she was making him late for golf with potential investors.

  In the end, Dad found them in the conservatory. He grabbed them and left without saying anything else because he was in too much of a hurry.

  When he was gone, Mum went into the conservatory and stared at the spot where he had found them. She said, I was sure I left them on the washing machine around seventy times.

  Thing is, so was I. Because I saw her leave them there.

  I know it was only small, but things like that happen all the time since Dad moved into the big leagues. And the longer the development of The Old Mill is delayed, the more stressed Dad gets.

  It’s usually Mum that he gets annoyed with, but sometimes it’s me. And even when everything seems fine, you’re just waiting for that moment when the air sours. That’s why I hide my sketch pad. So he doesn’t give me that look – the same one he gets when he stands in dog dirt. Like I’m a disappointment. Or worse.

  The side door to the front hall opens. Our cleaner, Paula, steps into the doorway and holds a champagne glass up to the light. She rubs at a smudge that’s not really there. She probably polished the wine bottles too. A great little cleaner, Dad calls her. Mum calls her a Duracell battery.

  Paula says, with her kids in school, she’s ready to do something different. So she’s studying at night. But not tonight.

  ‘Have you eaten?’ she asks me.

  ‘Yup,’ I say.

  She looks over the top of the glass at me. ‘Washed?’

  ‘Scrubbed,’ I say.

  ‘Good woman.’

  She leans in a bit so she can see through the double doors. ‘What was that about?’ she whispers.

  ‘Mum didn’t buy white wine,’ I say.

  Paula lifts an eyebrow. ‘He didn’t ask for white.’

  ‘I know,’ I say.

  Now she lifts the other eyebrow. ‘And there’s loads downstairs.’

  ‘I know,’ I say.

  Mum comes back into the kitchen, carrying a box, walking like a robot because she’s trying not to trip in her high heels. ‘Found some!’ she calls and she tries to put the box down carefully. But when she looks up, she sees Dad’s gone, and her words, and the box, drop with a thump onto the marble countertop. After a second, she claps her hands together and looks down at her dress to make sure it’s not smudged. I hop up to help but Paula says, ‘Stay where you are, honey. It’s covered in dust, you’ll ruin your clothes.’ She goes into the kitchen where Mum is saying, ‘Knew we had some.’

  Dad comes in the other door behind them. He pulls a bottle out and turns it over to read the label. He sighs like his best friend, Oly, just died. ‘Best we can do, I suppose.’

  Paula takes the bottle from his hand and whisks the box out of Dad’s way.

  Dad comes back into the sitting room. He looks around at the platters and bottles and glasses on the tables. He plumps the cushions on the couch and runs a finger over the mantelpiece. He’s checking to see if anything is out of place. But there’s nothing wrong. Everything is gleaming.

  He notices me sitting in the window nook.

  ‘Ready?’ he asks.

  I nod.

  Then he says, ‘At least someone is.’

  Who are his words for? They’re standing in the air like a glass of wine that someone was supposed to grab. But no one gets to them in time. They drop to the carpet and spread out in an invisible stain. That’s why the carpet’s so thick: it’s filled with words that no one wants.

  ‘You better go get ready.’ I look up. He’s talking to Mum, even though she’s been ready for over an hour. Her mouth drops open a bit. She looks down at her dress, then back at him. He breathes in deep and sucks up all the air in the room. Then he goes over to the couch. Reaches down behind it. Lifts something. It’s a box. He hands it to
Mum. Her hands are shaking a bit when she takes it. I’m leaning forward, as if that’s going to help me see better. All I can think is, Please let it be nice. Please.

  She lifts something out and the first thing I think is that it’s armour, like the chain mail stuff that knights used to wear. It’s not. It’s a dress. Silver and sparkly, in a really, really expensive way.

  ‘Try it on. It should fit,’ Dad says.

  ‘Declan . . .’ Mum says. Her shoulders relax a bit.

  And the air rushes back into the room again. I breathe it in.

  ‘God, it’s just gorgeous,’ Mum says.

  ‘It would want to be. Cost nearly three grand,’ he says.

  ‘Three grand!’ I say. I didn’t mean to, the words just came out.

  Dad turns. But he laughs, too. He’s having fun now.

  ‘Why not?’ he says. ‘We have the money.’ He looks at both of us like our cat used to when he jumped in the window and plonked a dead bird down in front of us. ‘Mr Reynolds is going to be here,’ he says.

  ‘Thank you,’ Mum says and holds it up against her. She looks so happy that, for some reason, it makes me sad.

  ‘You. Are. Welcome,’ he says. Then he holds up his arm and shakes his wrist so his Rolex slides down.

  ‘Go on, go get changed.’

  Mum rushes off. Dad surveys the room again and then goes into the hall.

  I hope the dress fits. And I hope Dad stays in a good mood.

  CHAPTER 2

  The guests are all here now. Through the gap in the double doors, I can see them. They’re not even all friends with Dad because he had to be introduced to half of them. Imagine having to invite people you don’t even know to a party?

  ‘How is it sounding in there?’ Paula asks from behind me.

  ‘Loud,’ I say.

  ‘Good,’ she says. ‘As long as they’re cheery and full of cheese balls, my job’s done.’

  ‘Dad’s telling a funny story,’ I say.

  When I turn, Paula is lifting an eyebrow like she’s saying that she seriously doubts it, and I laugh. But it doesn’t matter if it’s funny. It just matters that Dad thinks it is. Because if he’s telling a funny story, it means he’s in a good mood.

  He’s speaking to a group of five men standing in a half-circle beside the food table. He’s pretending he’s talking to everyone. But he’s facing Mr Reynolds.

  Now Oly’s butting into the story. He always finishes Dad’s sentences. He calls himself Uncle Oly, but he’s not my uncle. He’s like Dad’s sidekick in superhero films. Except he’s bald and he can’t run up walls. I doubt he can even run. He wouldn’t be great at chasing super villains. He could probably bore them to death, though.

  Beside Oly is Mr Reynolds. Mr Reynolds has loads of hair. It grows out of his nose and ears, and his eyebrows nearly reach his cheeks. I wonder does he walk into things, like those little dogs that can’t see because their hair covers their eyes? Him and Oly should do a deal. Oly could take the hair from Mr Reynolds’s ears and stick it to his head.

  Stepping away from the doors, I jump up on a high stool and grab my sketch pad again. I start to draw Dad’s face. He looks different when there are people around. It’s like he’s in the middle of inventing a really fun game that everyone is going to love.

  After a while, next door erupts and I imagine Dad’s grin, big enough to take in everyone in the room.

  On the countertop, my phone beeps.

  Megan

  I’m so bored I might even read a book.

  Me

  The one I read from the summer reading list is actually good.

  Megan

  Joking! Not THAT bored.

  Me

  I am. Dad’s parties are like a real life game of Monopoly. I hate Monopoly.

  Megan

  That’s because you’re terrible at it.

  I am. But it’s a stupid game. Either you’re lucky and you get rich or you’re unlucky and you end up broke.

  Dad always wins when he plays. Maybe some people are just good at getting rich.

  Megan

  Can’t believe school starts in three weeks. Ugh! BTW Hazel is meeting us tomorrow. What time should I call over?

  I don’t really know anyone else going to our new school, but Megan is friends with Hazel from their orchestra and she’ll be going. Hazel actually lives on our road too. We’re at one end, Hazel’s house is in the middle, and Mr Reynolds lives at the other end. Millionaire Square, Dad calls it.

  But I hardly ever see Hazel. And the few times I did meet her, I didn’t like her.

  Me

  Whenever. Just not too early.

  The double doors open and Dad comes in with another guy that I’ve seen at these parties a few times. He’s tall and skinny and always nodding.

  ‘Invest now,’ Dad’s saying, ‘and you’ll treble your money by the time the foundations are in, guaranteed.’ He must be talking about The Old Mill again.

  Dad’s by the sink grabbing a bottle of champagne from the ice bucket before I remember my sketch pad. I snap it closed, but there’s nowhere to hide it. He notices. He watches me for a second, and I imagine the grinning face I drew burning through the front cover. At least it’s a picture of Dad in a good mood. But then I remember that a few pages beneath is a drawing of Dad yesterday morning when he couldn’t find his golf shoes.

  He stares at my pad.

  I stare at the countertop.

  Then he says, ‘So this young lady won a national art competition!’ When I look up, he’s beaming at Bob. His shoulders are square with pride and he comes over and puts his hand on my head. ‘Thousands of other kids entered – and our Lucy won.’

  Our Lucy. Our. I inhale the word and it warms my chest.

  ‘With a drawing of the freak who lives next door, no less!’ Dad adds.

  ‘Well done, Lucy. That’s impressive,’ Bob says.

  ‘Yeah, it is,’ Dad says.

  Dad grins at me, and now I’m smiling too. But his eyes stay on me. I think I’m supposed to speak.

  ‘I actually came second,’ I say.

  Dad’s grin stiffens. I don’t think he wanted me to say that.

  ‘The theme was Hidden,’ I say, hoping that’s better. ‘So I drew a picture of Ms Cusack next door, or, I mean, what I think she looks like, because she doesn’t go out.’

  Now Dad’s eyes move to Bob. ‘That house is practically falling down,’ he says. His hand drops from my head and he fills his glass. ‘Ruins the whole street. The gap in an otherwise perfect set of teeth. It’s a crying shame. I could buy it off her in the morning for two million, and flip it for four by dinner.’

  Bob nods around seventeen times. Then he points to my sketch pad. ‘Can I see your pictures?’ My eyes dart to Dad, but he is putting the bottle back in the wine cooler and doesn’t realize what Bob means.

  ‘Not unless you go up to the gallery, I’m afraid,’ Dad says. ‘They hung her entry up there with Rembrandt and Vameer, I’ll have you know.’

  ‘It’s Vermeer, Dad, and it’s not exactly hanging in the same room,’ I say, ignoring Bob’s arm which is held out towards my pad. Thankfully, by the time Dad turns back, Bob has dropped his arm. Dad takes a drink and looks at the wall like there’s something written on it. Then he says, ‘There was nothing like that in my day. The emphasis in schools is completely different now. I mean, it’s bad enough that Art is treated like an actual subject and not just a hobby, but Lucy will have the option to take Drama this year too! Now a competition that awards initiative? There’s something I could really get behind. Something . . .’

  I turn away from Dad. And I wait for the word. Because I know it’s coming.

  ‘. . . practical,’ he says.

  Bob nods. ‘Couldn’t agree more.’

  Dad talks to Bob about the need for children to get real life experiences and I look at the floor tiles and force myself to count the corners and look for cracks and by the time I feel a hand on my shoulder, Dad and Bob are gone. All t
hat’s left in the kitchen are me, Paula, and the words Dad didn’t say.

  Drawing is not a real talent.

  ‘Lucy,’ Paula says and she waits for me to look her in the eyes. ‘I took my daughter to the gallery to see the portrait you drew. I asked a woman who works there about it. You know what she said? She said this year’s entries prove that the next generation are not just very talented, but surprising. That’s you, Lucy. Talented and surprising.’

  But her words mix with Dad’s and form a lump in my throat. I shove my sketch pad away and go out of the kitchen.

  CHAPTER 3

  I’m not supposed to go down into Dad’s precious wine cellar. Which is why I do. I walk along the rows, sliding the bottles out one by one.

  ‘Practical,’ I say. The word sits on the heavy air and doesn’t move.

  Practical. Like making the hockey team or winning the Young Scientist of the Year Competition or running your own property development business. Not winning an art competition.

  I reach up and slide out his most expensive bottle.

  I don’t want to see you down there, young lady. Those bottles of Domaine de la Romanée are worth more than fourteen thousand apiece.

  What’s practical about a fourteen thousand euro bottle of wine? All I have to do is open my fingers and let it drop and smash! Fourteen thousand euro spills across the ground.

  The door to upstairs opens. The music gets louder, there are steps on the stairs. I freeze.

  ‘. . . so, after the jigs and the reels, and the palms that needed greasing, I finally have my hands on two bottles.’

  It’s Dad. I slide the bottle back and sprint to the end of the wine racks and duck behind them.

  ‘Needless to say, I’ve paid about twice their original price at this stage.’

  Their feet are on the floor of the basement now.

  ‘Hmmm, where are they?’ Dad says.

  ‘Up there!’ Oly says.

  ‘Yep, that’s them!’ Dad says and I hear him slide a bottle out. ‘Domaine de la Romanée.’