Page 3 of A Miracle on Hope Street
‘It’s true!’ she says. ‘I can’t wait to see what you wear this time. Mind you, you could wear anything and still look like a movie star.’
I blush slightly. I still can’t believe that women my age have such an interest in my whereabouts and what I get to wear as part of it all. I’m not exactly a skinny supermodel, but maybe that’s why they like it. I’m perhaps an achievable version of themselves in appearance, with just more visits to the hairdressers and I get sponsored clothes for posh events.
‘It’s a screening of that new film with what’s-her-name?’ I tell Oonagh. ‘You know, the one about the mermaids? It opens tonight so they’re doing a big Press launch at the cinema on Hope Street and I said I’d go, not even thinking of the weather forecast and how mermaids really aren’t my thing.’
Oonagh lets out a genuine gasp.
‘Wow, well if our Molly heard that she’d be green with envy! It looks like a fun movie,’ she says. ‘Now, you have a good time, do you hear? And don’t be worrying about a thing. We have everything under control here, don’t we, Anthony?’
My dad reacts to the sound of his own name and Oonagh and I catch each other’s eye like proud parents whose baby has reached an early milestone. It’s funny how one moment he can seem to be taking it all in and then in a blink of an eye he’s gone again.
‘If I didn’t have to put on heels and a dress in the snow I might enjoy it even more,’ I say, trying as always to play these things down.
‘Ah, you’re a lucky duck!’ says Oonagh with a hearty laugh. ‘I’d swap with you any day. It’s a far cry from my exciting evening, I can tell you!’
‘You only think that,’ I say. ‘A roaring fire, a glass of red and cosy pyjamas is more on my mind than a film premiere in the snow!’
But Oonagh isn’t convinced.
‘Oh, I can only wish for a lifestyle like yours, Ruth Ryans,’ she muses. ‘Celebrity openings, dinner parties, photoshoots, gorgeous men dripping off your arm and your name practically up in lights in this city! You’re living every woman’s dream and you know it.’
‘That’s very kind of you to say,’ I reply to Oonagh, who will go home this evening, as she always does, to her warm, modest semi-detached house on the outskirts of the city to eat dinner and watch the news with her husband. Then she’ll see to her family’s needs like homework and some housework before some soaps on telly and an early night and back to work in the morning. I sometimes yearn for the simplicity of such a life, but I won’t deny it, I do enjoy the perks of my profile and opportunities that come my way, so I wouldn’t dare compare or complain. My career took off, my father took ill, I moved back in with him to help and my love life and any notions of ‘settling down’ took a back seat, or a side seat, should I say. I’ve definitely no shortage of opportunities, but the right one just hasn’t come my way and it’s the furthest thing from my mind right now to boot.
Oonagh leaves us eventually, still convinced I’m living the dream, no matter how much I plead my ‘heels in the snow’ side of the debate, and I fix the blanket that sits across my father’s lap.
‘I’ve an event tonight, Dad, so I won’t get to see if you win at bingo this week,’ I explain, ‘but little Owen and Ben will be here with Ally and I’m sure I’ll get a full report from her as to who won what. Remember to watch that Mabel one for cheating. You know what she’s like!’
I’m jesting of course, and he smiles and gives me a ‘thumbs-up’ sign.
‘I love you, Daddy, and I’ll see you tomorrow,’ I say, giving him a light kiss on the cheek. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?’
His eyes crinkle at the sides and he looks past me to the television, reminding me to turn the volume back up before I leave. His words are minimal and not always easy to interpret but we have our little signals that both of us understand.
He might not be able to say too much, any more, but I hope that deep inside he still knows who I am and just how much he means to me.
‘Goodbye, Dad,’ I say once more from where I stand in the doorway but he is locked in a different part of his new routine, laughing at the cartoons on the TV, and so I leave him to it.
I walk away and, just as I always do when I leave him, my lips tighten and I fight back tears until I get to the car. And then I cry.
Chapter Three
‘This way Ms Ryans! Look this way please. Thank you, Ms Ryans.’
‘Ruth! Over here! Ruth!’
I flash my biggest smile, wave at the cameras as my plus one for the evening, George, puts his arm tightly around my shoulder (a bit much for a first date considering we only met in real life minutes ago) and we duck away from the camera flashes and light evening snow on Hope Street, through the cinema doors into the warm sticky heat and a sea of cheap champagne. Inside, tanned, perfect and perfumed bodies, huddle together with just enough room to pose for more photos and we see how many well-known faces we can spot as we revel in another fifteen minutes of fame.
‘Ruth, darling! You made it!’
Margo Taylor air-kisses me, admires my dress, swoons at my shoes, fondles my necklace and totally invades my space, but I don’t dare to even take a gracious step back from her overpowering ways and her wrinkly cold hands. I’m her prodigy, her discovery, her baby, her pride and joy. Without her I wouldn’t be where I am now and without me . . . let’s just say we know how important it is to suck up to each other, so I do the same back.
‘You look amazing as always, Margo.’
‘I should do,’ she cackles. ‘I’m bloody freezing in this weather but I’m wearing enough money to feed a small country. It’s all going back to the shops tomorrow, of course. The perks, eh?’
I nod and smile and laugh in all the right places. Margo Taylor is not to be messed with and I know that thousands of freelance writers like me would pay thepriceof a small country just to spend a moment in her company in a bid to further their career.
‘And this must be the handsome landscape gardener?’ she continues. ‘How lovely to meet you at last! Ruth has told me all about you and I have to say you are much more gorgeous than she ever mentioned.’
