Look into the Eye Read online

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Epilogue

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names,

  characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the

  author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons,

  living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  Ebook Published 2013

  by Poolbeg Press Ltd.

  123 Grange Hill, Baldoyle,

  Dublin 13, Ireland

  Email: [email protected]

  © Jennifer Barrett 2013

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  1

  Copyright for typesetting, layout, design, ebook

  © Poolbeg Press Ltd.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 9781781991435

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photography, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. The book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  www.poolbeg.com

  About the author

  Jennifer Barrett has worked in the areas of fundraising, communications and marketing across a range of arts companies, schools, colleges, youth mental health charities and other non-profit organisations. She is currently chief executive of a developing world charity based in Dublin, Ireland.

  Jennifer divides her time between her own home in West Dublin and the family home in Wicklow, where her large clan gathers most weekends. A keen photographer, Jennifer travels far and wide to photograph and observe whales and other marine life in their natural habitats. Look into the Eye was inspired by her trip to the Norwegian fjords to photograph wild orcas in 2007.

  Follow Jennifer on:

  Facebook (JenniferBarrettAuthor)

  Twitter (@JenBarrettEye)

  Acknowledgements

  I have many people to thank for first teaching me how to write a novel, then helping me to bring this book to life. So let me take a deep breath, and say a very big, heartfelt thank you to:

  Paula Campbell, publisher of Poolbeg Press. Thank you so much, Paula, for saying yes – that elusive word that we authors-in-waiting long to hear. I’m so grateful to you, and to Sarah, Ailbhe and all at Poolbeg Press for your support, and for your belief in this story.

  Gaye Shortland, my editor, who I think at times understood the message of this book even better than I did myself. Thank you, Gaye, for challenging me, and for teaching me a few new grammar rules along the way. (Although I must admit I’m still not one hundred per cent sure what a comma-splice is!)

  Fiona Quinn – an absolute legend, who is never afraid to tell it like it is. Fo, only you can know how much you helped me with this book at the end. I am forever grateful.

  Dave Walsh, one of the inspirational Greenpeace activists who defended the whales against the whaling fleet in Antarctica. Thank you, Dave, for helping me with my research for this book – any errors or inaccuracies in the story are entirely my own.

  The Irish Writers’ Centre, and to Claire Hennessy, my writing teacher, who gave me the tools and the confidence to write this story; to Mary O’Donnell for sharing her valuable wisdom on writing with me in those early days; to Vanessa O’Loughlin of www.writing.ie for the advice that proved so pivotal in helping me to fine-tune the story for submission, and to Daisy Cummins for her fantastic support and advice, which helped me to navigate my way around this wonderful world of words.

  Sandra Barrett, Kara Flannery, Ruth Flannery and Jessica Kavanagh – thank you all so much for suffering through the various early drafts of this novel, and for your valuable feedback on same. Special thanks to Jessica for the hill-rolling inspiration, and to Cormac Lynch for providing the male perspective, and letting me know that exclamation marks are largely superfluous when men are speaking (!!).

  Sue Booth Forbes of Anam Cara Writer’s and Artist’s Retreat on the Beara Peninsula in West Cork, where I fled many times upon hitting the dreaded writing wall. Oh, how the words always flow at your magical centre, Sue.

  Robert Doyle and all at Halpin’s Bridge Café in Wicklow, and to the Phoenix Park Visitor Centre Café in Dublin – my friendly ‘second offices’ where I scribbled vast chunks of this novel over copious cappuccinos.

  Aiveen Mullally, my haiku teacher; and to the many Facebook friends who responded to my research questions and pleas for help along the way – thanks for always pointing me in the right direction, guys.

  Paul and Noreen Barrett, Chris Barrett, Lisa Burke, Helen Coughlan, Linda and Tom Hickey, my team at ERD, and all the Garglemonsters – thanks so much for your ongoing support, and for your encouragement of this writing whim of mine.

  Claire Pyx for your truly invaluable gift of the alarm/light thingie that has helped me to get up and get writing before the sun rises on the dark, wintry mornings.

  Suzanne Barrett for your endless encouragement, interest and moral support. And thanks especially for putting up with your moody-when-writing sis – love ya loads. x

  Maureen and John Barrett, my wonderful parents. You have always been there in good times and bad, never failing in your support of your children’s dreams. Without your abiding belief in me, this book would never have been started, let alone finished. I love ye to bits, and am more grateful to you both than I could ever find adequate words to express. xx

  And finally, to the whales: thank you so much for showing up when I needed you – for causing my spirits to soar and these words to flow.I am so sorry that people continue to hunt you down and place you in danger from overfishing, pollution, heavy boat strikes, sonar testing and entanglement in fishing nets. And I’m so sad that, even today, in numerous theme parks around the world, we hold you captive, and make you and your dolphin cousins perform inane circus tricks in return for food. Whatever must you think of us?

  It is my sincerest wish that some day we will all begin to see sense, that we will stop hurting you, and realise just how much we can learn when we look into the eye.

  Until that day, I write.

  xJ

  Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth;

  whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul . . .

  then I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can.

  Herman Melville, Moby Dick

  For Daniel, Isabel, Rachel, Liam, Laura,

  Marianne, Lochlann and the whales.

  xJ

  Chapter 1

  MELANIE

  May 2007

  I cou
ldn’t wait to be out of the stuffy function room. I stood there on the edge of the outdoor terrace, desperately trying to breathe in enough of the delicious, tobacco-filled air to ease the pain of the fundraising lunch.

  Ah, that’s better – at least I can breathe again, I said to myself. Which was when I noticed I was getting some strange looks from the glamorous, fully fledged smokers on the terrace.

  I left the second-hand smoke and walked down the few steps to the lawn.

  Whatever about the dull event, there was no denying the beauty of the setting of the Wicklow Landon Hotel – it was breathtaking. Freshly cut grass lay green and proud as it swept down the hill towards a running stream and copse of trees. I stared out at the sea in the distance, then kicked off my high heels and took a sip of my gin and tonic. The cool grass felt wonderful beneath my bare feet.

  “There you are, Mel!” I turned around to see my best friend Katy walking towards me down the hotel steps.

  “Isn’t the weather glorious?” She linked her arm through mine when she reached me. “So are you enjoying the day?”

  Katy and her boyfriend Frank had invited me along to the fundraiser for a new youth café and counselling service, so I didn’t want to seem ungrateful. “Eh . . . yes, thanks, hon. And it’s such a great cause.” I looked away from her, back out at the view.

  Katy touched my elbow. “Come on, Mel, this is me you’re talking to.”

  I turned back. Katy’s usually smiling face was sporting a furrowed brow. The game was up. “I suppose it’s just not really my kind of thing, that’s all.”

  “What? It certainly used to be your kind of thing, Mel – you used to love going to events like these when we were in college. Why don’t you let your hair down a little and enjoy yourself today?”

  “It’s not the same, Katy. College was a long time ago. We’re grown up now, and everyone’s all coupled up and sensible these days – most of them anyway.”

  “Well, the music’s just started and Frank has some nice single friends – why don’t you come in and talk to a few of them? Maybe have a dance with one? You never know, Mr Right could be waiting for you just inside . . .”

  I smiled at her determination. “Sure where would I have time for any man, let alone Mr Right? I’ve more than enough to cope with, trying to stay on top of my new promotion at work and saving up the money I need to renovate the new house. I want to make sure my future is secure – with or without a man.”

  “Fair enough,” said Katy. “But remember, your dazzling career won’t keep you warm at night.”

  “No, but the new fully insulated roof it puts over my head will!”

  “All right, all right, I give up,” Katy sighed. “You win.”

  She went to sit down on the grass, holding up her lovely, long, sea-green chiffon dress that went so beautifully with her wavy auburn hair.

  I eased my own tight black dress up slightly and sat down beside her.

  “I wish I’d worn something a bit lighter,” I said to change the subject. “I’m roasted in this thing. I should have realised that everyone would be wearing bright colours and pastels at a lunch in May.”

  “Sure you look great in whatever you wear, Mel,” Katy said, but she sounded a little distant. I knew she was disappointed in me, and I started to feel a bit bad then. It was nice of her and Frank to invite me along to the lunch. I needed to try to pick myself up and get into it.

  “Ah sorry, Katy. Don’t mind me. Why don’t you go in and find Frank for a dance? I’ll follow you when I’ve finished this.” I held up my glass. “I’ll even come and talk to some of his friends.”

  “Right – I’ll hold you to that.” She gave me a smile, scrambled to her feet, shook her dress out and went back inside.

  I rested my head on my knees and just sat there for a few minutes, staring down over the rolling green hill out at the Irish Sea in the distance, enjoying the peace.

  “Nice quiet spot you’ve got here.”

  I turned and shaded my eyes to look up at the man standing over me, pint glass in one hand, fat smoking cigar in the other. He was tall and broad and looked a little familiar, but the sun was shining directly above him, making it difficult to see him properly.

  “Mind if I join you?” He sat down beside me and took a long puff of his cigar.

  I stole a brief glance at his face – late thirties, I reckoned, good-looking but not in an obvious kind of way, just something about him. He had sandy-coloured hair, cut short at the sides but already starting to curl on top. Who was he, though? How did I know this guy?

  I turned back to the view, and I couldn’t help myself breathing in some of the cigar smoke. For the first few seconds it was divine, but either the smoke was very strong or I breathed it in too deeply – either way, I started to cough.

  “Sorry, is the cigar bothering you?” The guy flapped his hand around but just ended up blowing more smoke in my direction.

  I swallowed the last of my drink and thankfully it seemed to work – the coughing finally stopped.

  “Sorry about that – me and my evil cigar can go away if you like?” he said.

  It took me a few seconds to get my voice back enough to speak. “Yes, that’s probably a good idea.” I was already missing the tranquillity of a few moments earlier.

  “Ah, you don’t mean that really?” He looked at me sideways and grinned.

  I just sighed loudly, willing him to leave. But he didn’t take the hint – just stayed sitting beside me, alternating between taking a swig of his pint, and a puff of his cigar.

  “I haven’t smoked one of these in years,” he said after a while. “Somebody bought it for me earlier, though, so I thought why not? I need something to get me through – just one of those days, y’know?”

  “Yep, I hear you,” I said – referring to both the lunch and my growing need for a proper nicotine fix.

  He must have read my mind. “Sounds like you might need a drag yourself there?” He offered me the cigar.

  “No, thanks, I don’t smoke,” I said, feeling like such a phony. Though there were days like today when I really missed it, I hadn’t smoked a cigarette in almost seven years. My ex-fiancé Ian had hated my smoking habit – it was one of the first things he pressured me to change about myself when we got together.

  “Dead right too, filthy habit,” said the man, stubbing the cigar out in the grass. He parked the pint glass precariously on the grass beside him and looked at me. “I noticed you earlier at the lunch. Did you have somewhere else you needed to be?”

  “Sorry?”

  “Just that you were checking your watch all through lunch – you seemed pretty uptight, that’s all.”

  He’d hit a raw nerve. “Uptight?” I put my knees down and turned to face him. “Who are you calling uptight? You don’t even know me.”

  “All right, steady on!” He pulled his head back and opened his eyes wide to feign shock at my reaction.

  I turned back around to the view.

  “You just seemed on edge, that’s all,” he said. “You couldn’t sit still – must have got up from the table at least four or five times during the meal. Either you had somewhere else to be, or you have an overactive bladder!” He raised his eyebrows and smirked at me.

  More than anything in the world at that moment I wanted to wipe that irritating smirk right off his face.

  “So you were watching me then, were you?” I flicked my hair behind my shoulder. “I’m afraid I’m not interested.” I looked straight ahead at the view, delighted with myself.

  He laughed. “You’re all right – me neither, darling.”

  Right, that’s it, I thought.

  I went to stand up. “Time I was going.”

  “No, wait, don’t.” He put his hand out to stop me. “Where are my manners? I’m sorry about the comments. I’m not that bad really when you get to know me. I just can’t ever seem to resist stirring things up. It’s a personal failing – has got me in a lot of trouble over the years. Please sit back
down – you looked happy there.”

  I settled back down with some reluctance.

  He held his hand out. “The name is Richard Blake – pleased to meet you.”

  “Richard Blake . . . I’m sure I’ve heard your name before, and you look familiar – have we met?”

  “Could have done, I guess. I’m a journalist for the Irish Chronicle. You?”

  Of course. That was it!

  “You’re the guy who wrote that article about the Dublin Millennium Centre for the Arts last week, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, the very man,” he said, looking pleased with himself. “Not a bad article that, though it should have been better. I tried to spice it up a bit by throwing in a flavour of my theory about an imminent Irish property crash, but my editor was having none of it – she and I hold vastly differing opinions on this country’s economic outlook. In the end, that compromise report I filed was pretty bland – just like the subject matter. I did like my headline though.” He leant back on one arm and sketched it out in the sky: “Another Run-of-The-Mill Development Project – most excellent, even if I do say so myself. Edith just about let me away with that one – after a struggle.”

  “Indeed. Well, let me introduce myself,” I said, turning towards him and holding out my hand. “I’m Melanie McQuaid, director of marketing and development at The Mill. I’m responsible for marketing the venue, all public relations and fundraising for any new development at the centre. You’ll find that that was my newest building project you were trashing.”

  “Ah,” he said, sitting up straight, looking suitably chastened.

  “Yes – ‘Ah’ is right. Do you have any idea of the hassle your article caused me? I spent all week fielding media queries after it went out – and as for my boss . . .”

  I closed my eyes, remembering my boss’s reaction – one I would have preferred to have been able to forget. Marcus Boydell, The Mill’s CEO and artistic director went nuts when he read the scathing article about his pet project – which wasn’t good for me. I’d only recently been promoted to director level and I knew I still had a lot to prove to Marcus, and to all the others who felt that at the age of thirty-four I was still too young and inexperienced to be taking over as second-in-command at Dublin’s fastest-growing arts venue. After the article went out, it was all I could do to keep the press at bay and to convince Marcus that the piece wouldn’t affect the forthcoming major fundraising campaign for the new wing.