She hated Christmas movies, where everyone started out sad or lonely, but always, always, ended up happy, just in time for Christmas Day. Oh, she knew they were just movies with make-believe characters, but even in the real world it seemed that Christmas worked its magic on everyone else, and passed her by. Even when Josephine was around she got a week off at Christmas like all the other nannies, so Heather had no ally.
She and Lottie have a Christmas Day routine. They spend the morning doing the rounds of the neighbourhood, distributing a scented candle and a box of mince pies to each of the households, and staying for tea or lemonade or whatever’s on offer. When they get home they exchange gifts, and Heather professes herself delighted with whatever Madge and Lottie have picked out with the twenty euro Heather will have handed over a week earlier.
Later, the two of them share a turkey and cranberry sauce pizza in front of whatever festive movie Lottie selects from Netflix – Heather doesn’t mind them so much now. Afterwards, if the weather’s OK, they walk to the park to throw broken bits of leftover pizza crust to the swans. It’s the perfect day.
‘Grandma said they’ll go to a hotel, but I think they should stay here.’
‘Do you now.’
‘Yeah. We’ve got lots of room.’
Lots of room, in a tiny two-bedroom house. Her folks would die of claustrophobia in five minutes. ‘And where do you think they’d sleep?’
‘Well, you could move to the couch, and they could have your bed. It’s big enough for two.’
‘Right.’
Heather turns her head to hide the grin. For as long as she can remember her parents have slept apart – not just in separate beds, but in entirely different rooms, on opposite sides of the house, with a staircase, two bathrooms, a guest room and Heather’s old room between them. The thought of them climbing together into Heather’s very modest double bed – not a king, not a queen – is the stuff sitcoms are made of. ‘Let’s worry about sleeping arrangements later, OK?’
Will they come? Time will tell. Was her mother testing the water by saying it to Lottie? She looks down at the part in her daughter’s golden hair. She bends to deposit a swift kiss on it.
‘What’s that for?’
‘Just for being you, kiddo.’
Let them come, let them see how her life is here. Let them experience the things she holds dear now. Let them come to The Food of Love and be introduced to Emily, and eat dinner at the big oval table. Let them meet Madge and the rest of the neighbours, let them sit in Victor McCarthy’s kitchen and listen to his father Ernie, an exile from rural County Clare, belt out manic tunes on his fiddle while Victor accompanies him with a pair of dessertspoons that clatter and dance against his thigh.
Who knows? They might even enjoy it.
After the dishes have been done and the floor swept she tries calling Astrid, as she does occasionally in the evenings, but Astrid’s phone must be dead because she gets nowhere, no ring tone, no voicemail. She’ll try again in the morning,
Later that evening, Lottie already in bed and reading aloud to Tinkerbell, Heather casts a critical eye on the contents of her wardrobe, and decides an overhaul might be in order. She can’t remember the last time she wore anything but Levi’s, teamed with a shirt or sweater. Emily is always trying to get her into dresses: maybe she could give one a try, if only for the laugh.
She has no idea what style to go for. Nothing with a waist. Nothing that might highlight the fact that she hasn’t had a waist since she was twelve. Nothing frilly or fussy, nothing that would add bulk to the bulk. Emily, she decides, will have to accompany her on a shopping trip.
Shame she’s got nothing cute for tomorrow’s outing to the park. Something with a bit of a swish to it, something that would make her feel pretty, or pretty-ish.
It’s not a big deal. It would just be nice, that’s all.
Emily
IT MAKES SENSE. SHE KNOWS IT MAKES PERFECT SENSE. He works in Dublin and he wants her with him. Four years ago she would have been more than happy to make the move. Leaving the hair salon wouldn’t have cost her a thought, plenty of salons in Dublin – but that was before Gran died and left her the shop, before Emily took a deep breath and opened The Food of Love.
‘It’s hard to explain,’ she says. ‘This restaurant is more than just a job, it’s my calling. It’s what I was meant to do.’
‘I get that, sweetheart, honestly I do – but you don’t have to give it up. I mean, obviously you’ll have to give up this one, but what’s to stop you opening another? I know it would take time to find the right premises, and of course it costs a fair bit more to run a business in Dublin – but you’d have money from the sale of this one, and I’d be happy to help out.’
‘But Ferg, this one is special. This one is like … Gran’s gift to me. I know that sounds silly, but—’
‘It’s not silly, it’s sweet – but we have to be practical here. I can’t move back home – it simply isn’t an option with my work – so if we want to be together you need to come here. Wouldn’t your gran have wanted you to be happy?’
‘Yes, of course, but …’ But still she can’t bear the idea of giving up the restaurant. ‘I might let it, for a while anyway.’
‘Let it? If you did that you’d have no capital – but hey, baking is your thing, right? Why not look for work in an established bakery instead? Do you really want the responsibility of running your own place again? Wouldn’t you prefer to be taking home a steady wage, and being able to forget about it when you clock off?’
‘I like the responsibility. I love being my own boss.’
‘In that case, you’ll have to sell up, Em. But look, the important thing is that we’ll be together, right? Isn’t that all that matters?’
He doesn’t get it. Of course she wants them to be together, but it’s not all that matters. He wasn’t around at the start. He doesn’t know about all the nights she lay awake, wondering if she was crazy even to consider opening a restaurant with one table. He didn’t see the long hours she and Mike put in, testing and tasting and tweaking recipes; he wasn’t there on the days she spent trawling through charity shops for what she could find to save a fiver here, a tenner there.
He didn’t witness her agonising over a shade of paint for the walls, and the tiles for the floor, and the font for the name above the window, after she had finally, finally, decided what that name should be. He’d missed all that because he was miles away. He was an entire continent away when she’d opened her doors for the first time, heart in her mouth, and one diner had shown up.
He doesn’t understand how precious it is to be able to live and work where Gran lived and worked. He doesn’t see how attached she has grown to the small room with the big oval table, and how she loves meeting the different people who come to eat there every day. He doesn’t know how much she values the friendships she’s made with Heather and Astrid and Bill.
Well, maybe not Bill. Not any more.
What happened? She has no idea. Why did he seem almost angry that time they met at the vet’s, and she told him about moving to Dublin? Why hasn’t he come back to the restaurant?
She called an electrician last week, when a socket stopped working. It killed her. It should have been Bill.
She misses him. She misses his easy grin, his hopeless jokes, the lost look she catches on his face sometimes. She misses how he always sweeps his breadcrumbs from the tablecloth into his empty soup bowl. She misses the hair that’s as unruly as her own, and the dark eyes, and the nose that’s too big to call him handsome. He’s not handsome, but he’s lovely.
She has to sort things out with him. She can’t leave them as they are, can’t move to Dublin with unanswered questions, with the uncertain feeling there is between them now. She has no number for him, no way of getting in touch unless she rings the nursing home, which she’s reluctant to do. Instead she’s planning to call there this afternoon, once the post-lunchtime tidy-up is done.
And in the meantime,
there’s her brother Daniel.
Come and meet him, she said, just for an hour. Come to my place on Saturday afternoon for coffee. Bring Nora, she said, thinking it might make him more inclined to be nice, but it didn’t. Daniel managed to convey all too clearly, from his curt responses and charged silences, that the past hadn’t been forgotten, that Ferg hadn’t been forgiven. Was he never going to let it go? Was Emily forever to cringe when the two of them were in the same room?
Ferg ignored it. He concentrated on Nora and Emily, and was careful never to interact solely with Daniel. I’m sorry, Emily said later, he was rude – but Ferg told her not to worry: he’d expected as much from a loyal brother. He’ll get over it, he said, and Emily nodded, and hoped, and wondered how her parents would be when they came face to face with Ferg, as they inevitably would. At least they’re separated from him by an ocean, unlike Daniel.
It will be strange after she makes the move to Dublin, not having her brother down the road from her. They’ve never lived further apart than they are now; there’s never been more than a short walk from her door to his. That will take some getting used to.
But she must focus on the bigger picture, the reason for all the change. They’ll finally be living together. She loves him, and he loves her – it’s a natural progression to live under the same roof.
Is it a bit soon to be considering it though, just a few weeks into their new relationship? He doesn’t think so.
Emmy, it’s not like we’re starting from scratch here. We had two years together. We know what we’re doing, and what we want. I know it’s what I want.
And she wants it too. And Dublin is vibrant and bustling, and she’ll love it once she gets used to it.
She must tell Mike. She’s been putting it off, but as her employee he should know so he can think about finding another job. She hates the thought of them not working together any more. We’re the perfect team, he’s said more than once, and she has to agree.
Stop it. Stop being so negative. Think of the upside. Be happy.
‘I am happy,’ she says aloud.
‘Glad to hear it,’ Mike replies, tipping bread crusts into the compost bin.
She drops a bundle of clean spoons back into their tray. Might as well get it over with. ‘Mike, there’s something I’ve been wanting to talk to you about.’
‘What’s that?’
‘It’s about me and Ferg.’
‘Right.’
They’ve met, briefly. The day Ferg came to have coffee with Daniel and Nora, Mike was leaving as Ferg arrived. Introductions were made. ‘You know he lives in Dublin.’
‘Yeah.’ He takes up the brush and begins sweeping the floor. ‘Don’t tell me you’re moving.’
She waits until he looks up.
Her expression stills his brush. ‘You’re not moving, are you?’
‘I probably am, Mike. I mean, it looks like things are heading that way. We’ve talked about it.’
‘Are you serious?’
‘Dead serious.’
‘Crikey.’ He resumes sweeping. ‘Look,’ he says, ‘tell me to mind my own business, but is it not … a bit soon?’
She smiles. ‘We’ve got history, Mike. We go back a while.’
‘… Oh.’
‘We went out for two years. It didn’t last, and he went to Canada, but we’re both older now and … well …’
‘So you’re picking up where you left off.’
‘Kind of.’
He props the brush in a corner. ‘So when is all this happening, then?’
‘I’m not sure. I’ll have to put the restaurant on the market.’
‘You’re selling up?’
‘I … Yes, I’m afraid so. I’d much rather not. I hate the thought of letting it go, but I don’t see what else I can do.’
He unties his apron, chucks it aside. ‘Maybe I could rent it from you. Maybe.’
The look on his face. The hope in it. ‘Mike, there’s nothing I’d like better, but I’ll have to sell. I’ll need capital if I want to buy someplace in Dublin.’
‘Yeah. Right. Course you will.’ Taking his jacket from behind the door. ‘I can see that.’
‘I wish I could sell it to you,’ she says, but they both know that’s not an option. He hasn’t got the cash to rent it, let alone buy it. ‘Look, nothing is going to happen right away. I just wanted to tell you, so you have a bit of warning.’
‘OK.’ He takes his keys from the drawer where he stows them. ‘Let me know when I need to start looking. And good luck, by the way.’
‘Thanks.’
Where will they be, both of them, by Christmas? Will the restaurant still be hers, or will there be a new owner, with maybe very different ideas about what to do with the place? She wishes she could pack it up, brick by brick, and carry it with her to Dublin, and find the perfect spot there to reassemble it.
When the kitchen is sorted she pulls on a jacket and leaves by the back door. The nursing home isn’t far, up to the main street, through the indoor market, around by the boys’ primary school, the library, the fire station. Ten minutes, twelve at the most.
The leaves on the trees outside the library have started to turn, the new school year beginning next week, another summer coming to an end. Little did she imagine at the start of this one what changes lay waiting for her.
Walking past the big double doors of the fire station, she thinks about the many times Bill would have made this same journey on his way to and from the restaurant. She remembers the first time she saw him, the wary expression on his face as he stood on the threshold, ready to turn and bolt. Bill, he’d said, when she enquired, just Bill – and right away, she’d warmed to his tentative smile.
He might not appreciate her showing up without warning at the nursing home, interrupting him in the middle of his working day – but with his continuing absence at the restaurant eating away at her she must have it out with him, get to the bottom of it.
She approaches the metal gates and regards the two-storey building beyond them. Well maintained, on the outside at least. Recently painted, by the look of it – and abruptly she remembers the tiny dots of paint all over Bill’s face, the night they’d met at the vet’s. She takes a breath and walks up the short driveway.
The heat hits her as soon as she steps inside. The receptionist – shining brown hair, red-framed glasses, blue fingernails – regards her dubiously when she asks for Bill. ‘Is he expecting you?’
‘No. I just need a quick word, if I can.’
‘He could be anywhere.’ She lifts the receiver of the phone on her desk. ‘Who will I say?’
She hesitates. Should she give her name? Might he avoid her like he’s avoiding the restaurant? ‘Maybe you could just say it’s a friend of his. I’d like to surprise him.’ She tries to smile, but it feels stiff.
The receptionist doesn’t smile back. She taps a single button with a blue nail and says, ‘Is Bill around? Someone is looking for him.’ She listens. ‘OK,’ she says, and hangs up. ‘Have a seat,’ she tells Emily. ‘They’ll try to find him.’
Three chairs are lined up in a row in front of a window, in the kind of functional design that doesn’t encourage loitering. Emily chooses the middle one. ‘It’s warm in here,’ she says, slipping off her jacket.
‘Old bones. They need the heat.’
‘I suppose so.’
She turns to look out the window. She sees a white minibus, a paved path winding through a neatly mown lawn, unpainted wooden seats. She wonders if Bill cuts the grass, or if they have a gardener.
A man appears around a corner, tapping his way along the path with a knobbly stick, a flat cap on his head, a blue scarf knotted around his neck. Something, a book she thinks, pokes from a jacket pocket.
He settles himself on the first seat he encounters. He pulls out the book and then fumbles inside the jacket until he finds spectacles that he doesn’t immediately put on. Instead, he lifts his face to the sky.
‘Emily?’
‘What are you doing here?’ he asks.
She gets to her feet. ‘Bill,’ she says, ‘sorry to bother you. I would have rung, but I don’t have your number.’ She darts a glance at the receptionist, who isn’t looking in their direction but who can’t avoid hearing every word. ‘Maybe we could go outside. It won’t take long, honestly.’
In response he moves to the door and holds it open. She steps past him, glad of the cooler air. ‘Here,’ he says, and leads her around the corner of the building, away from the man on his bench, to a little flagged courtyard. Steam issues from a vent on a wall. Three big bins stand near a door that’s propped open across the way. The kitchen, she guesses, hearing a clattering from within.
Bill stops. He slips his hands into his pockets and waits. She tries to gather her words, tries to figure out how best to come at it. She had the conversation in her head last night, but it’s slipped away from her now.
‘Bill,’ she says, her jacket held like a shield between them, ‘the truth is, I’m worried. I know you said I hadn’t done anything to upset you, that time we met at the vet’s, and I hope that’s true, but I still feel there’s something up. I feel you’re … not being completely open with me.’
He stands mutely before her. Isn’t he going to help her out?
But maybe he is helping her. Maybe his silence is letting her know that she’s right.
‘I think there’s something you’re not telling me,’ she goes on. ‘I could be wrong but – I have this … Look, I would really like to sort this out, Bill. Can you please help me? I don’t want to go away feeling there’s stuff – unresolved between us. If I’ve done anything, I’d really prefer to know, so I can fix it.’
His gaze slides from her face to rest on something over her shoulder. He clears his throat. He takes a hand from a pocket and runs it through his hair. ‘You didn’t do anything,’ he says. ‘Not a thing. But I can’t come back to the restaurant, and I wish you wouldn’t ask me why.’
The Restaurant Page 24