It’s plenty big enough for my restaurant, she told him. I don’t have a problem with the size.
You have only one table, he pointed out, with a smile that made Emily want to mess up his silly hair.
My grandmother had a hat shop here for years.
Well, he said, nudging his designer glasses up a notch, I don’t imagine hats would take up too much room. Even if someone were to knock the dividing wall and incorporate the kitchen, it would still be fairly bijou. No, I’d say we’re talking niche positioning here, but we’ll see what we can do.
Bijou. Niche. Codswallop. She adds sugar to the bowl and mixes it through. She makes a well in the centre and drizzles in iced water. She works the dry mixture into the liquid, her touch light, her movements practised and automatic. The Food of Love is a proposition to him, a possible sale, that’s all. He sees none of its charm, none of the hard slog that went into its creation, none of the satisfaction she experiences at the end of every working day. It’s just square metres and location to him.
Don’t take it personally, Ferg tells her, he’s just doing his job – but how else can she take it?
He doesn’t care. He has no idea what it means to me.
Emmy, he’s not paid to care, he’s paid to sell.
She can’t argue with that, but it’s all so cold, so without feeling. No sign, she told the estate agent. I don’t want you to put up a sign. She couldn’t bear the thought of it, a constant reminder every time she looked out.
He wasn’t happy about that. A sign will boost interest, he said. Signs always help – but she wasn’t budging. No sign, she said again, and he had to put up with it.
Daniel and Nora appear at the restaurant that evening. ‘We’ve eaten dinner, but can we have dessert?’ Daniel asks, so Emily brings them bowls of Eton mess and a plate of ginger snaps.
‘You’ve heard about Heather and my dad,’ Nora says.
‘She told me,’ Emily replies, pouring coffee.
I can’t explain it, Heather had said.
But you had a row with him! You made him leave the restaurant!
Well, I didn’t exactly make him leave – but yes, we did have a row. And now we’re not rowing. What can I say? Feel free to laugh.
‘How do you feel about it?’ Emily asks Nora. She imagines a parent’s new partner takes some getting used to, whatever the circumstances. And the fact that Heather is closer in age to Nora than to Shane must count for something too.
‘Fine, actually. She’s lovely.’ Nora pauses. ‘Anyone who makes Dad happy is OK with me.’
It was a bad situation, Heather told Emily. He’d stayed with her for the kids, he didn’t want to leave them – and in the end she was the one who walked out. No more details were given, and Emily didn’t ask.
‘We were all to have dinner together tonight,’ Nora goes on, ‘but they went off to see someone in hospital before we got there, so we ate without them.’
‘Oh, no. Who was it?’
‘No idea. Some woman Eoin delivers a paper to. Heather knows her too: I think she might do some work for her.’
‘Heather works for everyone.’ Emily takes a seat, the restaurant having all but cleared out, the last two diners on coffee and cookies at the far end of the table.
‘So did the estate agent call?’ Daniel asks.
He’s dead set against the move. How can you sell Gran’s place? he asked when Emily told him of her plans, which upset her so much that he ended up apologising. He’s trying to make up now by feigning an interest, but she wishes the topic hadn’t been broached.
‘Yes, he was here earlier.’
‘So what did he say?’
‘Well, he didn’t seem that taken with it. He basically said it’s too small for most businesses to bother with.’
‘That’s ridiculous,’ Nora says immediately, and Emily wants to kiss her. ‘Plenty of people would be interested, I’m sure. You could have any number of businesses here – a little bakery or a delicatessen, or maybe a jewellery shop, or a gift shop. Loads of possibilities. The kitchen would make a perfect store room – and they’d have all the upstairs too.’
‘Yes …’ But Emily doesn’t want to think about anyone else here, stacking magazines in racks, or sliding a tray of cookies or watches into a display cabinet. She wants nobody else to live in her apartment either, looking out on her garden, cleaning her bathroom.
She dreads to think about what will become of the big table, where two years’ worth of friendships have been forged, and stories exchanged. Who will want it, when she no longer has a use for it? She might have asked Bill if the nursing home could use it, but that’s not going to happen now.
He didn’t respond to her letter. She pushes away the hurt and returns to the estate agent.
‘He says the location isn’t great either.’
‘Well, that’s just nonsense!’ Nora again. ‘It’s not five minutes from the main street, for God’s sake!’
‘I know. We’ll just have to wait and see.’
The conversation turns to other things. The series of black-and-white movies the cinema is planning to run for the month of September; Daniel’s invitation to ghost-write a novel for an old school friend who’s now a national sports personality; the weekend trip to London they’re planning for Daniel’s birthday next month.
‘I’m throwing a surprise birthday party for one of my regular customers,’ Emily tells them. ‘She’ll be ninety-three at the end of this month. It’ll be at lunchtime, because she doesn’t go out in the evenings. You might come, both of you.’
It was to be a joint celebration for Astrid and Bill, since their birthdays are so close together. Now it’s a party for one, in this sad new world that doesn’t include Bill.
After saying goodnight to the others and closing up, Emily clears the table and brings her tray into the kitchen, where Mike is scrubbing pots.
‘Why don’t you head off?’ she says. ‘I can finish up here.’
‘Sure?’
‘Sure.’
‘OK, then.’ He finishes the pot he’s working on and dries his hands. ‘See you in the morning, boss.’ Pulling on his jacket, zipping it up.
‘Goodnight, Mike. Thanks.’
He’s been quieter since she broke the news of the move to him. She’s glad he wasn’t here this afternoon when the estate agent called. She feels so guilty about him. She’s had a few quiet words on his behalf with other restaurateurs: she thinks, hopes, it won’t be long till he’s invited into another kitchen.
As she’s rolling up her sleeves, her phone rings. She takes it from the shelf where it lives during opening hours, and looks at the display. Fergal’s name surprises her – she called him earlier, after the agent had left. Why was he ringing again?
‘Hi, Ferg. What’s up?’
‘Emmy. You can talk?’
‘Yeah, Mike’s just gone home, so I’m on my own.’
Silence.
‘Hello? Ferg?’
‘I’m here. I need to—’
He breaks off. He sounds funny. Something’s up.
She leans against the sink, crosses one foot over the other. ‘Ferg, what’s wrong? Has something happened? Is it your mother?’ Sarah hadn’t been well at the weekend, a sore throat, a headache. Emily had meant to ring her, and had forgotten. ‘Is she worse?’
‘No, it’s not Mum. Look, Emmy, there’s no easy way to say this.’
He stops again. No easy way? ‘What are you on about?’ Has he lost his job? Crashed the car? ‘What is it, Ferg?’
‘Oh God,’ he says. ‘I – I don’t know—’
‘Tell me, for goodness’ sake. You’re scaring me. Say it.’
‘Look,’ he says, ‘I got a— I spoke with Therese Ruane today. She – she called me.’
She frowns. ‘Therese Ruane? Why would she ring you? Has something happened in Canada?’
And in the long silence that follows, her mind slides pieces quietly together, and she gets it.
She gets it. Sh
e finally gets it.
The room begins to swim. She lowers herself slowly to sit on the floor. She bends her knees, wraps her free hand around them. Her heart is thudding so hard it hurts.
‘Emmy?’ His voice sounds far away.
‘What are you saying? What are you saying?’ She shouts it as loudly as she can – she fills the kitchen with it. ‘What are you saying to me?’ Heat spreading in her face, a pulse pounding in her temples. ‘Say it! Say it!’ Squeezing the phone so tightly her hand aches.
‘I’m sorry, I’m so sorry—’
‘Did you go back with her when you went to Canada? Did you?’
‘Yes. I – I didn’t plan it, you must—’
‘You didn’t plan it? You didn’t plan it?’ Her rage, the strength of it, frightens her. She wants to hit him, to hurt him in any way she can, to break him in pieces. ‘You went to Canada – you left me on my wedding day and you went straight to where she was! Don’t tell me that wasn’t planned – don’t tell me that! Did she ring you that time too? Did she beg you not to marry me?’
‘No, I mean – no, it’s not—’
‘So you went crawling back to her, you were the one who begged, and she took you back.’
Silence.
‘Did she? Was that what happened? Tell me!’
‘Yes.’
She might throw up. She sinks her head onto her knees, inhales deeply. ‘Why did you come home? Why did you write to me?’
‘We fought – she didn’t want to come back to Ireland—’
‘So you split up, and you came home to your big job, and just decided to – pick things up where we left off. God, I’m a fool, I’m such a fool!’
‘Emmy, it wasn’t—’
‘Don’t call me that!’ she shouts. ‘Don’t ever call me that again!’
‘Sorry – no, it wasn’t like you said, I really did want to see you again—’
‘Because you couldn’t have her! Only because of that!’
‘No, no, I swear to you, it wasn’t like that.’
But she doesn’t believe him, because he’s not to be believed. She loved him once, and he ran away from her without looking back, without a second thought. And she picked herself up and recovered, and then he came back and did it all over again.
How could she have been so gullible? Why hadn’t she listened to Daniel, to everyone? Why hadn’t she torn up that letter, had nothing more to do with him?
‘So she’s coming home now, is that it? She’s decided she can’t live without you, is that it?’ The words opening a wound in her but she must let them out: they insist on it. ‘Is that what’s happening? Is it? Tell me!’
‘…Yes.’
And with that one word, it’s over.
She ends the call while he’s still talking, still telling her how sorry he is. She lets the phone clatter to the floor, feeling everything shaken up in her, everything whirling and crashing and colliding in her. Alone in the kitchen she wails, she moans, she rocks, she pulls at her hair – she abandons herself completely to her grief. How could she have been so blind? How could he have done it to her, not once but twice?
She was his rebound person. Therese Ruane broke his heart, and along came Emily to mend it. He used her to heal, to make himself feel good again. I still love you, he said. I never stopped loving you, he said, but the truth was that he’d never loved her in the first place. The despair, the desolation she feels threatens to drown her.
And then her phone rings again.
She jumps at the sound.
It was all a joke: he’s ringing to tell her it’s not true. She’ll kill him. She’ll bloody kill him.
She wipes her trembling damp hands along her dress and picks up the phone and blinks tears away so she can see the display.
It’s not him.
She presses the answer key. ‘Heather.’ Her voice sounds rusty, her scalp stings, her throat hurts. She attempts to steady her breathing.
‘Emily, I know it’s late,’ an urgency to her words, ‘but I wanted to make sure you were closed. I have news about Astrid.’
‘Astrid?’
She listens, her face changing. She tries to take it in, tries to focus, to push the other aside. Her back aches. She pulls herself up to standing while Heather is still talking. ‘Is she – will she be OK?’
‘She was still confused when I saw her, but I’m hoping that was just after the surgery. We’ll know more tomorrow – I’ll go in first thing. They mightn’t let me see her, but I’ll do my best. Shane will keep me posted too.’
‘Let me know, as soon as you have news.’
‘Sure.’
It doesn’t feel real. Astrid injured, Astrid lying in a hospital bed. Emily pictures her sitting in the restaurant, small and neat and always smiling. ‘Does Bill know?’
‘Not yet. I don’t have his number.’
‘I’ll tell him,’ Emily says. ‘I’ll drop by his work tomorrow morning.’
It will give her something to do. It will occupy her head and keep the other from destroying her. ‘Heather,’ she says then, the sorrow rising again, tightening her throat, ‘there’s – something else.’
‘What’s that?’
And then she finds she can’t say it. She simply can’t get the words out.
‘It’s nothing,’ she says. ‘It can wait. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.’ She hangs up quickly and places a call to the hospital, swallowing a fresh desire to sob. ‘Astrid Carmody,’ she says. ‘I’m wondering how she is.’
She’s put through to Intensive Care, and is asked by a clipped voice if she’s family. ‘Grand-niece,’ she says without a thought.
‘The patient is resting,’ she’s told. ‘We’ll know more in the morning,’ which tells her nothing at all. She says thank you and hangs up. She feels as weak and fragile as a convalescent. She empties the sink of the water Mike was using. Her watch shows five minutes to eleven. She said goodbye to Daniel and Nora half an hour ago, and sent Mike home directly afterwards. It feels like a lifetime has passed.
She finishes cleaning up in silence, numb now, spent now, focusing on the task in hand and nothing else. She turns off the light and climbs the stairs, her legs dragging on every step. She undresses and brushes her teeth and washes her face, avoiding the mirror that would be no friend to her tonight.
She pulls open drawers. She finds his postcards and his letters and his photos. She rips them up, every one. She piles them into the bathroom sink, and puts a match to them. Afterwards she washes away the remains and scrubs the sink clean.
She slips off the white-gold ring with the aquamarine stone that he gave her, a week after she agreed to try again. She’ll take it to a charity shop on Monday. She’ll tell them it’s worth a bit, and not to let it go too cheap.
She takes out the box with her engagement ring inside. Imagine if she’d married him, and then found out – because she would have found out, sometime – that he was in love with another woman. She closes the box and places it in her handbag. She’ll call to his mother in a few days and ask her to return it to him. Sarah will be upset and embarrassed to see her, but there is nothing Emily can do about that.
In bed she tries to sleep, and fails. She’ll have to tell everyone, her parents, Daniel, her friends. They’ll all be very sympathetic, and they’ll try not to look satisfied that they were proved right, and she’ll try to pretend she doesn’t see it.
She won’t be moving to Dublin. She won’t be selling the restaurant. It’s a good thing, she knows that. It’s the one positive thing to come out of this – but for now, the knowledge brings her no solace at all.
She’ll never trust a man again. She’ll never fall in love again, never know the joy of children. She’ll live alone, grow old alone.
She endures the endless, unbearable night, tearful and miserable. Her eyes smart with weariness, her head aches with it, and still her brain refuses to allow sleep. At first light she leaves her bed, an hour earlier than her normal rising time, and goes down to let in
Barney.
‘I’ve been very stupid,’ she tells him, but he burrows his head in his food bowl and ignores her. She showers and dresses, choosing a pair of soft grey chinos and a loose pink shirt. Comfort clothes. She boils the kettle and makes tea, and then finds herself unable to drink it. She sits at the upstairs window for a while as the morning gets underway in the street.
Back in the restaurant kitchen she starts her bread. Granary and dark rye loaves today, to accompany the pumpkin and spicy chicken soups on the menu. Life goes on. Each time the memory of last night’s bombshell hits her – and it keeps hitting her – she wants to curl in a tight ball and cry some more. She thinks of Astrid too, but is afraid to ring the hospital for fear of what she might hear. She can’t take more bad news.
While the dough is proving she washes her hands and returns upstairs. It’s still too early to go to the nursing home. She stretches out on the couch, afraid to close her eyes in case sleep comes – and Barney hops onto her stomach and settles there, purring. Does he know? Can he tell that her world has tumbled over again? She strokes his soft coat; he nuzzles into her palm. He knows.
At length she lifts him off and gets her jacket and sets out. Her eyes burn with tiredness, her bones ache with it. She thinks of seeing Bill again. What will he say? How will he be when they’re face to face?
He’s not there. ‘You just missed him,’ the receptionist tells her. ‘He went home sick, ten or fifteen minutes ago.’
Bill, sick too. Coming on top of Fergal’s treachery and the news of Astrid, this is a fresh and most unwelcome blow. ‘Do you have his address? It’s very important that I speak to him.’
‘I’m sorry.’ She doesn’t look sorry. ‘We can’t give out that information.’
‘How about his phone number then? Can you let me have that at least?’
‘I’m not supposed to—’
‘Oh please. It’s really important. A friend of ours has been in an accident. I have to tell him – he needs to know.’
The number is handed over, grudgingly. Emily thanks her and leaves the building. She calls him and gets no answer. Three times she tries, and three times it rings and rings and eventually goes to his voicemail. On her third attempt she leaves a message. ‘Bill, it’s Emily. I have news about Astrid. Please give me a call.’ So much else she wants to say, to ask, but it’s not the time for that.
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