These little gifts were given on the annual day of romance in the hope that Jess would use her feminine wiles to maximum capacity in order to seduce a doctor or solicitor or some such other professional.
Marian Baré, you see, suffered from delusions of grandeur. She herself was married to a carpet layer and there was absolutely nothing wrong with that, in Jess’s opinion. Her dad was a hard worker who had always provided for his girls, as he liked to call his wife, Jess, and her younger sister Kelly.
As the years had passed, however, and she had unwrapped yet another lacy thong, her mother had abruptly changed tack.
“Jessica, your father and I would be just as happy if you married a tradesman, you know. They make good providers and they’re practical. That’s so important, sweetheart; I mean, a man needs to know how to unblock a toilet or change a light bulb. Look at how your father’s always looked after us.” Marian’s voice softened as she thought about her obliging hubby Frank but then she’d gotten back to the matter at hand. “Speaking of whom, your father was saying the other day that the firm’s just taken on a new apprentice. He’s only a year or two younger than you, which is nothing when you think of Catherine Zeta and Michael, so perhaps Dad could arrange for you...”
“No way! I am not desperate, Mum, and I haven’t forgotten that awful Jeremy you got him to set me up with last time! And since when were you on a first name basis with members of the Hollywood A-list?”
“Don’t be clever, Jessica; it doesn’t suit you. Your problem, my girl, is that you’re too fussy for your own good because there was absolutely nothing wrong with poor Jeremy that a dab of antiseptic cream on his spots wouldn’t have sorted out.”
“Yeah, and a bottle of mouthwash, a deodorant, anti-dandruff shampoo, and soap for that matter. Personal hygiene issues aside, Mum, in case you haven’t noticed, we do not live in the 1950s anymore. I don’t need a man to be happy. I have a career of my own, from which I gain plenty of personal satisfaction, thank you very much.” Actually, now that she thought back on it, she had sounded a tad “And I am off to get a crew cut and stop shaving under my arms.” No wonder her mother had begun to narrow her eyes whenever her girlfriends popped around after that little statement.
At the time, though, she had merely reiterated, “Yes, sweetheart, and we are very proud of you. That’s why we put you through university but a job won’t keep you warm at night, will it? Why can’t you have both? Lots of women work and maintain a relationship. I mean, I’ve hardly sat on my backside all these years, now have I?”
God. She was so frustrating and probably the main reason Jess thanked her lucky stars for her UK ancestry, which meant she could live and work on the other side of the world from her! She flatly refused to refer to her daughter’s chosen line of work as a journalist as a career. It was always referred to as a job—a means to an end until something better came along: aka, a man. Jess gritted her teeth in anticipation, knowing what was coming next and she was proved right.
“Jessica, all your father and I want for you is to find someone to settle down with like your sister has. That’s not too much to ask for, surely?”
It irked Jess the way she always included her father in the equation. It wasn’t him who put the pressure on her to get a ring on her finger at every opportunity. And, at the very mention of Kelly, she rolled her eyes. Married she may be but did it count if it were to a Martian? Okay, so he wasn’t green but he was odd and he wasn’t very attractive and she had no idea how her sister actually managed to have sex with him but she obviously did—and quite often, too, judging by their numerous offspring. Who, if she were being honest, were complete and utter little shites. Although as their aunt, she obviously loved her pretentious eight-year-old niece Mia, know-it-all six-year-old Bella, bossy four-year-old Ethan, and of course she couldn’t forget her three-year-old tearaway nephew, Elliot, who still wasn’t properly toilet trained. Nor could she forget the incident whereby he’d wet himself all over her favourite velvet Balenciaga skirt the last time she had been home. She had picked up the vintage skirt for an absolute steal on one of her op-shop forays and it would now forever bear the mark of her nephew. Kelly had tried to appease her by saying that he only peed on people he felt comfortable around. She’d tried to convince her sister that really, she should be pleased because despite his having not seen his aunt since he was six months old, he obviously had a soft spot for her. Jess was too busy wiping at the wet spot he’d left on her lap to care.
Suffice to say she loved them all but she loved them even more from afar. Which was why she had left behind her gigs writing a weekly column about Auckland’s movers and shakers—she refused to call it a gossip column—along with the regular trickle of commissioned work that had started to come her way as she carved a name for herself to inadvertently flee to the Emerald Isle in the first place.
Now that she thought about it, her mother never said much when she made reference to her brother-in-law hailing from the red planet. Jess reckoned this was because deep down she secretly agreed with her but the fact Brian was something or other high up in the world of banking was all the compensation she needed.
There was no doubt about it; Marian Baré was a snob, she reflected fondly. Though where it stemmed from, Jess had no idea because it really wasn’t in keeping with her South Auckland upbringing or her parents’ current suburban address of Hillsborough in Auckland. It may well have straddled the more fashionable Mt Eden, as Marian liked to point out whenever she got a chance, but their three-bedroomed brick and tile still firmly had its foundations dug into Hillsborough.
Then there was the thing with their surname. Whenever anybody pronounced it as the rather blunt “Bare,” Jess was instantly reminded of that old TV show Keeping up Appearances. The one where Hyacinth Bucket always insisted her name was actually Bouquet. It’s not Bear, thank you very much; there is an accented ‘e’ on the end. Beret, dahling; it’s Beret.
“Your sister’s making noises about having a fifth baby, you know,” she announced during one of their last cosy mother-and-daughter transatlantic chats.
“More fool her; then she’ll be run ragged.” This wasn’t true. Kelly was not averse to getting their Mum, the world’s most devoted grandmother, to help out and she would be in her element with another baby. She was a proper earthmother, which to Jess’s mind simply meant not wearing makeup, not getting one’s hair done, and talking about nothing else other than your boobs and your baby’s bowel motions, both of which her sister majored in.
“All I am saying is that your eggs are a-cooking, Jessica Jane, and once they’re fried—no matter what these medical experts say—there is no turning back the clock. Surely there must be some eligible men in Dublin. Isn’t it choc-a-block with famous musicians and actors? We don’t want any more of your wounded birds, mind.”
What was it with her mother and all things avian? Jess had sighed. “All I will say with regards to my eggs, Mother, is that I am quite partial to the odd fried egg despite their being high in cholesterol and that four, possibly five grandchildren, in an overpopulated world is enough for anybody. Stop being so bloody greedy! As for your reference to Irish men, think about the Corrs—three beautiful girls to one unattractive male. And for your information, so far as wounded birds go, I do not always date men with problems.”
“Yes, you do. What about that Peter—the one who didn’t know whether he liked Arthur or Martha?”
She cringed. Typical, making her relieve that painful memory. It had been said more than once that she had a tendency to gravitate toward the problematic members of the male species and there was the teensiest grain of truth in that, she supposed, given her dodgy track record. Peter had issues over his sexuality and she’d been convinced she would be the one to help him make his mind up one way or another but apparently not—he’d dumped her for his mate Matthew. Then there had been Simon, whose parents had divorced when he was a child and their ensuing bitter custody battle had left him damaged goods. Paul had fol
lowed shortly after. His former fiancée had cheated on him and he was mistrustful of the female species to the point of obsession. A stalker was born.
She’d thought she was on to a winner with Andrew the lawyer and last man she had dated, though. Christ, for a girl who didn’t attend church, she was following a bit of a biblical theme here. Marian had gone into a rapturous state when she’d mentioned what he did for a living to her but well-paid job or not, he’d managed, after only three dates, to put her off the opposite sex for a good long while. For starters, he began their every conversation with, “Well, if you want to know what I think.” She didn’t but he wasn’t very good at reading body language, i.e., rolling her eyes. However, the real clincher had come when he asked as they got amorous on her couch one evening whether she had any objection to being dominated in the bedroom. The penny dropped as to what the handcuffs she had seen on his back seat were actually for—not for restraining his criminal clients on the way to court after all.
Marian had derailed her train of thought.
“If like you say, Jessica, and the odds are really not in your favour, then you should come home. I’ll say no more on the subject.”
If only she would say no more, Jess had thought. Frustratingly, she refused to entertain the idea that perhaps her daughter was happy in her life and that maybe, just maybe, she didn’t want to hear the pitter-patter of little feet in her future and that maybe, just maybe, she was managing quite nicely without a man.
Jess shook the spectre of Marian Baré away and, kicking off her slippers, she went in search of a pair of trainers.
Chapter Two
Jess didn’t own a car. There really wasn’t much need for one when she could walk nearly everywhere in the city. Besides, Dublin’s roads were congested enough without her adding to the problem. Not to mention the fact her budget didn’t stretch to paying for a permanent car parking space in Riverside’s underground garaging. She’d soon learnt on arriving in the city that she could get to wherever she needed to be faster on foot than she could in a car or on public transport, especially come rush hour, and it kept her relatively fit at the same time. As for all the carbon monoxide fumes she breathed in every time she marched down the Quays—well, the Chinese had it right with those masks they wore but she herself was far too vain to do a Michael Jackson.
Slamming the main doors of Riverside Apartments shut behind her, she stared for a moment at the steady flow of cars. Some had people half hanging out the windows, waving flags. Obviously victorious after the morning’s football match, she thought before setting off at a steady pace along pavements that had seen better days. Her new trainers were almost neon in their whiteness and she hoped they wouldn’t give her blisters as she passed under the shadow of the domineering Four Courts building. The bodies of those who partook of the hard stuff and slept rough in the building’s grand entrance way had all shuffled off for the day. All except for one chap who was still huddled under his grey greatcoat. Jess paused; it was so sad to see—with all that grey, he blended into his surrounds. Most passers-by wouldn’t even notice him. Rummaging in her bag, she found what she was after and stuffed a tenner into the bag that lay open next to him. She hoped he’d use it to buy breakfast and not his next fix.
A Saturday afternoon stroll down the Quays was usually a much more relaxed affair than an early morning weekday one when the traffic was at its worst. Once, she’d almost been knocked down by a car mounting the pavement in an effort to get out of the way of an ambulance. The emergency vehicle had been trying to manoeuvre through the middle of the two-lane traffic on a road that had originally been designed for a horse and cart. After she’d gotten over her fright, she’d fervently hoped that she was never in a position where she needed help in a hurry.
Reaching the Ha’Penny Bridge in good time, Jess rocked from foot to foot as she waited her turn to cross over to the Southside. Even from that distance, she could see that the bridge was thronging with its usual horde of both tourists and what her mother would call ne’er-do-wells. He was there in his usual spot, too, she thought, wrinkling her nose as she spied the chap with the gingery dreadlocks sitting on his piece of cardboard. His back was pressed up against the iron railings and he was decked out in what some might call an alternative and others might call the wastrel uniform of army fatigues and Doc Marten boots.
In the past, she’d always done her bit for him—flicking a couple of euros into the tin cup he’d hold out whilst worrying about the likelihood of his getting piles sitting so close to the ground like that. That was until the day she’d spotted him fine dining in the latest hip little French bistro to open up in Dublin with a lady friend. So much for on the bones of his arse—he was creaming it! Jess shot him a disgusted look as she marched past, carrying on to her destination of Tara Street Station.
THE TRAIN DIDN’T KEEP her waiting long and she settled back to enjoy the short ride. This was her favourite route on the Dart and not just for the scenery but for the celebrity spotting, too. She was busy trying to spot signs of life down in U2’s The Edge’s pink house. It resplendently perched on the rocks overlooking the sea but she was distracted by the couple sitting across from her. Neither looked to be the full packet of biscuits, Jess concluded, giving the woman’s frumpy floral, nylon housecoat the once-over. Her legs were splayed in that slightly apart stance of the chubbily well-blessed and her greasy, grey hair was short and to the point. Hubby looked like he would be called Errol and he was in a brown suit. There was no need for him to stand up for Jess to know it would be an ill-fitting one. He had an impressive comb-over going on, too, which was presently flapping up and down as his wife gave him a couple of slaps about the ear-hole before calling him a “Fecking Eejit.”
Jess sighed happily; she did so love Dublin public transport theatre. It was great fodder for her column—a Kiwi girl’s take on life in Ireland’s capital. Take, for instance, the occasions when she caught the bus. The harried housewives travelling on it seemed to incorporate the word “fecking” into every sentence, pausing momentarily in their cussing to cross themselves as they passed by St Patrick’s Cathedral.
Now, though, the husband beater turned toward her and muttered something about, “Fecking useless eejits.” This was Jess’s cue to smile in polite agreement with her before averting her gaze back out the window. Dublin public transport theatre was all well and good so long as she wasn’t on the receiving end of it.
The waves below the tracks were crashing onto the rocks but even on a grey day, the view from the train’s smeared window was a stunning one as it hugged the rugged coastline. As they neared Enya’s castle, which wasn’t really a castle but an impressively purposely-built pile of rocks, Jess risked a glance over to her right. She always hoped to spot the singer wandering ethereally around the grounds in a billowing white dress. She refused to believe that she was more likely to be decked out in jeans and a sweatshirt, pulling weeds or hanging out her washing like every other mere mortal. There was no sign of Enya today and catching the husband beater’s eye, Jess swiftly returned her gaze to the sea and shuddered. God, she hoped she didn’t wind up like her. Still, at least the woman had a husband whereas she was well on her way to spinsterdom. She’d really have to help herself and get out and about more.
Nora was forever offering to escort her along to various speed-dating events or 90s Dance Revival nights at her local pub but it was all a bit of an effort these days—putting on her glad rags, only to be jostled back and forth in a crowed pub. Or, if the lights were dim enough, being chatted up by cubs in search of a bit of cougar action. It was enough to make a girl feel cheap!
Not Nora, though. No, Nora was blatantly proactive in her search for a mate. Her pretty soft blonde, blue-eyed features, breathy Monroe voice, and petite build all combined to give men the false impression that here was a woman who was in dire need of their protection. However, having clawed her way up the professional ladder into a high-flying career in cinema management, Nora was in actual fact what you
could call a strong woman. Or, to put it more plainly, she had a tendency to frighten men off with her “say it like she saw it” manner because they never saw it coming.
Brianna and Jess had referred to their friend fondly as the Praying Mantis—an insect who bites the head off its mate after sex—ever since the night they’d first borne witness to Nora in all her glory.
The three women had been propping the bar up in some pub buried deep in the cobbled zone of Temple Bar when a chap had bravely stepped forth from the crowd and offered to buy Nora a drink. She’d acquiesced like the Queen accepting a bouquet of flowers from a commoner by going on to order the most expensive drink on the menu. She’d then delved deep into her handbag and just when the girls thought she would never come up for air, she’d resurfaced, waving a business card as if she had won the lotto. It wasn’t just any business card, mind; oh no, it belonged to her dental hygienist.
“She’ll sort your halitosis out lickety-split, love,” she’d told the poor sod, placing it in his shirt pocket before accepting the drink he proffered and cheerily raising her glass.
Brianna, by contrast, reminded Jess of Bambi. She was pretty and sweet of nature yet tall and gangly and her bobbed chocolate hair and big round brown eyes suited her perfectly. Her olive skin colouring was most definitely that of her ancestors—the Celts. Brianna was also the first of the trio to say “I do” to anything other than the offer of a drink and for the past seven years, she had been happily married to Pete, who was both big and burly and loved the bones off her.
Five years ago, Harry had arrived in the world and while his mother professed that he drove her potty, he was a child Jess actually did really like. He was by no means saintly—as Brianna often attested—but he had such of sense of fun, not to mention a penchant for makeup. He was a veritable magpie where cosmetics were concerned and when his two spinster aunties, Jess and Nora, weren’t spoiling the little boy rotten, they were keeping a tight hold of their makeup bags. “He’ll grow out of it, Brie,” Jess had assured her the last time he had been caught red-handed literally with her new Bobbi Brown lippy. “Honestly, my nephew used to do some unspeakable things.”
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