by Maggie Finn
He looked indulgently at Caroline. Clearly, they had already discussed this.
‘But London?’ said Sean, ‘If we’re such a global business, why can’t we do it remotely?’
Sean’s father pointed at him. ‘Hit the nail on the head, son.’
‘And that’s why you’re going,’ said Caroline.
Sean looked back and forth between them, a feeling of dread running up his throat.
‘Me?’
‘Yes, you. You’re to go on over to London, set up our office, recruit designers and a manager, get it all running smoothly.’
‘But I don’t want to live in London.’
‘You won’t, at least not permanently,’ said Caroline. ‘Just as long as it takes to get set up – that’s your incentive, I suppose.’
Sean felt his heart hammering in his chest.
‘Dad, you knew about this?’
Caroline raised her eyebrows.
‘It was his idea.’
‘What?’
Aiden nodded.
‘And you didn’t think to ask me? What is this, an ambush?’
He stood up, scraping his chair across the distressed floorboards. The waitress looked up in surprise.
‘Tell Maurice thanks for the soup,’ he said to her, throwing his napkin down on his chair. ‘It was perfect as always.’
And he stalked out the door. How dare they? Treat him like some errant child who needs to be sent away to boarding school for their own good? It was as if his surfing was some sort of moral failing requiring a family intervention. What about Caroline and her addiction to work? He strode away from the restaurant across a stretch of open grass to the edge of the cliffs, the sea breeze whipping his tie.
My, but wasn’t that the view. Three, four miles of coastline plunging in and out of the green water like a serpent, the shining slate its scales, the jagged granite its claws. Even if he never picked up a surfboard again, Sean knew he needed to be close to this magnificent place. He’d happily stay on dry land of the rest of his days, as long as he was allowed to watch the waves break against these dark rocks. Where would he get such a thrill in London? The Thames?
But the sea wasn’t the only reason he wanted to stay, was it? He thought of Molly, the fire in those green eyes as she yelled at him. Sean shook his head sadly.
‘She’s a beauty, isn’t she?’
Sean turned. The wind had masked his father’s approach.
‘Aye, she is,’ said Sean. His father meant the view, Sean meant both.
‘Your mother used to bring you here, do you remember?’
‘I used to pretend I was a commando storming the beaches, using pebbles as grenades.’
Aiden nodded. ‘Good times. But you’re not a young lad any more, Sean, you can’t just run and play.’
His anger rose again.
‘You talk as if I’m some sort of Eurotrash playboy hanging around on a yacht in Marbella. I have a job and I work hard, I’ve barely taken a day off in the past two years because we’ve been so busy and I take pride in getting the projects in on time. I know Caroline thinks I lack ambition, but that doesn’t mean I’m a slacker. In fact, I’ve had two other companies try to poach me.’
Aiden looked at him, his grey eyes serious.
‘Is that a threat?’
‘What? No! The point is I’m as committed to the success of WestTec as Caroline, but that doesn’t mean I want to move to London just because the two of you have decided that’s the smart move.’
‘Okay, so we shouldn’t have just dropped it on you, that’s fair. But this is about the family, Sean.’
‘We’ve done our best to keep the business strong, Dad.’
‘Yes, and you’ve done a fine job. But Caroline’s right, we have to keep moving forward or everyone will just run past us.’
‘Sure, but can’t we do that here? If the business is digital, then it doesn’t matter if we’re in Kilmara or Kazakhstan.’
Aiden put a hand on Sean’s shoulder.
‘I didn’t say this was about the business, Sean. I said it was about the family. It’s about Caroline and you. Particularly you.’
‘Me?’
He turned to look into his dad’s face.
‘You have so much potential, Sean. You’re a great designer, sure, but you’re so much more than that. You have big ideas, you see clever ways to make things work – and you’re a natural leader. That office would follow you anywhere.’
‘Well, all that’s flattering, but it doesn’t change anything. If Caroline has some crazy dream of expanding the business to London, she can go and I’ll run the office here.’
Aiden’s smile faded.
‘We both know she can’t, Sean.’
‘Why not?’
‘You know why not.’
Sean turned back to the view.
‘Dad, it’s been six years,’ he said, ‘You can’t keep babying her. Caro’s all grown up, and she’s grown into a Rottweiler.’
Aiden nodded.
‘I know. Or rather I know that’s what she wants people to believe – but we both know that underneath that business suit, it’s a different story.’
‘You don’t see her in the office, Dad. She says “jump”, everyone jumps. They don’t wait to hear how high.’
His father smiled.
‘And I’m sure she runs a tight ship, but without you, do you think any of it would work?’
‘Dad…’
‘How many times have you known Caroline to take meetings without you? How many times has she wined and dined potential clients?’
Sean thought about it. And the answer was ‘none’. Sean was the charmer, the people-person. Caroline was too caustic to let loose on clients. Not unless they were late with their payments.
Aiden gave a sad smile.
‘Caroline is fine as long as she stays where she feels safe. But London, Sean? It’s too much.’
‘She’s a grown-up, Dad.’
‘She’s ill, Sean.’
Sean nodded. He’d been on holiday when the message first came. It was his Dad, he said Sean needed to get home as soon as possible. Sean had, of course, assumed it was mum, that she had taken a turn for the worse. But it wasn’t mum, it was Caroline. Malaria, Dad had said at first, brought back from one of her trips to Cambodia or Vietnam. Then he’d said it was ‘exhaustion’, then ‘nerves’. Sean liked to think it was a combination of all three; a mental breakdown brought on by infection and physical depletion. Either way, the bright shiny Caroline who’d left Ireland at 19 never really returned. Hindsight was a wonderful thing, but the six months she spent in a psychiatric hospital reminiscent of One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest made matters worse not better. And Da… well, he was already struggling with watching his wife scooped out from the inside like a boiled egg.
Giving the business over to the kids hadn’t been entirely about freeing Da to look after his ailing wife. Partly, yes, but mainly it was about Caroline’s rehabilitation, about giving her a purpose.
‘And that’s why I need you to take the lead on this,’ said Aiden.
Sean lifted his arms and dropped them in frustration.
‘Dad, I’m happy here.’ He pointed toward the beach far below.
‘Look at that view. That’s what I want. A simple life. Remember that picture you used to have on your desk? You and mum sitting outside our cottage, me and Lino playing marbles on the path?’
Aiden nodded, his smile returning. ‘We didn’t have much, but we had each other.’
‘See? That’s what I want. I don’t want to be standing in some hi-tech office in Tokyo with an Aston Martin in the garage. I want to be sitting in the garden with my own family. A wife and kids and – my own cottage.’
His father gave him a shrewd look.
‘A wife, now? Is that what this is about? A girl?’
He looked at his father. ‘No. No, it’s not. I wish it was, but no.’
‘So what’s stopping you?’
Aiden put an
arm around Sean’s broad shoulders. ‘Listen Sean, you talk about having your own family, but that’s what this is about. Family. The family you have right now. We need you, son.’
‘And what about what I need?’
‘Well then, you have to choose. Between family and your own needs. Between doing what you think you want and what’s right.’
Sean thought of Molly. Was she really what he wanted? He’d been so sure, but this morning… well it didn’t seem like she agreed. So maybe his dad was right. What was stopping him? He let out a long breath.
‘When do I need to start?’ he asked.
His father grinned and pulled him into a hug.
‘The end of the month.’
Aiden turned and raised a hand toward the sea.
‘And don’t worry son. It’s not forever – and this view will still be here next summer.’
Chapter Seven
This was ridiculous. Molly stood in the street, looking at the front door of the restaurant. The smart, grown-up thing to do would be to go inside, shake hands with him, smile and say, “How have you been, Marcus?” “Good to see you, Marcus”.
Instead, Molly was as nervous as a spooked pony, wavering between bolting back to the train station and running the other way entirely.
For a moment, Molly even thought of ringing her mother, but it had been her mother who had given her the idea of calling Marcus in the first place and Audra certainly would have given short shrift to the idea of being anxious about meeting any man, especially an ex-boyfriend like Marcus.
‘Be brave, Molly,’ she whispered to herself, forcing her feet to move, crossing the road and pushing the big door. ‘It’s just Marcus.’
The trouble was that wasn’t true, not any more. Marcus Colfer had been her boyfriend, but Marcus Colfer was now practically a celebrity. In the past three years, he had risen from being the head chef at Dublin’s hottest new restaurant to near-cult status, having opened three more high-end eateries and published a best-selling cookbook. No, Marcus wasn’t just Marcus anymore. He was a brand.
‘Molly.’
She turned. Molly hadn’t recognized him at first; hadn’t expected him to be standing by the door – and hadn’t expected him to look so good, either. The Marcus Molly had known had been edgy and cool, his hair shaggy, his dark eyes peeking out from his fringe; off-duty, he’d worn washed-out band T-shirts and scuffed Converse. This Marcus was styled and groomed, his hair slick, a crisp shirt and blazer making him look older, more assured. Which, she supposed, he was.
‘Marcus,’ said Molly, leaning in for an air-kiss. ‘You look amazing.’
‘So do you, Mol,’ he said, meeting her gaze. ‘So do you.’
For a moment, Molly was transported back to a night in Marcus’s flat, those same eyes lit by candles liberated from the restaurant; he’d taken her hands and promised they’d always stay the same. But people changed, didn’t they? And so did their lives.
‘Come in, come in,’ he said suddenly, ‘I’m amazed you haven’t been over before.’
The Line was the top restaurant in Kilmara, not that there was much competition aside from the Watch House on the headland back toward Port Quinn. The money men who had bankrolled the Marcus Colfer projects in Dublin were clearly banking on Kilmara becoming another foodie destination – and on Marcus becoming a household name. They’d certainly sunk a sizeable chunk into the décor. The ceiling was double height with a sculpted glass chandelier hanging above three dozen oval tables, the design sumptuous and grand, with textured wallpaper, gold filigree and modernist art.
Marcus led Molly to one of the booths, finished in dark wood and soft red leather, and she perched on the edge awkwardly, feeling like an imposter. Not only was Molly barely one payment away from bankruptcy, she was far more comfortable on the other side of the swinging doors, hidden away in the kitchens. Polished silver and starched linen were for the diners, not the chef.
‘Well, this is all very impressive,’ said Molly. ‘It’s good to see you…’
She was about to say ‘good to see you doing so well’, but Marcus reached out and put his hand over hers.
‘It’s good to see you too, Mol,’ he said. ‘It probably sounds weird, because, well… you know, but I’ve really missed you.’
Molly gave a thin smile. The appropriate response here was ‘I’ve missed you too’, but she stopped herself. Yes, she had missed him. At the start, she’d missed him so much it had hurt. She’d be standing at the wonky counter in the café kneading the morning bread and only realize she was weeping when her tears dropped into the flour. But that had been two years ago – more – and day by day, the pain had retreated until it had mostly gone away. Mostly.
‘I was so glad to get your message,’ said Marcus, filling the silence. ‘Actually, ever since we started talking about opening a restaurant out here on the coast, I’ve been thinking about you, hoping you’d get in touch.’
‘You knew I was here?’ said Molly in surprise.
Marcus laughed.
‘You only left Dublin, Molly. You didn’t go into the witness protection plan. I googled you,’ he smiled. ‘I saw the press stuff when you opened your place in Clover Cove.’
‘Ah.’
The mention of the café made her heart jump. Here was Marcus wearing a blazer, surrounded by polished silver and expensive-looking lamps and there was Molly, bent over a mountain of receipts, on the brink of losing everything. And of course, the café was why she was here, hoping and praying that Marcus would help. Because the Lord knew he owed her something.
‘You know what?’ said Marcus. ‘I’ve only just thought: you had your own place before I did.’
Molly nodded at the chandelier.
‘Not quite on the same scale though.’
‘Sure, we’re doing well right now, but it can all turn around like that,’ – he clicked his fingers – ‘It’s a tricky business, restaurants. But then I don’t need to tell you that.’
Molly looked at him. Had he already heard something? Did he know the café was in trouble? Was Mr Bower his bank manager too? But then she realized Marcus was looking at her with admiration.
‘You did so well to come out here on your own. I’m so proud of you, Molly. Remember how we always said we’d both have our own restaurants by the time we were thirty?’
She did. It had been one of the things that had attracted her to Marcus back in those early days; his ambition and his energy. He had always been focused on getting out of the clanking furnace of the kitchen and out into the dining room – or beyond.
‘Well, you’ve got four restaurants with your name on,’ said Molly, trying to keep the mood light. ‘That beats my little café.’
Marcus shook his head. ‘Not really. It’s my name etched on the window, but it’s someone else’s money, someone else’s business plan. I just create the menus. I don’t have a bean of my own.’
She looked at him and he shrugged.
‘Rented flat, leased car, everything else on expenses through the company – and I have to justify every taxi receipt to the directors. Four restaurants, Mol: we’re up to our eyeballs in debt.’
‘Gosh,’ she said, doing her best to hide her disappointment, ‘I thought you’d be rolling in it. Didn’t you get a big advance for that cookbook?’
‘PR spin. I suppose I’ll see a few Euros if it sells a million though, so make sure you buy one for your mam for Christmas. How is she, by the way?’
‘Fine. The same. Still fighting the good fight.’
Marcus looked down at the table, picked some fluff from the cloth.
‘I’m glad someone has stuck to their principles.’
She gave him a sideways look, a hair’s breadth away from digging it all up again. But she bit it back, because needed him.
Principles. Marcus Colfer might not have principles, but he had cash – or he knew people who did. And without money, Molly’s Café would go under. So she kept quiet; just like she had three years ago, when Marcu
s had taken everything from her.
‘Are you hungry?’ asked Marcus as a waitress walked over with a quizzical look.
Molly raised her eyebrows.
‘Are you offering to cook?’
‘Uh-uh. Don’t have time for that anymore.’
‘Really? That’s a shame.’ And this time Molly meant it. For all his faults, for all their history, Marcus was a great chef. If some people were said to have ‘green fingers’ in the garden, Marcus had the same thing in the kitchen. Fish, meat, sauces, he could take the simplest things and somehow make them sing. What Marcus lacked was creativity: and that’s where Molly had come in. Whereas Marcus was technically brilliant, Molly had a true flair for putting ingredients together, for instinctively knowing what flavors would complement and color each other, for combining taste and texture and, if she said so herself, spectacle. Together, they had spent months experimenting in the Biblio kitchen and together, they had created the menu. Together, they had built something special. Until Marcus had taken it all and ran.
‘So you never get your hands dirty?’
‘When I’m in Dublin, sometimes,’ said Marcus with a hint of regret. ‘The high-rollers who buy the thousand-Euro wine, they like to see me to walk the floor in my whites, they like to shake my hand – but it doesn’t happen that often. You know what I did on Wednesday? I flew to out to Sweden. I was on the first plane out, had a lunch meeting in Stockholm, then flew back that afternoon. I was so tired I fell asleep in the limo.’
Molly laughed.
‘You make it sound so boring.’
‘Oh I know, there’s worse ways to make a living,’ he smiled. ‘But I envy you, Molly. You’re doing it for real. Buying all your own ingredients, prepping everything, cooking every dish by hand and you’re seeing the reactions of the covers first hand. You’re connected to the food.’
She smirked.
‘And I’m connected to the washing up, too.’
It seemed strange that Marcus Colfer, the hottest chef in Ireland was envious of her, but then she supposed everyone wanted what they didn’t have. The grass was always greener and all that.