The selection is always the same: egg and cress or ham salad. Neither seems appealing and as I pick up the sad-looking ham salad I turn and bump into Dermot. The sandwich is crushed between us and as we step away from each other it drops to the floor.
We both bend down to pick it up at the same time and knock heads together.
“I really don’t want the sandwich that much,” I say as I rub my head.
“Yeah, I feel like these are the sandwiches you buy when you hate yourself. If you’re not too attached to that selection then I know a much less depressing place round the corner.”
“If you don’t like this place, then what are you doing here?”
“I don’t like the sandwiches, but they’re the only place around here that do the crisps I like. I’m quite the crisp connoisseur.”
I eye him dubiously but agree to go with him to get a better sandwich.
We arrive at a narrow café, with the walls covered in black paint. Upon closer inspection I realise it’s blackboard paint and people have doodled, written and basically put their mark all over the place. I smile at the quirkiness of it and eye the specials board.
I settle on an Italian chicken ciabatta roll and perch myself on a stool by the window while I wait for Dermot to finish talking to one of the women behind the counter.
They laugh together and seem like old friends. Each time he laughs I notice the dimples on his cheeks and the laughter lines around his eyes. He has a kind face and his brown hair has been ruffled with the wind. He runs his fingers through it as he talks and I realise that it’s a clear sign he’s flirting. She seems to reciprocate as she smiles eagerly back and pats his hand when she gives him back his change.
As he walks towards me he raises his eyebrows and smiles.
“I’m in there,” he says. “I’ve been trying to get her attention for weeks and the first day I come in with another woman, she finally gives me the time of day. You’re my good luck charm.”
“There you go, I’m an expert wing-woman and I didn’t even have to try. This is a nice place.”
“Isn’t it? I’ve a bit of a share in it,” he replies as he looks around, appreciatively.
I laugh at the joke but when I look back at him I realise he’s not joking.
“You have a share in this place? How did that happen?”
“I’m a secret millionaire; I just do this ‘nine to five’ malarkey to keep me grounded.”
“Ah. Quick question: are you ever serious?”
“I actively try not to be. Nah, unfortunately I’m not minted. When my parents died they left my sister and me a bitta money. This is her place; I just gave her my half so she could get started.”
“That was generous of you.”
“I think so. It’s going towards my sainthood application. That and I get to seem super nice to the wait staff so I can try it on with them. Good plan, eh?”
“I feel like that’s verging on sexual harassment,” I tease.
“I like my version of my character better than the way you categorise it. Anyway, even though I’m the nicest brother on the planet, she still won’t stock my favourite crisps. Apparently they don’t ‘fit’ with the aesthetics of the place. Have you ever heard such nonsense?”
Our conversation is interrupted by the waitress bringing over our food. She smiles at Dermot once again and nearly drops my plate off the side of the table.
I manage to catch it before gravity takes over but half the side salad ends up on the floor. She doesn’t notice and continues to smile at Dermot before turning around and going back behind the counter.
“That’s ok, I don’t really like salad anyway,” I smile.
“Shit, do you want me to bring it back and get you more?” he asks.
“No, no, it’s fine. Maybe fancy someone who can multitask a bit better next time though?”
“You can toast us with this story at our wedding,” he replies, wistfully.
“Your wedding? Ok, what’s her name?”
“I want to say ‘Lorna’?”
I roll my eyes and tuck into my sandwich while he tells me more about how he helped his sister set up the café. The blackboard walls were his idea. They named it Scarborough Fair after their mother’s favourite song and I agreed that it was a sweet gesture.
After we finish our food, he takes our plates and leaves them at the counter and gives a sly wink to the waitress.
As we walk back to the office I tell him about my sister’s wedding and organising the hen party.
“Friends of mine run a murder mystery event in that fancy hotel across town,” he says. “It’s always a hit with hen parties – that’s if you fancy doing something a bit different and not the usual penis parade stuff.”
“I don’t think inflatable penis’ are really my sister’s idea of a good time. She’s the one with taste so maybe doing something quirky in a classy place will earn me some extra brownie points.”
“I’ll email over the details when we’re back,” he replies. “But if you’re in need of an emergency stripper then you should contact Henry, I hear he moonlights as one.”
My stomach turns at the thought of having any more dealings with Henry but I try to laugh along with Dermot.
“Ah, come on, I know it wasn’t my best work but don’t gimme the pity laugh.”
“True,” I agree. “You deserve better than that.”
“Dermot Loher will not have a woman faking it.”
I leave him and his innuendos at my office door while I head back inside feeling much lighter in my brain thanks to a lunchtime well spent.
He stays true to his word and sends me the information for the murder mystery. I take advantage of the quiet afternoon and book the event for two weeks’ time. I send a quick text message to Siobhan letting her know the date and asking her to send me the final names of those she wants to come so I can send them the details.
I refuse to tell her what we’re doing and ignore her repeated requests for more information. I feel smug knowing that I’ve done well in picking this for the party and I’m positive that Siobhan will love it. She’s a huge fan of vintage fashion.
According to the website, the event requires those taking part to come dressed with a Great Gatsby vibe in mind. This will go over well with Siobhan and that’s the only extra information I will give her.
By the time I get home from work she has sent me several text messages guessing what we are doing – none of which are correct.
She hands me the guest list and I log onto my computer to send them all friend requests from my neglected Facebook account.
Most are available on that date and are enthusiastic about the event. I thought I would have some pushback on the details but if they were disgruntled they were doing a good job of hiding it from the tone of their replies.
When I send the final message, I pick up my phone to Facetime with Helen. When she picks up I can see that she’s in bed.
“What’s up, are you sick?” I ask.
“No, I’m just tired.”
I can tell there’s something else bothering her as she refuses to hold my gaze.
“So are you going to tell me the truth or will I guess?” I continue.
She gives me a weak smile and explains that she had a tense conversation with her dad. Since they reconnected last Christmas their relationship has been improving but there were still moments of tension. It usually appeared when Helen talks about her mother.
Her parents divorced long before Helen’s mother died but there was very little I actually knew about her dad. I get little snippets of information from him when Helen feels like sharing about her childhood but most of the stories from her past omit him completely.
“Did you have a fight?” I ask.
“Not exactly,” she replies. “He wants me to come down this weekend and have dinner with him and his latest girlfriend. I really can’t be bothered and I don’t want to put you through that.”
“I don’t mind,” I say, honestly
“I’d like to meet him properly.”
“Really?”
“Yes, of course!”
She looks like she’s weighing the idea up in her mind before committing to an answer.
“I suppose it wouldn’t be too bad if you are there too,” she says. “But only if we don’t stay over and can go home as soon as dinner is over.”
“Whatever you want,” I say with a smile.
Her mood improves once she realises she doesn’t have to endure her father’s company on her own and the rest of the conversation is much more pleasant. I tell her about my day and lunch with Dermot while she talks about her lectures and assignments she is expected to work on over the next few weeks.
I never had a head for science but as I listen to her talk about medical terms and procedures I can’t help but be totally impressed.
“You know what?” I say, interrupting her midsentence.
“What?”
“You sound epically sexy with all that medical know-how, Miss Childers.”
She laughs and my heart warms to see it.
The subject of marriage doesn’t come up and I’m glad. It feels like things are back on solid ground and the dinner with her dad will only make me feel even more secure in our commitment to each other.
This feeling of security didn’t need a piece of paper to solidify it… or that’s what I’m going to tell myself, for as long as I can.
Chapter 7
I fiddle with the end of my dress and look in the mirror for the hundredth time.
“This is definitely too short,” I say to Helen as she finishes brushing her hair.
“It’s fine, I don’t know why you’re getting so worked up over this dinner, you’ve already met my dad,” she replies.
“In passing, maybe, but not a sit-down meal with him and his girlfriend. I want to make a good impression.”
“Well it’s her that should be worried about making a good impression on me.”
She throws the brush into a drawer and joins me at the mirror. She hugs me from behind and rests her head on my shoulder.
“If my dad can’t see how amazing you are then that’s just more proof of him being an idiot,” she adds.
“I thought you guys were on better terms these days?”
“We’re as fine as we’ll ever be. It’s never going to be a great relationship as far as I’m concerned. There’s just too much to forgive.”
I look at myself one more time in the mirror and walk out of the bedroom to stop me from changing into a different outfit. It would be my third change of the evening.
Helen jingles her car keys as she waits for me at the door.
“That’s rude,” I say. “A lady has to make sure she looks her best before leaving for an evening of socialising.”
“When I see a lady I’ll be sure to pass along that bit of advice,” she teases as she playfully taps my bum with her bag.
The drive to Wicklow is a quiet one. Helen seems to be lost in her own thoughts and I don’t feel like she wants to be disturbed. I try to make conversation a few times along the way but with very little response to my open-ended questions I give up and start prattling on about work.
I know she isn’t really listening but I don’t call her out on this. I doubt it would do little to help the tension she’s exuding.
We arrive at her dad’s townhouse and park outside. It’s not far from Annamoe and is close to the coast.
Ivy climbs over the outside of the house and there’s been very little done to modernise it. It’s nestled within a wild and overgrown garden but somehow it doesn’t seem messy or unkempt, more like it’s ingratiated itself into nature.
She knocks the door and we hear her dad call out and tell us to come in.
She takes a deep breath and says: “Here we go.”
I follow behind her and watch as her dad pulls her into a hug before holding her at arm’s length to take in the sight of her properly.
“You look lovely, darling,” he says.
She reciprocates with a smile but doesn’t say anything back.
“Helen,” he smiles. “We finally get some time to meet properly. I’ve seen glimpses but never enough time to get to know you.”
“I was saying the same thing to Helen, I’m glad we’re finally doing this.”
“Yes, well make yourselves at home, my lady friend will be with us shortly and then we can all sit down to dinner. I’ve had the chicken roasting all day. Followed one of those Nigella recipes, she’s a gorgeous woman.”
He walks back to the kitchen to check the food and I can’t quite understand if that was meant to be the end of the conversation.
Helen takes my coat and leads me into the living room where I almost sit on a black cat. It has hidden itself into the dark fabric of the sofa and I only notice it when it yawns and I spot the pink of his tongue poke out.
Helen picks up the cat and drops him onto the floor, much to his displeasure.
“That cat has been around since I was a kid,” she says. “He’s an awful thing, he’ll probably outlive us all.”
“What’s his name?”
“Lemmy.”
“That’s… interesting.”
“It’s short for Lemony Snicket. Those books were my favourite. When he left my mum, he got the cat and gave him that name so I’d like him. It didn’t work.”
I think it was a sweet gesture but don’t feel brave enough to share with Helen at this particular moment.
“I’m sorry I’m being so tetchy,” she says. “I get a bit tense when I’m in this house. It tends to bring back memories of shared custody and weekends here. It wasn’t a happy time.”
“When did you stop coming?” I ask.
“When I was fifteen I got a weekend job so I had a valid excuse not to visit. It meant he came to Dublin to see me instead but even that stopped when I started going out with friends and refusing to return his calls.”
A flash of shame goes across her face as she recalls the breakdown of their relationship.
“It wasn’t all my fault,” she adds. “I was a kid who felt abandoned. In my eyes, Mum could do no wrong and it was us against the world. He stopped trying to get in touch every time there was a new woman on the scene and then would make a half-hearted effort when it went down in flames.
“When Mum got sick he didn’t visit us once. He reached out months after she died but it was too late by then. That was the lowest and loneliest time in my life and my dad didn’t step up to be there. I don’t know if I’ll ever get over that.”
I don’t know what to say. I hadn’t realised that there was still so much pain in her heart over what had happened in the past and I felt guilty that she hadn’t been able to share this before now.
“There’s a lot I still need to work through in therapy,” she continues. “Dad has even suggested that we go together and see if that will help.”
“What do you think?”
“Maybe,” she shrugs. “I’m just worried. Therapy is my safe space and if I invite him in and talk about all the things that have happened he’ll just balk and run away again. I don’t want to be vulnerable and get let down.”
I give her a hug and I silently wished that it would help put some of the broken pieces back together but I know it could never be that simple.
Our moment was interrupted by a knock at the front door.
“That’s her,” shouts Helen’s dad. “That’s Stella.”
Helen stands and straightens out her blouse as she waits to meet the woman behind the door. I join and watch her beaming father greet his guest.
“Stella,” he says, warmly. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
They hug and as she steps back to look at Helen, I hear my girlfriend curse.
“Helen,” says Stella. “It’s so lovely to see you. Mark has been trying to get you down here for ages so we can catch up.”
“Hey,” she replies. “When Dad said ‘Stella’ I certainly wasn’t expecting my old babysitter. Aren’t yo
u like two years older than me?”
“Five,” she smiles. “You were always my favourite one to babysit.”
“Well I guess you’ll be babysitting this guy in his dotage.”
We all laugh, but judging by the anger vibrating off Helen I don’t think she was joking.
“Let’s all go in for dinner,” says Mark, oblivious to the awkwardness of this particular reunion.
Stella walks with him into the next room while I look to Helen to see how she’s coping with this latest development.
“This is sick,” she says. “My father is an absolute creep who is hooking up with someone half his age. For God’s sake she was still in school when she babysat for me. This has got to be illegal?”
She looks to me for confirmation but I’ve got nothing.
“She’s thirty, Helen,” I say steadily. “It’s not like he’s actually dating a school girl.”
Mark calls us in and I brace myself for the world’s most fraught dinner conversation.
Mark serves us roast chicken, the smell of rosemary and thyme is unmistakable and it’s cooked to perfection. The vegetables are dripping with butter and the mashed potato melts in my mouth. I can tell that a lot of care and attention has gone into the meal and he keeps looking towards Helen to see if she’s enjoying the food.
“I used to make this every Sunday when Helen came down to visit,” he says. “It’s not every day I use butter in my cooking – have to keep the old cholesterol down – but this is a special occasion,” he smiles.
“It’s delicious,” I say, and I mean it. I also feel like I’m cheating on my mother because I never want to eat her roast chicken again after tasting this deliciousness.
“Is it as good as you remember?” he asks Helen.
She shrugs but doesn’t say anything. I kick her under the table to pull her out of this teenage sulk but end up hitting Stella.
“Agh!” she screams.
“I’m so sorry, I thought it was… the cat,” I offer as way of explanation. It’s the first thing that popped into my head.
“You were trying to kick my cat?” asks Mark.
Weddings and Other Things I Hate Page 7