She nodded. ‘Fine. You’ve done me a favour, actually. Now I’ve met him, so I don’t have to go through all that again. How is he, do you know?’
Jane shrugged, her face still pale with distress. ‘Okay, I think. He never mentions Sally, and I don’t ask. I mean, the Golfer is definitely gone, but I don’t know how he’s coping with the fallout. He drops in to see Jim from time to time, all I ever hear him talk about are Aoife and Ciara. So I really don’t know.’
‘Right – well, there’s nothing more to be said, really.’
‘You miss him, don’t you?’
Rose nodded, not trusting herself to speak. She cursed the bad timing that had usurped such a promising chance of a real, loving relationship. She was tired of pain and grief and loss, tired of all of it. All she wanted was a quiet life. Work, home, children. That was it. No more entanglements. Loneliness had to be easier to bear than this.
‘Will you stay and have a drink with us?’ Jane’s hand rested tentatively on her friend’s arm.
Rose shook her head. ‘No, thanks. I’d better be going. Brian and Lisa are on their own. I just wanted to drop in these few bits for the kids. I’ll see you tomorrow.’
She hadn’t waited for a reply, knew anyway that Jane wouldn’t press her. She’d pulled her coat around her tightly, a gesture that felt curiously protective of herself, and walked down the hallway.
‘Night, Rose – take care.’
‘Yeah. Say goodnight to Jim for me.’
She’d stepped out into the wet December night, feeling peculiarly in sympathy with the weather. And that was the last time she’d seen him.
Now, as she applied lots of body lotion, Rose kept reminding herself: a quiet life. That’s what I said then, that’s all I want now. A quiet life. Maybe when all of this with Ben is finally over, that’s what I’ll have: ease, contentment, serenity. With a bit of financial security thrown in for good measure. No more entanglements, she told herself sternly. Remember that: no more entanglements.
In the meantime, before the days of gracious living began, a glass of good red wine and an indifferent Wednesday night movie would have to do.
Chapter Seven
ROSE ARRIVED AT the Bonne Bouche by taxi at seven thirty the following morning. She felt more rested than she had in some time. When she’d awoken at six, it was as though something had shifted in her consciousness overnight.
Week Two, she’d thought, as soon as she opened her eyes. I’ve done it. I’ve got through it.
She felt energized, washed clean, as though the tidal wave of anger the previous evening had signalled the end of something, the beginning of something else. What that might be she still didn’t know, but a new optimism had sprung from somewhere, making her look forward to whatever challenges lay ahead. She was surprised at the feeling: its presence was as welcome as it was unexpected, as delightful as it was unheralded.
She had, of course, fallen asleep on the sofa the previous evening while George Clooney and Jennifer Lopez chased each other across the screen in her living room.
Lisa had come home from Jane’s just after half past nine and turned off the television. Rose had immediately woken up. ‘Hey,’ she’d protested, ‘I was watching that.’
Brian and Lisa just grinned at each other.
‘You’ve been asleep since half past eight, Mum,’ said Brian, taking her wine glass from her. ‘Why don’t you go to bed?’
She’d grumbled at each of them in turn – who did they think was the mother around here, anyway? – kissed them briefly, and made her way upstairs.
Just for a moment, she’d observed the jars and bottles on her bedside locker: night cream, eye cream, moisturizer. All those new year’s resolutions, standing there like soldiers at attention, but seldom summoned into battle. She hesitated, but only briefly. Tomorrow, she thought. I’ll definitely start a night-time routine tomorrow.
Almost at once, she’d fallen into a deep and untroubled sleep.
Angela and Betty arrived at work promptly at eight o’clock, each keeping a careful distance from the other. Rose said nothing about the previous day to either of them. She simply pulled out the ledger from the drawer and sat down with both of them at the counter.
‘Right, Angela, you’re in charge of the first lot of canapés for tomorrow night: the mascarpone tartlets, the risotto balls, the crispy crabcakes with aioli. Check the final quantities with Sarah and then you can start. Everything you need should be in the coldroom – Claire and Katie did the shopping yesterday while we were at the tennis club.’
She flicked over onto the next page, ignoring the sullen, frosty silence in the air.
‘Betty, I want you to make a start on the chocolate truffle cakes, the lemon crème brulée, the apricot tarte tatin.’ She snapped the book closed. ‘You check with Claire for numbers, and I’ll get started on the beef satay. That’s it. Off you go.’
Rose watched their subdued progress across the kitchens to the small office she and Sarah shared. She realized, as she watched their departing backs, that she didn’t care about any of their simmering hostilities this morning. She was not going to deal with anything else right now: they would wait until she was ready. It seemed that nothing could unravel the cocoon of bright, surprised optimism that had spun itself around her during the night.
The two young women returned almost immediately, faces closed and unreadable. Betty spoke quietly.
‘Sarah wants to know can you come over to the office in about fifteen minutes’ time.’
Rose nodded curtly. ‘Thank you.’
The two girls occupied different counters and began working at once. It’s an ill wind, thought Rose. Maybe being pissed off with one another will increase their productivity: they’re certainly not going to waste time sharing jokes.
Sarah, Claire and Katie were waiting for Rose in the office, the three of them crowding against Sarah’s desk, arms folded.
‘What’s this?’ asked Rose, looking from one to the other. There was a curious air of expectation around the three women. ‘What have I done now? Am I on trial?’
Sarah shook her head. ‘Nope. We feel you’ve had your trial – all last week, in fact. Every day was a trial.’
Rose smiled. ‘That’s for sure. So, what’s going on?’
They all stood back from the desk at the same time. It appeared to Rose to be one fluid, practised movement. Her eyes were immediately drawn to where the computer keyboard should have been. There, in its place, was a cake: iced, decorated with dozens of tiny, tumbling yellow roses, candles clustered into one corner.
‘Oh!’ she said, surprised. She hadn’t known that they were to produce cakes for Friday night: had she forgotten that, as well? ‘What a beautiful cake! When is it for?’
Katie took her by the elbow. ‘Have a look.’
Rose bent down, trying to make out the elegant script.
‘Do you need your reading glasses?’ demanded Claire. ‘Why aren’t they hanging around your neck, like you promised?’
The others laughed.
‘No,’ said Rose slowly, feeling something begin to gather at the base of her throat. ‘No, I don’t need my glasses. I can read it okay.’
Her eyes began to fill, and the words wavered a little. Nevertheless, she was able to make out, in pale blue script on a white background: The Survivor’s Prayer: for Rose. ‘The worst is done: may the best be yet to come.’
All she could do was stand there; she concentrated on the smooth icing, the intricate sugar roses, the slender white candles. She was suddenly very afraid to speak.
Sarah lit the candles one by one, their pale yellow flames leaping suddenly, then settling into a brave, steady glow. ‘There are seven, in case you’re wondering,’ she said, smiling. ‘One for every day of last week. If you got through that, you’ll get through anything.’
She blew out the match and Rose suddenly burst into tears: she couldn’t help herself. ‘Oh, what am I like?’ she said, half-laughing, half-crying, feeling her n
ose begin to run, imagining the dark smudges of mascara on her cheek.
Claire handed her a box of tissues. ‘Ready for all emergencies,’ she said, grinning.
Rose wiped her eyes, blew her nose. ‘It’s just lovely – thank you, all of you, so much.’ She felt choked, in the heady embrace of real emotion: one that wasn’t anger, this time. She felt grateful for that. Lately, she’d begun to be afraid that the heat of anger was the only true thing she would ever be able to feel.
‘You’re the best, you really are. It’s the nicest thing that’s happened to me in a long time.’ She blew her nose again and took another handful of tissues from the box beside her.
Sarah handed her a cup of coffee. ‘Unfortunately it’s too early for champagne. But’ – she pointed to a bottle beside the computer, festooned with gold roses and ribbons – ‘that’s for when you have the moment, and the occasion. A very happy occasion, once all of this is over.’
The three women raised their cups to Rose. ‘To better times,’ said Sarah.
‘To friends and better times,’ said Rose, raising hers.
Katie cut small slices of the cake and handed it around on paper plates.
‘I knew this was going to be a good day, just as soon as I woke up,’ said Rose. ‘You have a great knack of reading my mind. I really do feel that the worst is over. I mean, all those years it was always at the back of my mind: “What if Ben comes back?” “How will my kids cope if he does?” And “How will we survive if he doesn’t?” And now, suddenly, there’s no more waiting. He’s here, and the kids are fine, and we’re all . . . still managing, just like we did before.’
‘You’re doing a lot more than managing,’ said Sarah firmly. ‘Give yourself a bit of credit.’ She refilled Rose’s coffee cup.
‘By the way, the champagne stays,’ said Rose. ‘It belongs here. We’ll open it together. Let it stay in this office as my lucky charm.’
‘With pleasure,’ said Katie. ‘We’ll even have real champagne flutes – no nasty plastic cups for us.’
‘We thought it better to leave Angela and Betty to their own devices for the moment,’ said Sarah, with a sidelong glance at Rose. ‘The temperature felt a bit on the chilly side this morning.’
‘Damn right,’ said Rose grimly. ‘I haven’t either the time or the headspace to find out what’s going on, so they’ll just have to keep on keeping on until I’m ready to deal with them.’
‘Have you sorted them out for today?’ asked Katie casually. ‘I mean, have they got enough work to keep them occupied?’
Rose nodded, finishing her cake. ‘Yes – and probably for tomorrow, too. If they get through that lot, I’ll be happy. And I really don’t want to have to talk to them right now. I’m going to engage as little as possible.’
‘Okay,’ said Sarah, ‘here’s the deal.’ She turned away and took Rose’s jacket from Claire, who’d been hiding it. ‘We’re all agreed: you got no proper time off last weekend, and the last seven days have been the week from hell. Go home. We’ve parcelled the work out among the three of us, and it’ll give us great pleasure to kick your two in the arse whenever they need it over the next two days.’
Rose looked from Sarah to Claire to Katie. Each of them looked uncannily alike in their common mission: determined, ready to take no nonsense.
‘No . . . absolutely not! I can’t do that and leave everybody in the lurch,’ she protested. Katie began to ease one of Rose’s arms into the sleeve of her jacket, Claire the other.
‘Yes, you can,’ said Sarah, ‘and you will. And by the way, there’s no lurch to be left in. We’re all on top of things; we don’t even have an excuse to panic.’
‘No, no – that’s not fair.’ Rose tried to struggle against her captors. ‘Tomorrow night’s party is huge, and I’ve the beef satay and the lamb . . .’
‘Go,’ said Sarah, again. ‘Remember those nieces I once told you I had up my sleeve? Ellie and Julia? Well, they’re arriving in half an hour, delighted at the prospect of earning a few quid coming up to the summer holidays. It’ll be good for them,’ she said, nodding at Rose as she buttoned up her jacket, reassuring her as she would a child. ‘They both want a career in the catering industry, may God help them. We figure that the next two days of pulling and hauling, loading and unloading the van, will put them off for good.’ She shrugged and grinned mischievously at Rose. ‘Their parents are delighted: we’re all just doing our duty as aunties.’
‘But . . .’
‘No more “buts” – time to go. Remember – you pulled us out of a hole for last week’s birthday buffet. We owe you: think of it like that.’
‘Go on,’ said Katie gently. ‘Live a little.’
‘Yeah,’ said Claire. ‘Go and visit those bookshops you’re always complaining you never get to. Go to the National Gallery, or an afternoon movie.’
‘Go and drink champagne, even, if that’s what you feel like,’ said Sarah, handing Rose her bag, waving her out of the office. ‘Do something daft for once, for God’s sake, why don’t you?’
‘Yeah,’ agreed her sisters. ‘Something daft.’
Rose looked from one to the other. She tried to stop her eyes from filling again. ‘I can see you’re not going to take “no” for an answer.’
Sarah shook her head. ‘You’ve got that right. See you Monday. Don’t even bother with those two witches out there – we’ll tell them we’ve sent you off on urgent client business. Now just go, will you, before one of us changes our mind?’
Rose hugged each of the sisters, briefly. She couldn’t trust herself to say anything more. She turned on her heel, never even glancing over at her corner of the kitchens.
Now she just had to go and figure out something daft to carry her through the weekend.
Rose hadn’t walked up Grafton Street on a weekday in years. Where are all these people coming from? she wondered. How come they’re not at work? I know why I’m not – what’s their excuse?
She wandered in and out of Brown Thomas, the Dublin Bookshop, drank cappuccino on the mezzanine in Bewley’s, and watched the crowded street below her. The constant parade of people fascinated her. Ethnic diversity, she thought suddenly, the phrase coming at her out of nowhere. So this is what it means. The street below her was a wash of colour: white, middle-aged faces, youthful brown faces, tiny black faces. It was a mix as vibrant and potent as any she had experienced in London on her one visit there, ten years before. It had struck her forcibly then, and it struck her again now: how relentlessly dull and colourless the Dublin of her youth and early adulthood had been. The city had always felt like the poor relation of everywhere else: standing on sullen street corners, always with its hand out. It had been a place of grey skies, grey prospects, grey faces. Now, the midday shoppers below her all milled together, crowding their way up and down the street, in and out of shop doorways: a shifting, multi-hued palette of change.
Rose brought her gaze back to the interior of the café. She looked around at the polished wood, the bright open space that was Bewley’s. She felt glad that it had been rescued from the threat of closure. An arrogant new city like Dublin needed an old institution like this: something to remind itself of what it had once been, something to stop it getting above itself. She smiled at the echo of her mother’s words. When Rose was growing up, one of her mother’s stricter injunctions to her daughter was never to get above herself. In those days, ‘know yourself’ meant ‘know your place’.
Back in the poorer, grimmer eighties, Bewley’s had always been the place – in fact, almost the only place in Dublin – for coffee, or a cooked breakfast on a leisurely Saturday morning. Mind you, Rose remembered, it had been plain old tea and coffee back then: none of your lattes, or mochas or fruit infusions. There had been nothing remotely fashionable about it. Instead, it was somewhere warm and solid where you met boyfriends, girlfriends, or other young mothers pausing in between bouts of shopping. Rose was glad that Bewley’s was there to stay.
She became suddenly awar
e of a young waiter hovering by her table. Over by the cash desk, a dense queue had already gathered: the lunchtime rush had started. Rose glanced at her watch and realized with a start that she had been sipping coffee and people-watching for over an hour and a half. She smiled apologetically at the young man, stood up and collected her things. She’d enjoyed that.
The Lifers were right, she thought. It was fun, doing nothing.
Rose came back down into the street, a dozen of Bewley’s almond buns in a bag, two packs of ground Java. There was a sudden sense of spring everywhere. The smell of roasting coffee, the sight of the street sellers and their vast bunches of tulips and daffodils, the young women pushing babies in buggies. On impulse, Rose bought four bunches of flowers, enjoying the heady blue and yellow scent of freesia.
Something daft.
She could still see Claire’s and Katie’s faces before her, urging her on.
Before she’d time to think, to talk herself out of it, Rose slipped her hand into her jacket pocket and pulled out her mobile. Balancing her handbag and a large, wilting paper cone of damp flowers, she keyed in Sam’s number.
‘Rose?’ He sounded surprised. ‘Good to hear from you. Did Doctor Sam’s prescription work last night?’
She laughed. ‘Only too well. Except that I fell asleep in the chair after one glass of wine. Now I’ll never know whether J-Lo and George got it together: there’s a huge, gaping hole in my life.’
He sighed. ‘Some you win, some you lose. You’ll just have to learn to live with the loss. What can I do for you?’
‘Well, I have an unexpected afternoon off – Sarah and the others insisted. I was just wondering if, maybe, you’d be free for coffee later on?’
No . . . that wasn’t how she’d meant it to sound, not at all. The tone was wrong. It wasn’t at all clear whether this call was business or social. She shouldn’t have done it.
‘Sorry, Rose, I should have told you. I meant to yesterday, but we got . . . interrupted. I’m off to London this evening for a conference. I won’t be back until the middle of next week. Can it keep until then, or can Dónal do anything to help?’
Something Like Love Page 17