Hannah laughed. “I’ll bear that in mind. And I presume Kirby would be part of the package.”
“God, yeah—he’d have to be. But he’s house-trained, obviously. And he loves you.”
“And I love him too. But he sheds.”
“Only a small bit.” Then, seeing her expression, he added, “Okay, a big bit. But we can confine him to wherever you say.”
“He wouldn’t be allowed in the kitchen, ever. He could lose me my accreditation.”
“Fair enough.”
“Or upstairs. Or on my couch—he has yours destroyed. We’d have to get him a special chair. And he’d have to sleep in the shed at night. And you’d have to clean up after him.”
“Fine. All fine. Fine on all fronts.”
She considered. It just might work. And it would certainly ease her financial worries. But was it really what he wanted, or did he feel some silly responsibility toward her? She put a hand on his arm. “Look, if you’re just trying to help me out, you really don’t have to, you know. I was planning to put that ad in. I was just…working up to it.”
“Are you kidding? Helping you is a very minor aspect—I’m trying desperately not to share my flat with Nora.” He lifted his glass. “Anyway, enough of that. Think about it and let me know.” He waved a hand to indicate the room. “So what do you reckon about this place?”
“It’s great—just what Clongarvin needs.” Hannah studied the band in the corner. “I like the funky music, too, really fits in. She looks a bit scary, though.”
“Who?”
“The one with the clarinet. All those black clothes, and the hair scraped back. And the professor specs.”
“Can’t say I noticed,” he said.
“And look at the frown on her. I wouldn’t like to get on her wrong side.”
“That’s probably because she’s concentrating.”
“Mmm. The guy with the double bass looks foreign. Anyway, where were we?”
“We were just about to plan your birthday next week.”
She groaned. “God, I was hoping you’d forget. Let’s plan nothing, please—I really don’t feel like celebrating this one.”
“All the more reason. Sorry, but you have no choice. How about dinner on me, anywhere you fancy that won’t bankrupt me?”
She picked up her glass again. “Honestly, Adam, I’d rather not.” And as she sipped the oaky wine, her last birthday slid, unwanted, into her thoughts.
Sorry about this, Patrick had said, There’s no one else free to collect him. We’ll still be in time for dinner, I promise. And he’d dropped her at the arrivals door and gone to find a parking space. And even when she couldn’t see a flight from London on the board, it hadn’t clicked. She’d just thought his brother had gotten the time wrong and they’d be there all night, waiting for him to arrive, and the birthday dinner that they’d postponed till Friday night would be ruined.
And then Patrick had reappeared, pulling her weekend bag on wheels behind him. Tell you what, he’d said, smiling at her astonishment, let’s go to Paris instead.
She set down her glass, pushing the memory away. “Anyway,” she said to Adam, “my birthday’s on a Thursday this year, so I’ll be having my usual early night.”
“We could wait till Saturday to go out.”
She shook her head. “Let’s just leave it. Really.”
“Okay, I’ll get you a surprise instead. What color scarf have you not got?”
She smiled. “Green. Not that awful touristy green, a nice sage.” She hesitated, and then added, “Yes, by the way.”
“Yes, what?
“Yes, I would like you to move in. You and Kirby.”
“What?”
“I said I would like—”
Adam shook his head firmly. “No, that was too quick. You need to sleep on it.”
“No, I don’t. As long as you pay your rent on time, split the bills, and replace everything you break—and keep the dog hairs at bay a bit with the vacuum cleaner. And never, ever drink from the carton.”
He regarded her closely. “You’re totally sure about this?”
“Yes. I know you well enough to kick you out if you drive me mad.”
“That’s true.” He clinked his glass against hers. “In that case—and only if you’re absolutely, positively sure—it’s a deal.” He thought. “Nora arrives next Thursday, in fact. How would Wednesday suit for me to move in?”
“Wednesday’s fine. Pop into the shop in the meantime and I’ll give you keys.”
Patrick’s keys, which would now be Adam’s keys. She turned her face quickly toward the band again before it gave her away—and Adam, bless him, launched into a description of an impossibly complicated Web site that he was setting up, which managed to drown out the whole of “Eleanor Rigby,” and which required absolutely no response from Hannah.
The buzzer sounded, its harshness making Patrick wince as always. A second later he heard Leah speaking softly on the intercom in the hall.
Then, as he was fastening his second cufflink: “She’s here.”
“Right,” he called back. “I’m on the way.”
He looked in the mirror and tweaked the knot of his tie and ran a hand over his hair. It wasn’t his first meeting with Leah’s mother. He’d been introduced to Fiona Bradshaw some years before at an art auction, and since then their paths had crossed occasionally at various functions. They nodded at each other when they met, shared the odd brief group conversation.
Her photo appeared quite regularly in the newspaper’s social pages. She’d been featured once, about a year ago, in connection with her job as environmental officer with the local council.
Patrick had the impression of a cool, poised woman, at ease in social situations. Well able to hold her own, if not exactly someone he’d seek out for a friendly chat. And now their personal lives were going to intersect, and he wondered what lay ahead. If Leah’s reports of her mother’s feelings about their relationship were to be believed—and he had no reason to doubt them—the future looked interesting.
The fact that Fiona wasn’t exactly over the moon about Leah’s pregnancy was unfortunate but not unexpected—and in truth, remembering his own dismay when Leah had told him, Patrick could hardly blame the woman. But they were all civilized adults, and he presumed they’d manage to get beyond it. For his part he’d be charming and pleasant and hope for the best.
He smoothed his hair again and left the bedroom, at precisely the same moment that Leah opened the front door to her mother.
“Mum.”
It wasn’t an embrace, more a brief connection, Leah’s lips barely touching her mother’s cheek. Fiona was taller than her daughter by about six inches. Her glance met Patrick’s as Leah drew back.
“So,” she said. No hand outstretched.
“You know Patrick,” Leah said, and he smiled and kept his own hands by his sides and received a cool nod.
“We’ve met”—Fiona began unbuttoning her fawn coat—“here and there.” She wore a gray cardigan and skirt. Her dark red hair gleamed, her lipstick a precise match. She smelled of marzipan. The tips of her long nails were white. A jewel flashed on her left hand as she gave Patrick her coat. “Thank you.”
“We’re having fish pie,” Leah said, walking ahead of them into the apartment’s tiny sitting room. “It won’t be long.”
She was nervous. She’d snapped at Patrick earlier over nothing—he always left his shoes in the hall—and she’d spent the past few evenings flicking through her cookbooks, deciding on and rejecting any number of dishes. Patrick had had the sense not to argue, to pretend to weigh up the advantages of fish over chicken, to consider the wisdom of serving asparagus in February.
In the sitting room he poured drinks. Gin and bitter lemon for Fiona, iced tea for Leah, single-malt for himself. He poked the fire and added a couple of briquettes. Leah left the room to check the fish pie and boil the water for the asparagus, and he sat across the fireplace from Fiona.
&nb
sp; “Chilly tonight.” He stretched his feet toward the blaze, itching to kick off the shoes he’d put on just minutes before.
Fiona sipped her gin and kept her eyes on the fire. “It is.”
He became aware of the clock ticking on the mantelpiece. He put down his drink and crossed to the CD player. “Any preference for music?”
She didn’t look in his direction. “I have no idea what you have.”
“Right.” He selected one of Leah’s Lyle Lovett CDs and slipped it into the drive. “Let’s take a chance on this one then.”
The door opened, and Leah reappeared. Her face, he noticed for the first time, was slightly puffy. “Five minutes.”
Lyle Lovett strummed his guitar and began singing about a porch, and Leah threw Patrick an exasperated glance before turning to her mother. “Are you warm enough?”
Patrick thought about the meals around Geraldine and Stephen’s kitchen table. The roast chickens fragrant with tarragon and lemon, the rich casseroles, Stephen’s tangy, oozing blue-cheese burgers. The mismatched crockery and the casual, relaxed conversation. Something Hannah had baked—raspberry roulade, apple strudel, sour-cream coffee cake—usually rounding off the meal.
He became aware that Leah was glaring at him and realized he’d missed something. “Sorry?”
“I said your father goes on a cruise every winter.”
“Oh…yes. Yes, he does.” They’d joked about bringing Bill Dunne and Fiona together. “He’s sailing around Greece at the moment.”
Since Patrick’s father had been widowed more than twenty years earlier, his tastes leaned to women considerably younger than fifty-eight and substantially less uptight than Fiona Bradshaw. The prospect of hooking up with her would probably have him heading for the hills.
“Mum’s been on cruises, haven’t you?”
Patrick did his best to look interested. “Oh, yes? Where have you been?”
Leah leaped up. “Sorry—I forgot something.” She practically ran from the room. Patrick took a deep swig of his whiskey, welcoming its peaty burn.
“I don’t approve of all this,” Fiona said suddenly. Her voice was completely neutral. She might have been listing the countries she’d visited from her cruise ship.
“I gathered that,” Patrick replied evenly. May as well give as good as he got. “I presume Leah explained that the baby wasn’t planned.”
“She did—which in my opinion makes it worse.” She’d barely touched her drink. “It’s not as if you’re a couple of teenagers.”
“No.”
“And now my daughter is pregnant by a man who until a month ago was living with another woman.”
“Yes.” What else was there to say? He drank more whiskey. “That’s true.” He hesitated. “Not that it changes the way I feel about Leah.” Not that it’s any of your damn business.
Fiona didn’t respond.
Patrick got to his feet again. “Can I freshen your drink?”
When she shook her head, he crossed to the cabinet where the bottles were kept and refilled his own glass. A buzz might help him to stay cool—and as long as she considered him a philandering bastard, he might as well be an alcoholic too.
Leah reappeared just then. “Okay, it’s all ready. Bring your drinks.”
Patrick watched Fiona leave the room, feeling that the battle lines had been well and truly drawn. Still, what could she do, other than rant at him whenever she got the chance? He gulped his whiskey and followed her into the small kitchen–cum–dining room, steeling himself against the next hour or so.
Hannah heard the front door bang.
“Honey, I’m home.”
In the act of pulling the top off a can of tuna, she grimaced. A second later Adam’s head appeared around the door.
“Shit, I’m sorry—what an idiot.”
She forced a smile. “Don’t be silly. I saw that you’d moved in. You don’t have to pussyfoot around me, I’m fine.” She drained the fish and spooned it into the saucepan. “And welcome, by the way. Presume you figured out which bedroom’s yours.”
“I took a chance on the one that wasn’t full of your stuff.”
“And where’s Kirby?”
“In the garden, getting acclimated.” He came into the room and took a small package wrapped in white tissue from his pocket. “I went out to get you a moving-in present.”
She laughed. “But you’re the one who’s moving in.”
“You know what I mean.” He pressed the package into her hand. “Or maybe it’s your birthday present—I haven’t decided.”
“You’re a twit.” She opened the bag and peered in. “Ah, Adam—you didn’t.”
“I did.” He watched her lifting out the perfume. “As you can see, it’s not a scarf.”
She hugged him. “Thanks a million, but there was no need. That stuff costs a bomb.”
“Don’t I know it. Happy birthday for tomorrow. Does it make up for me putting my foot in it just now?”
“Of course it does—I mean, you didn’t.” She stepped out of his arms and turned back to her saucepan. “I’m glad you’re here, really I am.”
She’d been doing her level best all day not to dwell on the fact that Adam was moving in while she was in the shop—because thinking about her new housemate would remind her, inevitably, of the one who’d gone before him.
But of course her efforts were futile. Memories of Patrick refused to leave her alone. Listening to the soft ticking of the wall clock, or restocking a shelf after a customer had left, or cradling her lunchtime mug of soup as she watched the parade of pedestrians outside, she found herself returning constantly to the day he’d come to live with her.
You’ve got more luggage than a movie star, she’d complained as his bags had piled up in the hall. Where’s all this stuff going to fit?
Pretending that the evidence of his moving in wasn’t filling her with delight. Letting on that this wasn’t the most thrilling day of her life.
Come outside a minute, he’d said. I want to show you something.
And he’d scooped her up, making her gasp, as soon as she’d stepped outside the front door, and he’d carried her back in over the threshold.
I’m too heavy, she’d protested with a giggle, hoping they were being observed, and I’m already living here. Hoping that the word was going to fly around that Patrick Dunne, one of Clongarvin’s most eligible bachelors, was setting up home with Hannah Robinson.
She’d given him the fish-shaped key ring that first day, and he’d joked about the phallic shape of it. She’d slapped his arm, unable to keep the foolishly happy smile from her face. They’d gone upstairs and consummated the new arrangement before dinner. Afterward she’d made omelets, beating eggs and chopping tomatoes, wearing his T-shirt that almost reached her knees and that smelled of him. Later they opened the champagne he’d brought and drank it by the fire, and consummated again.
“I think your dinner’s burning.” Adam’s voice pulled her back.
She whisked the saucepan off the burner. “Get plates,” she said. “It may not be edible, but there’s enough for two.”
No more of that. That was over. Now it was her and Adam.
“Isn’t it wonderful about Adam moving in?”
“It certainly is.” Stephen set his knife and fork side by side on his empty plate. “Hannah will be glad of the rent.”
Geraldine threw him an exasperated glance. “I hate when you pretend not to understand. You know very well what I’m talking about. He and Hannah have always been so close.”
Stephen smiled. “Geraldine, stop matchmaking. They’re friends.”
She spooned apple sponge into two bowls. “Yes, and who’s to say that that can’t change? They’re both single—and they’ll be spending a lot of time together now. You never know.”
Stephen poured custard over his dessert. “All the same, if it hasn’t happened up to this point…”
Geraldine made no response. They ate in silence for a few minutes.
“And I’m just saying,” Geraldine answered firmly, “that I won’t rule it out, that’s all.”
“Fine.”
“By the way, I’m going to drop in to the shop tomorrow, over my lunch break. Just to wish her a happy birthday.”
Stephen looked at her in surprise. “I thought we were going to see her later.”
“We are, but I’d love to give her the check, not leave her waiting till the evening—would you mind?”
“No, of course not.”
Outside the kitchen window the garden was almost completely dark, the yellow rectangle of light from the room capturing two of the arms of the rotary clothesline in the middle distance. Neither of them liked drawing the blinds until dinner was over.
“She’s doing marvelously with the shop,” Geraldine said, spooning up the last of her custard. “I’m so proud of her.”
“So far so good,” Stephen agreed. “She’s making a great effort.”
“The poor thing must be worn out though—it’s an awful lot for one person to take on.”
“It is—but she’s young, and she has plenty of energy.”
“And of course, even with Adam helping out, she still has to watch every penny until she finds her feet.” Geraldine gathered their bowls and brought them to the dishwasher. “That can’t be easy.”
Stephen filled the kettle and took the French press down from its shelf.
“So,” she went on, putting milk and sugar on the table, “I thought she could do with a little something extra this year. You know, just to give her a lift while she’s struggling.”
Stephen scooped coffee. “What have you done?”
She turned and smiled at him. “I got her a pair of shoes—Alice gave me a great bargain. I knew you wouldn’t mind.”
Stephen laughed. “I don’t suppose it would make much difference if I did.” He took cups from the press and brought them to the table. “Just as long as Hannah supports us when we’re bankrupt.”
As he drew near, Geraldine reached across and kissed his cheek. “Of course she will, dear.”
Semi-Sweet Page 7