Semi-Sweet

by Roisin Meaney

  “Can you come around the corner? I have to get some trays from my van.”

  “Sure—hop in and I’ll drive you.”

  “Thanks.”

  He helped her shift the wooden trays from the van to the back of the taxi. Hannah gave her address and sank gratefully into the passenger seat, closing her eyes. A hot bath when she got home, even if she couldn’t spare more than ten minutes in it. Hopefully Adam would have dinner waiting. And a couple of aspirin might get rid of this damn headache.

  She opened her eyes and fished her phone from her bag, and called Adam.

  “The van broke down,” she told him. “Will you call your friend?”

  “Do you need me to come and get you?”

  “No thanks, I’m in a taxi. I’ll be home in a few minutes.”

  As she hung up, she caught the driver’s eye. “Sod’s law,” she said, smiling bleakly.

  “Bummer,” he agreed.

  The music was pleasant, something mellow and jazzy. She was dangerously close to nodding off in the warm car. He wasn’t wearing the woolly hat today, but she was pretty sure it was him.

  She remembered him driving her to the restaurant the night Patrick had broken up with her, then home again later that evening, with her parents in the car. And hadn’t she seen him since somewhere?…Yes, getting into his taxi in the supermarket’s car park. She hadn’t recognized him that day, but now she was sure it had been him.

  His hair was muddy blond and curled around the edge of his collar. His left hand rested on the gearshift as he negotiated Clongarvin’s rush-hour traffic. He wore a green pullover. She couldn’t be sure without looking directly at him, but she thought his eyes were green too.

  He caught her glance. “Thought you were asleep.”

  “Nearly. I’ve been on my feet since three this morning.” Yes, definitely green.

  He grinned. “In that case, feel free—I’ll wake you when we get there.”

  Nice even teeth. She turned to the window and noticed that the rain had finally stopped and been replaced by a pale lemon sun that was doing its best to shine.

  March

  Did you know that Leah is the woman Hannah’s ex left her for?”

  Adam poured boiling water into the mugs. “I wasn’t sure of the name, but I had heard, yes.”

  “Does Hannah know?”

  “Yes. She’s the one who told me.” He handed her a mug. “Nora, it’s in the past—leave it alone. Hannah’s moved on.” He offered her a biscuit but she waved the packet away. “She’s doing fine now.”

  She sipped her coffee and grimaced. “What’s the deal with you two anyway?” she asked. “You and Hannah, how come you never got together?”

  Adam bit into his custard cream. “You’re such a drama queen. You know quite well that Hannah and I are just friends. It is possible, believe it or not.”

  “Right.” She tapped a nail against the side of her mug. “Do you remember Leah?”

  “Not really. She was one of the princesses you hung around with, that’s all I know.”

  “Leah was the small dark one. She’s the small blond one now.”

  Adam shook his head. “Nope, nothing. Did she fancy me too?”

  Nora laughed. “Oh, no, Leah was immune to your charms. She went for the studs.”

  “Thanks.”

  Hannah had told him about dropping in to Leah’s salon and getting the gift voucher for Patrick. I probably brought them together, she’d said, trying to smile. Isn’t that a good one?

  “I got a massage from her the other day,” Nora said. “Wasn’t the best I’ve ever had, but it wasn’t bad.”

  “You don’t say.”

  “Stop looking like that. I didn’t know about Hannah till Leah said it—how could I, when you tell me nothing? And anyway, like you say, it’s all in the past and nothing to do with me.”

  “Yeah…so you two had a good gossip?”

  “Of course we did. I had to find out what everyone else was doing. Get this—Jojo married a widower with six kids.”

  Adam took another biscuit. “Fascinating. I just can’t believe it. Good old Jojo.”

  “Shut up.” Nora pulled an envelope out of her bag. “Here’s the real reason I came round—have a look at what I got in the post this morning.”

  Adam took the envelope. “What is it?”

  “Read it.”

  He pulled out the single sheet and scanned it. He looked back at Nora. “You’re joking.”

  She giggled. “Isn’t it a scream? Talk about a small world, even for Clongarvin.”

  He stared at her. “You’re not going to go?”

  She took back the letter and folded it. “Of course I’m going to go. The first job I apply for and I’m called for an interview—you should be pleased. And why the heck shouldn’t I go?”

  “Because you’d be working for him.”

  “So? Just because he did the dirty on Hannah, who I hardly know, I’m not allowed to work for him?”

  Adam frowned. “Well, no, but—”

  “Look,” Nora said, “I might not even get the job. But if I do…well, like you keep telling me, Hannah’s moved on, right?”

  “Have you told Leah about this?”

  Nora paused. “No. Why should I? She said nothing when I told her I was looking for work, although she must have known that lover boy was in the market for a PA. Anyway, she’ll find out soon enough if I get the job.”

  “Jesus.” Adam lifted his mug. “I’ll never figure women out.”

  He wouldn’t mention it to Hannah; it might come to nothing. On the other hand, if Patrick Dunne decided to take Nora on as his PA, it might be awkward explaining to Hannah why he’d kept quiet about his sister’s applying for the job. He sighed.

  “Don’t worry, bro,” Nora said, “I didn’t tell you anything, okay? Wouldn’t want you getting into trouble with Hannah. You know nothing about this job interview. Right?”

  Adam nodded slowly. “Right.”

  He might never figure her out, but his sister had him completely sussed.

  As Geraldine slid the grill pan toward her and lifted the lamb cutlets onto the warmed plates, she heard her husband’s key in the lock. After thirty-five years of marriage, their timing was impeccable. “Yoo-hoo,” she called, and a second later Stephen’s head appeared. “Just in time,” she said. “I’m dishing up.”

  “Smells good. Won’t be long.”

  He thumped up the stairs while she uncorked the red wine that they’d opened the night before and emptied what was left into the two glasses on the table. She drained the broccoli and transferred the potatoes from the steamer to a bowl. She turned the oven down to low so the apple crumble would keep warm.

  She knew exactly the kind of meal Stephen would serve up if their working hours were reversed and he was the one who got home earlier. On the very few occasions he’d cooked dinner in the past, he’d taken several hours and used more saucepans than she’d thought they possessed. He wasn’t a bad cook—the end results were generally very palatable—but for the time and effort involved, Geraldine could have cooked for the week. Just as well she was always home ahead of him.

  “Guess what,” she said when they were sitting opposite each other, he having splashed his face and exchanged his work shirt and shoes for sweatshirt and slippers. “Alice and Tom are coming to that dinner-dance after all.”

  “I know,” he said. “Miraculous recovery.”

  “Tom mentioned it to you?”

  “He asked if we wanted to go. I told him we already had tickets.”

  Geraldine looked sharply at him. “You didn’t say Alice gave them to us, did you?”

  “No—I said as far as I knew, you’d got them from someone who’d bought them and couldn’t go.”

  “Good.”

  Alice had been strange, that was the only word for it. You won’t believe this, she’d said to Geraldine, but Tom was asked to buy tickets to that dinner-dance by one of his patients, so it looks like we’re going a
long after all.

  There’d been an expression on Alice’s face that Geraldine couldn’t put a name to, a smile that wasn’t a smile, and she didn’t meet Geraldine’s eye as she spoke.

  Of course, Geraldine hadn’t asked how Tom was feeling—clearly that story hadn’t been true. Just as well she’d told Stephen to say nothing to Tom at the dental clinic. There was something going on between Alice and her husband, but whatever it was, Alice wasn’t saying.

  Geraldine had offered to pay for her and Stephen’s tickets, but Alice had firmly refused. They’re a present, she’d said. I won’t hear of it. So now they were all going, the four of them.

  They hadn’t often gone out together in the past, even though she and Alice got on fine in the shop, and Tom and Stephen would go for a drink after work every now and again. For whatever reason, they rarely went out as a foursome.

  Alice and Tom were older than Stephen and Geraldine—at almost sixty, Alice was around seven years older than Geraldine, and Tom’s sixtieth had already come and gone—but that in itself wouldn’t have stopped them from meeting up socially. Maybe it was the fact that they worked side by side every day.

  We can share a taxi, Geraldine had suggested, and Alice had agreed. So on the last Thursday in March, they were all dressing up and heading off to the Dunmurray Arms Hotel for a night out that probably none of them wanted.

  Stephen hated having to wear his dinner jacket and eat much later than they normally did, and he danced only when it was completely unavoidable. Geraldine would miss Dexter, and she didn’t fancy having to get up for work after a late night. And Alice and Tom had whatever was going on between them, so they were probably looking forward to it with even less enthusiasm.

  But it was for a good cause, so that was that.

  And who knew? They might even enjoy it. Geraldine had that navy dress she’d worn only once, to Aoife’s cocktail party last autumn. Hopefully, she’d still fit into it, with everything else feeling a little snug these days. She’d cut out all treats till the dinner-dance—Lent was next week anyway—and maybe desserts too.

  “I saw that Leah Bradshaw today,” she told Stephen. “She walked past the shop, all done up.”

  Fiona Bradshaw was still avoiding her at bridge, and Geraldine was pretending not to notice. All a bit awkward, really, but she had no intention of giving up her weekly game, and it wasn’t as if she and Fiona had ever been close in the past.

  “I phoned Hannah at lunchtime,” she said, “to see how Una’s first day went.”

  “Oh, yes?”

  “She did fine, apparently. Hannah will stay in the shop with her this week while she learns the ropes, and then she’ll let her off on her own after that.”

  “Good.”

  Geraldine vaguely remembered the Connolly girls, for whom Hannah had baby-sat in her teens. The parents still lived across the park in Larch Crescent, although the father rarely left the house—Parkinson’s or MS, he had—and the mother was a bit odd, would say hello to you one day and ignore you the next.

  Claire, the older girl, had had a baby a few years back. Geraldine recalled the minor scandal it had caused, remembered seeing Claire and a boy—the father, she presumed—pushing a pram, both looking like children themselves.

  But Claire was always pleasant, would smile at you when she passed, not like her mother. And Una, the younger sister, was a nice little thing too. Hannah seemed happy with her choice of assistant.

  “It’ll be great for her to have a bit of time to herself,” Geraldine said. “Take some of the pressure off her.”

  “Certainly will. Did she mention the van, how it’s running now?”

  “I forgot to ask. She would have said if it was still acting up.”

  “Hope it wasn’t a bad buy.”

  They’d gotten it cheap from one of Stephen’s patients, who had a small garage out in the country. Patrick had organized the spray-painting, and the fitting of the wooden brackets in the back to hold Hannah’s trays in place.

  They ate apple crumble—Geraldine allowed herself a small portion, now that it was made—and in due course the dishes were washed up, the fire lit, and the television switched on. Stephen played Scrabble against a virtual opponent on the computer, and the evening passed in the same way that most of their evenings did.

  And when she went upstairs, Geraldine slipped the navy dress out of the dry cleaner’s plastic sleeve and tried it on in the bathroom, and decided that desserts were definitely out for at least the next three weeks.

  Hannah sprinkled blue cheese onto her tomato soup. “I can’t believe I’m actually someone’s boss.”

  Adam took a chunk of bread from the basket. “I wanted to warm this, but I didn’t know how.”

  “Wrap it in tinfoil and put it in the oven. Did you hear what I said?”

  “About what?”

  She slapped his wrist. “Pay attention. About my having an assistant. About me being the boss.”

  Una had arrived ten minutes early. Hannah had explained how to record sales in the hard-backed notebook by the cash drawer—just put a tick in the appropriate column—and shown her where the gloves were kept—don’t forget to take them off before you handle any money—and provided a list of the main ingredients of each variety, in case anyone asked—and make sure you mention when you’re selling anything with nuts in it.

  Una had listened and nodded, and swept the floor without being asked, and insisted on making tea when Hannah mentioned that she usually had a cup around eleven.

  That’s what I’m here for, she’d said. The assistant always makes the tea.

  Adam dunked bread into his soup. “So you think you chose well?”

  “I do—she’ll be fine.”

  “And the soup?” he asked. “You think I did okay? Not too chunky?”

  She grinned. “You did very well, dear. Maybe your best meal so far.”

  They were getting more like a married couple every day.

  “Nora O’Connor is back in town.”

  It was something to say, another sentence to cut through the disapproving silence that rushed to fill any gap in their lunchtime conversation these days.

  “Who’s Nora O’Connor?” Fiona wasn’t happy with her tagliatelle today—too much sauce—which didn’t help.

  “You remember Nora, we hung around together at school. She was often in the house. She went to the States straight after doing the Leaving. She hasn’t been back since—or rather, she’s been back the odd time just to visit her parents…You don’t remember her?”

  “Can’t say I do. So she’s home for good?”

  “She’s not sure. Her marriage just broke up.” As soon as the words were out, Leah regretted them. “She’s thinking of staying in Clongarvin for a while,” she added hurriedly. “She’s looking for a job. I said I’d keep an eye out.”

  Leah hadn’t told Nora that Patrick was looking for a PA. She had instinctively kept quiet about it. Nora O’Connor had looked after herself in America. Her skin was clear, her body toned and smooth. Leah, remembering Nora’s teenage single-mindedness when it came to getting a boyfriend, had decided there was no point in inviting trouble.

  Not that she didn’t have complete trust in Patrick—those people who said that if a man is unfaithful once he’ll do it again didn’t have a clue what they were talking about. You’re the one, he’d told her. You’re my soul mate. I need you like I need food. It wasn’t Patrick she didn’t trust, it was Nora O’Connor.

  Fiona pushed her half-eaten lunch aside. “Your face is puffy,” she said to her daughter. “It’ll get worse. I went the same way on you.”

  “My ankles are swollen too,” Leah said, grateful that her mother was at least acknowledging the pregnancy. “And I’m getting heartburn a lot.”

  And I’ve gone up a bra size, and I can’t close the zip on my jeans, and for the past fortnight I haven’t been able to keep my hands off Patrick, she thought. And my breasts have become incredibly sensitive—he has only to look at them
. Leah felt a ribbon of desire flutter through her and took a hasty mouthful of lasagna. Not the time, not the place—and certainly not the company—for such confidences.

  “What’s going to happen to the salon when you have to stop working?” Fiona asked abruptly.

  “I’ll get someone to keep it ticking over until I can go back,” Leah answered. “Just for a month or so.”

  “Can you afford to pay someone?”

  “Oh, yes,” Leah said. “Part-time anyway.”

  Preferably someone who’d work for peanuts and not lose all of Leah’s remaining customers. The salon hadn’t been doing much more than ticking over for some time now, but there was no need to admit that here.

  “And who’ll look after the baby when you go back?”

  Leah decided that a joke about Fiona’s taking on the role of child minder wouldn’t go down too well. “We’ll find someone,” she said. “There are plenty of young girls who’d welcome the job, I’m sure. And I’ll just be downstairs.”

  Fiona raised her hand, and immediately a waiter appeared. Leah’s mother had always been good at attracting the attention of waitstaff. “I’ll take an espresso,” she told the waiter. “And kindly let the chef know that my tagliatelle had far too much sauce.”

  The waiter took her plate, murmuring apologetically and glancing at Leah.

  “Nothing more for me, thanks,” she told him, laying down her fork. She and Patrick often ate here when neither of them felt like cooking in the evening. The food was good and not too pricey, the chef first-generation Italian. You’d think Fiona would have kept her mouth shut, allowed them one little slipup.

  “Seen any good films lately?” Leah asked. “Any new books?” Stick to the safe topics, avoid the personal.

  Fiona shrugged. “A couple of interesting Booker nominations,” she said. “I’ll pass them on. Nothing worth mentioning at the cinema—I lasted twenty minutes at the one that got the Oscar for best director. Can’t imagine why, complete rubbish.”

  She didn’t acknowledge the waiter as he put her coffee in front of her. “So,” she said, dropping a sugar lump into the tiny cup, “have you any plans to marry this man?” Looking impassively at Leah, as if she’d asked her for the time.