Life's What You Make It

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Life's What You Make It Page 6

by Sian O'Gorman


  ‘You hate it?’

  I nodded. ‘But I don’t know why I’m telling you this,’ I said. ‘I just couldn’t lie and say it was amazing.’

  ‘I’ve had some not very nice jobs,’ Jessica said. ‘This is the best I’ve had. I’m just lucky that my husband lets me work… well, not that Damien lets me work, more like he doesn’t have a problem with me working. You know, I have two children and I could be at home…’ She seemed to be getting flustered, but she looked at me and smiled.

  ‘Well, you’re lucky,’ I said, ‘to have a job you love and you’re good at.’

  She nodded. ‘I do feel lucky,’ she said. ‘Every time I come in through that door, I feel really blessed. And your mam has taught me so much. Including drinking out of a china cup. I can’t go back now!’ She held up her cup. ‘Damien says I’ve got notions. I’ve tried to show him that it tastes nicer… well, not nicer, but it’s a nicer experience. And I bought my own mam a gorgeous Wedgwood cup and saucer for her birthday. But she’s put it straight in her glass cabinet. Refuses to use it and says she would prefer to admire it than watch it break.’

  I laughed, already really liking her. ‘How old are your children?’

  ‘Ellie-Mae is nine and Frankie is seven. My mam says she’s never seen kids with such energy. She picks them up every day from their after-school club and I collect them from hers. She’s only two streets away, we’re on Seapoint Crescent, number twenty-five, at the top of the cul-de-sac. Do you know it?’

  ‘I think so,’ I said.

  ‘Sorry for talking so much. Damien says I could talk for Ireland, or if I was on the Titanic, I’d still be talking as we went under.’ She gave another little laugh, pulling at her long hair. ‘I’m trying to get better, let others speak and not hog the airspace, as he calls it.’ She smiled. ‘Mam’s the same. The Mighty Mouthers, Damien calls us. Not to Mam’s face, because she wouldn’t be pleased.’ She laughed again and took a quick sip of her tea.

  ‘Mum says you are an amazing salesperson,’ I said.

  ‘Did she?’ Jessica savoured the compliment. ‘I do want the customer to feel amazing. Feeling is so much better than looking, do you know what I mean? It’s nice to look nice, isn’t it? But feeling nice is the bee’s knees.’ She looked at the clock on the wall. ‘I’m going on again,’ she said. ‘It’s twenty-nine minutes past. Time to unlock the door!’

  All morning, Jessica was brilliant in the shop. She could size up customers, sussing them out at a glance, knowing instinctively who was up for full-beam attention or those who needed a lighter touch. Luckily, she was so good that I didn’t have much to do and for the first couple of hours I folded jumpers and rearranged the clothes – anything to keep busy and not have too much face-to-face with the customers.

  However, one entered the shop when Jessica was busy with someone else.

  ‘Hello,’ I said, trying to look friendly and approachable, hoping she was the ‘just looking’ kind. ‘If you need anything, I’m right here.’

  ‘I need a few pieces,’ she said. ‘I have in my mind a little bit Princess Caroline of Monaco, a little bit Helen Mirren, some Gwyneth Paltrow. You, know, fresh-faced, healthy. Definitely not Camilla Parker Bowles and nothing like Mary Robinson. I always think she overdoes the polo necks…’

  ‘Okay… right…’ Jessica was still mid-customer.

  ‘And I’m a true, golden, warm spring…’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘Golden spring,’ she repeated, irritated. ‘My God. I couldn’t have been clearer about what I am looking for if I had written it out. Helen Mirren, yes. Camilla, no. Warm spring.’

  ‘What colours do you like?’

  ‘I told you,’ she said, losing patience. ‘Golden, warm spring.’

  ‘So gold?’

  ‘No! Not gold. Colours that suit those with warm spring tones. Pinks and light blues or whatever. You’re meant to be the expert.’

  Thankfully, Jessica was saying her final goodbyes to her customer and spotted that I was in difficulty. She came over to us, to both my and the customer’s relief.

  ‘Sandra!’ Jessica greeted her, smiling. ‘How are you? You are looking lovely. Are you here for anything specific?’

  ‘Helen Mirren, subtle pizzazz,’ said Sandra.

  ‘Got it.’ Jessica quickly turned around and plucked around eight items from the rails. ‘These might work?’

  Sandra’s face turned from furrowed to almost pleased. ‘Yes,’ she said, slowly, ‘yes… they might. Let me try them on.’

  She disappeared into the changing room and emerged intermittently in different outfits and Jessica would pull at them or slip a belt around a dress or a jacket. Sandra’s sour face slowly became less curdled, and a possible smile threatened to materialise.

  ‘I’ll take them all,’ she said, and I helped carry everything to the till, and as Jessica rang the items through, I folded them, wrapped them in tissue and popped them all into Nell’s paper bags.

  ‘So where,’ Jessica was saying to Sandra, ‘is Stephanie?’

  Sandra’s face flickered with pain. ‘Oh, she’s had a terrible time!’ She clutched at her throat. ‘She had a haircut which made her look like she had been shaved on some awful stag weekend. She was too embarrassed to even go out of the house. But then she overdosed after eating an entire bar of Dairy Milk. Tom…’ She threw her eyes to heaven. ‘…had left a bar in his golf bag. Which, of course, he had left in the hall just so I could trip over it. And so, poor Stephanie threw up in bed.’

  ‘Oh, that’s terrible,’ said Jessica, handing her the bags. ‘The poor little thing.’ She walked Sandra to the door. ‘Bye, Sandra, love to little Stephanie.’

  ‘Who is Stephanie?’ I said, when she had gone. ‘Her daughter?’

  Jessica laughed. ‘Oh no! Her chihuahua. The love of her life. Without Stephanie, she would be even more grumpy. But that’s customers for you,’ she went on, rehanging the dresses. ‘They are all different. You just need to know how they are different.’

  I could see exactly what Mum meant when she said Jessica was amazing. I made a note to ask her to style me when we had a quiet moment over the next few weeks.

  8

  There was a small gathering of locals in James’s Deli when I popped in to buy a sandwich at lunchtime. James, dressed in a navy apron, looked over from behind the counter and gave me a wave. ‘Hi, Olivia,’ he said. ‘How’s it going?’

  ‘Olivia!’ said Mrs O’Keefe, from the grocers, ‘welcome home, love. Your mam said you were coming.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs O’Keefe,’ I said. ‘Good to be home.’

  Bernard Murphy the butcher stood with his basket and a pile of paper-wrapped packages on the end of the counter, his sausagey hands resting proprietorially on them, his chest puffed like a toddler who has been successfully to the toilet for the first time. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘as chairperson of the Sandycove Shopkeepers Association, I too join in welcoming you home, Olivia.’

  ‘Thanks, everyone,’ I said.

  ‘But, Olivia, as someone who has newly re-entered the village, what do you think about the parking situation?’

  ‘Uh… I think there probably aren’t enough spaces.’ I assumed that was the right answer, but Bernard held up a finger.

  ‘I think we have enough spaces,’ he said. ‘But I think there should be one outside my butcher’s shop. Just for me. You never know when I might need to go somewhere. Last week, I was called to an emergency at the town hall. There was a planning-permission crisis and they needed the benefit of my experience of being a Sandycover born and bred.’

  Mrs O’Keefe nodded enthusiastically. ‘Parking is a nightmare in the village these days, with all those big cars that people like to drive. But you should walk more, Bernard. Get your heart rate up.’

  ‘My heart is at the rate of a twenty-year-old. Dr Butler ran a few tests. Said I had the physique of a much younger man.’

  Mrs O’Keefe looked impressed.

  ‘He asked me for a few
tips,’ Bernard went on, ‘keeping fit and all that. I was very good at the old aerobics once upon a time. And so I was very happy to give him the benefit of my wisdom.’

  ‘What can I get you, Olivia?’ asked James.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ I replied. ‘What would you recommend? I’m buying for Jessica as well.’

  ‘Well,’ said James. ‘She likes the chicken and green-grape wrap with crème fraîche dressing … which is good… but today’s special is goat’s cheese and apple on sourdough.’

  ‘I’ll take one of each,’ I said. ‘And some of those tomatoes… and… some of the salami… and the pasta.’ I wanted to cook dinner for Mum tonight.

  ‘Coming up,’ James said, taking his bread knife and starting to slice the loaf.

  ‘Such a handsome man,’ said Mrs O’Keefe, slyly, eyeing Bernard. ‘I was saying to some of the other ladies in the village, that it’s a long time since we had someone with those looks around here.’

  ‘Who are you talking about?’ spluttered Bernard.

  ‘Dr Butler!’ said Mrs O’Keefe. ‘You were just talking about him. He’s like Laurence Olivier in Wuthering Heights. Magnificent man.’ She stared off momentarily into the middle distance.

  ‘He does have a fine head of hair,’ Bernard agreed. ‘My father always said that you should never trust a bald man and as you can see…’ He whisked off his straw boater to reveal a thick thatch of white hair. ‘You could trust me with your life!’ He laughed heartily. ‘It’s the way I tell ’em,’ he said, laughing even harder.

  ‘Luxuriant,’ enthused Mrs O’Keefe. ‘Your hair. It has the quality of a shagpile carpet. Do you remember those, Olivia? Too young, perhaps?’

  ‘I think I know what you are talking about,’ I said.

  ‘You should ask Dr Butler,’ said Bernard. ‘He’s the fount of all knowledge, it seems.’

  ‘Maybe I will,’ said Mrs O’Keefe. ‘You went to school with Dr Butler and Dermot, didn’t you, James?’

  James nodded as he wrapped the sandwiches in white paper. ‘They were both very well behaved. Both favourites of the teachers. I remember Mr Malone telling us in assembly that we should all be a little less like the scruffy little eejits he thought we were and a lot more like the Butler boys.’

  ‘Well,’ said Bernard, ‘they had to be paragons because their father was the maths master. A difficult man, I recall. One Christmas, his turkey order had been mixed up and I had delivered him a goose instead. He didn’t take it well at all and quite lost his temper. On Christmas Eve, would you believe?’

  The door of the shop opened, and Dr Butler entered, stepping over Sammy the Labrador while Dr Butler’s Yorkie snuffled around Sammy.

  Dr Butler gave everyone a general quick smile. ‘How’s it going?’ he said to the room, and then nodding at me.

  ‘Ah!’ Bernard boomed. ‘Dr Butler! Talk of the devil! We were just remembering your wonderful father. A fine man, he was. Your mother would come in and buy the finest steak for him. Said he would eat it raw… now, that can’t have been true, can it, Dr Butler?’

  ‘He did like steak tartare,’ Dr Butler admitted. ‘He was a man of rare tastes.’

  ‘Literally!’ said Bernard, with a chortle. ‘And are you a man who likes a steak tartare?’

  Dr Butler shook his head. ‘I’m nothing like him,’ he replied, smiling politely. ‘At least I hope not.’

  ‘I do a very nice steak,’ mused Mrs O’Keefe. ‘But they have to be from Bernard. His are the finest for miles.’ She flashed him a smile which he ignored. ‘I do also remember that your father had a brain like a computer. A walking calculator! And the words he would come out with… Oh sweet mother of divine Jesus! Big ones, none I’d ever heard before or since. He was like that, being a teacher. And so handsome. Not unlike yourself. He used brilliantine on his hair, always made me think of James Mason.’

  ‘I can’t really remember much about him, to be honest,’ said Dr Butler, curtly. ‘I’m just here for lunch. What’s today, James?’

  ‘Fish pie,’ said James. ‘Does that work for you?’

  ‘Sounds great,’ replied Dr Butler. ‘Anyway, how’s the old fella doing?’ He bent down to stroke Sammy.

  ‘Ah, no change, still very slow, you know how it is.’ James handed a paper bag to Dr Butler and swiped his card.

  ‘He’s a great boy,’ said Dr Butler, standing up. ‘I’d better be getting back. See you all…’ He left the shop, Pablo at his feet.

  ‘Well!’ said Mrs O’Keefe. ‘What a handsome young man!’

  ‘So you’ve said,’ replied Bernard. ‘Repeatedly. Ad nauseous. Is it James Mason or Laurence Olivier or bloody Muffin the Mule? Anyway, I have to get on with delivering my sausages… I’ll be off.’

  James handed me my sandwiches and a bag of shopping and I passed over my card. ‘Thanks, James,’ I said.

  ‘Let me know what you think of the sandwiches,’ he said.

  ‘Bye, Olivia,’ said Mrs O’Keefe. ‘Say hello to your mam and tell her if she needs anything dropping over, to give me a call.’

  ‘Thanks, Mrs O’Keefe.’

  As I walked back to Nell’s, I realised I already felt sucked into all the little happenings and gossip of the village. London was truly a world away.

  Later, while Mum was in the front room watching the news, I was rooting in the kitchen cupboard and spotted my old orange enamel saucepan. It was right at the back, a little bit battered, the wooden handle slightly charred from a few accidents over the years. It was the one I used when I first began experimenting with beeswax and oils, melting them on the hob, stirring in rose oil and lavender, filling the room with intoxicating scents.

  If I closed my eyes, I could still smell them now. There was my lemon and almond soap or my orange and lavender body balm. I would cut slabs of soap up and wrap them in paper or pour my bath oil into bottles. It was a really happy time at the beginning, when it was simple and fun. I would dream up new combinations, thrilled when I loved them and dying to bring them to the market the following week to see what my customers thought. I never did get that chance to do something with seaweed… a salt scrub… a silky seaweed body oil, a hand cream…. I didn’t think about it very often, but being home and finding my lovely old orange saucepan brought it all back. Some people were cut out for business, but when things became tricky, I had been out of my depth.

  ‘Something smells good,’ said Mum, coming in.

  ‘Just pasta and tomato sauce,’ I said. ‘Roberto’s favourite. He says it’s the only meal he could eat every night.’

  ‘I hope he’s okay with you being away,’ said Mum.

  ‘He’s not great at feeding himself,’ I admitted. ‘His favourite meal is breakfast, and when he’s on his own, he eats it three times a day. Cereal, tea and toast, a rasher sandwich.’ I gave her a bowl of pasta. ‘More parmesan?’

  ‘Yes, please. So, how was the shop today? Did you enjoy yourself?’

  ‘It was…’ The day had been better than I could have imagined. Yes, there was that awful feeling of not being very good at something, but I had kept myself busy, tidying up and rearranging the clothes. And I absolutely loved Jessica. And eating one of James’s amazing sandwiches every day wouldn’t be a hardship. ‘You have to be half-counsellor,’ I said, ‘half-mind-reader when you work in a shop. I had no idea it was such an art.’

  Mum laughed, taking a bite to eat. ‘I wouldn’t elevate it quite that high,’ she said. ‘But I admit it’s not quite just standing around and waiting for someone to buy something. You have to have a light touch, and, more than anything, you want your customer to leave having had a nice experience, whether they have bought their dream outfit or have spent three minutes having a browse. Olivia,’ she said. ‘This is delicious. I can see why it’s Roberto’s favourite.’

  ‘Glad you like it. I can cook every night, if you like. By the way, Mum,’ I said, ‘why is the fridge full of mini bottles of wine? It looks like a hotel minibar in there.’

  ‘I find a whol
e bottle is far too much for me,’ she said, ‘and one is perfect with some left over for another evening. Henry isn’t a big drinker, so I like to just have one. Why don’t you pass one out – a red, I think – and we’ll split it between us.’

  I did as I was told. Mum held up her glass. ‘You see, perfect for two,’ she said, smiling. ‘Cheers!’

  9

  Roberto: Are you still there?

  Me: Yes.

  Roberto: Just wondering.

  Me: Are you?

  Roberto: Am I what?

  Me: Still there?

  Roberto: Just about. I have no one to watch Call My Agent with.

  Me: I’m sorry.

  Roberto: Come back so we can watch the last series.

  Me: I’ve only been gone two days.

  Roberto: Feels like a year.

  First thing the following morning, Betty Boyle from Nouveau You entered the shop.

  ‘Olivia, Jessica, good morning. All well?’ She didn’t wait for us to respond and turned to me. ‘So lovely to see you, Olivia, back in your mother’s shop. Just like my Jennifer-Louise has followed in my footsteps, carrying on the family business.’

  ‘I am just visiting, really,’ I said, but Betty wasn’t listening.

  ‘Now, I have a little news,’ she said. ‘It’s been very hard to keep this secret. I’m good at keeping secrets, but this one has been particularly hard.’ There was a smudge of pink lipstick on her teeth when she smiled. ‘Well, my Jennifer-Louise is pregnant! Yes, I am going to be a grandmother! I know! Isn’t it simply the most wonderful news you have ever heard? She and Graham are over the moon.’

 

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