Life's What You Make It

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Life's What You Make It Page 17

by Sian O'Gorman


  ‘It’s Mary Talbot,’ she said. ‘Everyone was talking about the argument at the golf club. It was the talk of the village. There was this special golf dinner and everyone was dressed up to the nines, all Nouveau You dresses, that kind of thing, and she discovers her husband had been sleeping with her best friend for the last fifteen years. Threw a golf trophy at him. A big one apparently, with a lid and handles, and everything.’

  ‘Wow.’

  ‘And she’s loaded. Owns her own estate agency.’

  Mary Talbot emerged, sunglasses on and dressed in a collarless black leather jacket.

  ‘Oh my God,’ I breathed. ‘It’s Arnold Schwarzenegger.’

  ‘Good morning, Mary,’ said Jessica, ‘how’s everything with you?’

  ‘I was lost but now I’m found!’ Mary announced, slipping off her sunglasses. ‘And I need clothes to tell the world who I now am. I have survived hell and my life is not what it was, and nor am I. No longer the beige and peach woman I once was. I am woman scorned. Hear me roar!’

  ‘Roar away,’ said Jessica. ‘Sometimes you have to just let it out.’

  Mary nodded. ‘Tell me about it. But I’ve been through the crying, the disbelief, the anger… I am now at the transition stage, ready to step into my new existence. I need clothes that make me look ten years younger and as though I am at the top of my game.’

  ‘Any particular occasion?’ I ventured.

  ‘Yes, the occasion called LIFE!’ Mary threw herself down on the chaise longue. ‘And Revenge,’ she said. ‘Empowerment. I will not be erased! I will not be scorned!’

  Jessica nodded, ‘I think I know exactly what you need. First of all, a cup of camomile tea.’

  This was Jessica’s realm and although I may have had a fleeting success with Catherine’s boiler suit, when it came to a life overhaul, Jessica’s expertise was what was required. I became the assistant, making the tea, running to get a cashmere jumper, a pair of ecru jeans, a lovely shirt… and whatever else was decreed as Mary hopped in and out of the dressing room, staring at herself in the mirror, seeing if the image matched the fire inside. The pile of tried-on clothes grew higher as I raced to rehang everything. Finally – miraculously – Mary reappeared smiling.

  ‘This,’ she said, pointing to her all-black trouser suit, studded ankle boots and a low-cut black silk shirt. ‘And that, and that, and those…’ She pointed to all the other items she wanted.

  Jessica gave me a quick wink.

  ‘How do you feel now?’ said Jessica.

  ‘How do I feel? How do I feel?’ Mary strutted around for a while. ‘I feel incredible. And what’s more? I look incredible.’

  There was a face at the window, the nose squashed against the glass.

  ‘Who is it?’ I said.

  Jessica squinted. ‘It’s Betty!’ She went to the door. ‘Come in, Betty,’ she said. ‘Is everything all right?’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course!’ Betty followed Jessica into the shop. ‘I was just walking past and I noticed Mary Talbot in with you.’ She turned to Mary, her face liked a sucked lemon. ‘Mary, I thought you were one of my ladies.’ She paused. ‘I thought you were a Nouveau You woman. Not a Nell’s… client.’

  Mary turned to face Betty. ‘Ah, Betty,’ she said, imperiously. ‘I was once a patron of Nouveau You but no longer.’ She turned back to Jessica. ‘Will you wrap all of these up for me? Thank you!’

  ‘But, Mary,’ stuttered Betty, ‘I’ve been dressing you for years! We have a rapport, an understanding. I know your colours. I have two beautiful dresses laid aside for you. Would you like to come and try them on? This place…’ she waved her hand around, ‘is fine… I love Nell, as you know, but Nouveau You is for a different type of lady. A cut-above kind of lady. Like you, Mary.’

  Mary stood there, not really looking at or listening to Betty. Jessica was scanning each item, and I was wrapping each in tissue paper and sliding them into the bags.

  ‘Betty, did you know about my husband and Monica?’

  ‘No! Of course I did not!’

  ‘But you and Monica are in the same book group. The very same book group which I have it on very good authority has never in its history ever read an actual book. Instead, this book group is a viper’s nest of white wine and gossip. And I have heard that on every first Thursday of every month, each of you has to be poured into a taxi at the end of the book group.’

  ‘That’s a scandalous thing to say!’ spluttered Betty.

  ‘And I also know that it was at this book group that Monica confessed to you all that she had been sleeping with my husband.’

  ‘Who told you this? It’s an outrageous slur!’

  ‘Monica told me everything. She came to my house three nights ago, drunk and disorderly, begging my forgiveness. I asked who in the village knew and she confessed to wine loosening her tongue at your illiterate book group!’

  Betty looked like a chipmunk who had just been slapped. ‘But…’

  ‘So, in conclusion, I will not be frequenting your establishment ever again.’ She turned to us at the till, handing over her card. ‘Thank you, ladies. And it’s a lovely shop. Much nicer than the overpriced and unfashionable Nouveau You. I will be making sure that my friends – my real friends – hear my thoughts.’

  We handed over the five paper bags full of her new clothes.

  ‘Goodbye, ladies, thank you,’ Mary said to us, and then stood for a moment while Betty blocked her way. Eventually, Betty moved to one side and Mary was gone, into her Mercedes outside the door.

  ‘Betty,’ I began, but she held up her hand.

  ‘I don’t want to talk about it!’ she said, and stalked off.

  ‘Oh my God,’ I said, to Jessica.

  ‘I know,’ she said. ‘It’s suddenly so hot in here!’ She was slipping off her jacket. At the top of her arm was something strange. A bruise. A big one, which stretched from the front of her arm and reached up her sleeve to God knows where. It looked like someone had grabbed her. Hard.

  ‘Jess…’

  She looked up and saw my face and quickly moved away, reaching for her jacket. ‘Mary really looked great, didn’t she?’ she said, her big smile back on, swiftly covering up again and tossing her hair back as though nothing had happened.

  ‘Jess…’ I tried again.

  ‘It’s nothing,’ she said, looking me straight in the eye. ‘Absolutely nothing.’ And for a moment, I thought I had imagined it, my eyes playing tricks, or the light in the shop, a shadow, a blink of the eye.

  21

  After work, I called for Bronagh. It was only five days to the festival and I was already feeling a little anxious. Going through everything with Bronagh was the only way to double-check everything. The weather had been fine for weeks… would it rain by Saturday? I was wearing out the weather app on my phone, and so far it kept predicting ‘fine and sunny’.

  Bronagh’s secretary waved me through and I waited for Bronagh on a small sofa inside her large open-plan office.

  ‘There in a moment!’ Bronagh mouthed, before returning to her phone call. ‘Danke sehr… ja, ja…’ She laughed. ‘Ja, ich stimme dir zu.’ She laughed again. ‘Ja, ja… sehr gut… ja… okay, tschüss, auf wiedersehen!’ She put the phone down and smiled at me. ‘Berlin,’ she explained. ‘The library. I’ll have to go over soon, to sign off on it.’ It always impressed me quite how successful Bronagh was. She made it all look so easy and yet I knew how hard she’d worked over the years. My phone rang.

  ‘Olivia O’Neill? It’s Sandra from Party People.’ She had the kind of voice that was more nose than mouth. ‘We can’t do the chairs you ordered. So sorry…’ She didn’t sound very sorry. ‘Turns out,’ she went on, ‘Bono is having an impromptu family celebration and we can’t let Bono down, can we?’ She gave a giggle which incensed me. The blood rose to my face. ‘Bono is an international rock star… and well… when I think about what he’s done for the country.’

  ‘But this is a community gathering,’ I said. ‘Far more
important than a family party. Even if he is famous.’

  ‘But Bono is a very important client of ours,’ she said. ‘We never let repeat clients down. It’s the DNA of the business. So…’

  I was under the impression that she was about to end the conversation, leaving the festival chair-less. I thought of Shirley just out of hospital and all our other attendees. They weren’t going to be able to stand all evening. I summoned everything I had ever learned from Maribelle.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I said, in my most calm voice, ‘I am quite happy to ring Bono myself and tell him what you are doing. Bono and I are friends from the old days. It was my grandfather actually who gave Bono his very first guitar and told him he didn’t have a bad voice.’

  I might as well invent members of my tribe, I thought. These ghosts in my family may as well come in useful.

  ‘In fact, it was my father Joseph Delaney who gave Bono his first leather jacket. Before, he was a denim-jacket kind of man, and once he put on the leather one, he was transformed.’

  It could be true, I thought. It wasn’t totally beyond the realms.

  ‘He won’t be pleased to hear that you are denying the community of Sandycove their festival because you don’t have enough chairs. I’m going to have to call him straight away.’

  Sandra paused. ‘Deckchairs,’ she said, quietly. ‘Would you be happy with deckchairs?’

  ‘What kind?’

  ‘Wooden sling ones,’ she said. ‘They are very nice, actually.’ Her laugh had a slightly nervous quality to it. ‘We were holding them for a garden party but I can move a few things around and have them with you on the Saturday afternoon. We’ll collect first thing Sunday.’

  ‘Okay.’ Maribelle, I knew, wouldn’t settle for anything until she was happy she had won everything possible. ‘Anything else? It would be good to have a choice of seating.’

  ‘Benches,’ she said. ‘Log benches. We have some we use for barn dances, country weddings and festivals. They’re very nice and surprisingly comfortable.’

  ‘Perfect,’ I said. ‘Thank you, Sandra. And I’ll be letting Bono know how helpful you have been to an old friend.’

  ‘You’re very welcome,’ she said. ‘Good to be doing business with you.’

  I felt bad when I put down the phone, but organising a whole festival with a minimum amount of time was obviously going to take a little bit of Machiavellian trickery, learned from the mistress of them, Maribelle. She would look you straight in the eye and lie about the colour of the sky.

  ‘Ready now!’ called Bronagh.

  ‘Fancy a drink?’ I asked. ‘Or a walk? Or an ice cream? But preferably a drink.’

  ‘I want a drink too,’ she replied. ‘Even if it is Monday. Actually, especially because it is Monday.’

  ‘Come on then,’ I said. ‘Nice German, by the way.’

  ‘I thought it was Spanish,’ she smirked. ‘Must have a word with my teacher. Anyway…’ She stood up and took her jacket from the rack. ‘I’ve been thinking that, despite my humiliating experience of being dumped by Paul, I’m not going to feel sorry for myself. In fact, I will celebrate never having to watch another film with Dr Spock or the other one, whatever his name is…’

  ‘Obi-Wan Kenobi?’ I suggested, having searched in the recesses of my brain. ‘Or is that the other film? Who’s the little one?’

  ‘George Takei?’ Bronagh suggested, just as I said ‘Yoda?’

  ‘We’re both as bad as each other,’ she said, as we walked onto the street. ‘But we’ve come this far without having seen Star Wars, so I think we’ll survive.’

  I was thinking of Jessica and that bruise and the look on her face. Could she have just got it from the kids? Weren’t children pretty full on with their pulling and tugging? Or could she have got it from… What, Olivia, I asked myself, walking into a door?

  ‘So, regarding the festival, I’ve made my calls, you’ve made yours,’ said Bronagh. ‘The Mexican food truck is booked…’

  ‘The DJ is available,’ I said, ‘as is the ballet troupe who are only too delighted to dress up as midsummer fairies…’

  ‘And the tin whistle orchestra, the ukulele orchestra and the ice cream van are all available.’

  ‘And James says he will have a wine stall,’ I added. ‘He and Alison are going to be serving tapas.’

  ‘Poor James,’ said Bronagh. ‘I met him earlier. He was telling me he has phantom dog syndrome…’

  ‘Is that a real thing?’

  Bronagh nodded. ‘It’s when you imagine your dog is still alive. You can hear it breathing and panting and you can sense it’s there, but when you reach down to pat it, there’s nothing. I don’t know what I’m going to do when Mies dies… I’ll have phantom cat syndrome and I’ll think the pile of clothes at the end of my bed is him.’ She had tears in her eyes. ‘You see,’ she said, ‘I am far more upset at the thought of Mies dying than Paul breaking up with me. I can’t bear to think about it. Can we talk about the festival again?’

  ‘So, James and his phantom dog are all set,’ I said. ‘He’s going to serve Irish wine. Apparently, one is from the Blackwater Valley Vineyard and another from Lusk and something from Kinsale.’

  She shrugged. ‘Patriotic wine. Why not?’

  ‘And Matt from The Island is setting up a cocktail bar. Says it’s a chance to practise some of his bottle-tossing skills. He’s also going to design a special midsummer mocktail for the kids, something with strawberries.’

  ‘Do you think everyone is going to just get really, really drunk?’ asked Bronagh.

  ‘Of course not,’ I said. ‘It’s a family event. We’ve got a bouncy castle and face-painting, but a bit of alcohol will just lubricate the wheels of social interaction.’

  ‘And maybe a small amount of alcohol will make people a little more appreciative of the tin whistle orchestra.’

  ‘Exactly,’ I said. ‘Anyway, don’t worry, the kids will be long gone before the serious drinkers arrive.’

  ‘By the way,’ said Bronagh. ‘I need another favour. Would you mind coming with me to collect my mother from her Botox appointment on Wednesday evening?’

  ‘Botox?’

  ‘No one must know, though. But I can’t go on my own because she’s particularly sensitive after each appointment – emotionally and mentally. Feels very vulnerable and tends to take it out on me. So I need you there to make sure she behaves herself.’

  ‘Of course I’ll come,’ I said. ‘But won’t she be annoyed if I am there and no one is meant to know?’

  ‘I’ll make something up and I’ll say you won’t say a word.’ She seemed relieved. ‘I’ve been dreading it,’ she said. ‘Last time, she alternately shouted and cried all the way home and told me that I’d always been difficult to get on with.’

  ‘Bronagh…’

  She shrugged. ‘I know, I know… but she’s my mother. I just want everything to be nice between us, like you and your mum. You’re so lucky.’

  ‘But she can’t talk to you like that,’ I said.

  ‘I know. I really want to get better at standing up to her. But Mark has moved back home and she’s spending all her time looking after him. She’s been making him all his favourite meals, which turn out to be quite complicated roast dinners. I called in the other night and she was in the kitchen with five pans boiling away and an entire pig in the oven. He has been smoking in his bedroom and set fire to one of his curtains so she had to go and buy a new set, plus a flouncy pelmet, and the state he leaves the bathroom in is unspeakable. Yesterday, I found her on her hands and knees scrubbing the toilet wearing rubber gloves and an old shirt of Dad’s and my old science goggles. She said she couldn’t let the cleaner deal with it.’

  ‘Oh dear…’

  ‘I know. She’s pretending she loves having him home, but I know that she’s doing it all through gritted teeth. I think she knows that he’s useless but can’t admit it because she’d have to accept her share of the blame for his general fecklessness. So she’s more on
edge than normal, and I have to be extra nice to her when I collect her from her Botox appointment.’

  ‘I’ll be there,’ I said.

  ‘Thank you.’ She gave me a grateful smile.

  Across the road, a crowd had gathered outside Bernard Murphy’s butcher’s shop, his boomy voice floating on the air and then the thwacking sound as though someone was chopping down a tree.

  ‘He’s giving one of his meat masterclasses,’ said Bronagh. ‘Showing off his butchering skills. They’ve become quite popular with women of a certain age.’

  ‘Meat is an essential part of Irish life,’ Bernard was saying. ‘Show me an Irish vegetarian and I will show you either a liar or someone in need of a good feed!’

  His all-female audience seemed to be something of a fan club and everything he said was received with a titter of appreciation. Bernard was clearly enjoying himself.

  ‘Dinner is simply not dinner without a good piece of meat,’ he proclaimed. ‘Now, I am a nose-to-tail man.’ There was another titter. ‘Ladies, please!’ said Bernard. ‘I know some men are breast men, or leg men…’ He held up a hand to stop the chuckling. ‘I am talking meat.’ He winked. ‘Obviously. But! If you were to ask my preference, then it’s rump all the way!’ Again, he held up his hand as the laughter threatened to boil over into hysteria. ‘I like something to get my teeth into!’

  One woman was wiping her eyes, another was gasping for breath, and a third was sinking to her knees.

  ‘I need a volunteer,’ Bernard shouted. ‘Anyone like to come and have a go at my haunch?’

  Cue more tittering and laughing, as Mrs O’Keefe elbowed her way to the front.

  ‘Now, I don’t always get such a gaggle in the shop,’ said Bernard, his straw boater pushed back off his head, ‘but I feel a little like a gander with my geese!’ There was more laughing as he turned around to waggle his backside at the increasingly appreciative crowd. ‘Right, Mrs O’Keefe,’ he said, his face redder than normal as he passed her a meat mallet. ‘You are going to tenderise my rump!’ He paused as the tittering reached fever pitch. ‘Ladies! Please!’

 

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