by Caragh Bell
Dominic smiled. On second thoughts, that pesto thing was definitely one thing he was happy to leave behind.
Snuggling up to a cushion, he switched channels on the TV. Five minutes later, he was sound asleep.
Chapter 2
Luca Jacob lived for the moment. He didn’t think about tomorrow – with his good looks and boyish charm he sailed through life without many obstacles in his way. An only child, he had been indulged and spoilt all his life. A luxurious apartment in New York’s Upper East Side was where he called home.
Luca’s grandparents had emigrated to America after they married. There, his grandfather Henri became a founding member of a law firm. Luca’s father, Christian Jacob, had met Tara O’Sullivan in Greenwich Village in the late eighties. Bowled over by her natural beauty and Irish lilt, he had fallen desperately in love. She was on a visa for the summer, working as a waitress in an Italian restaurant. He was a Harvard law graduate, due to start his apprenticeship in his father’s firm. He ate cannelloni every night until she agreed to go out with him.
Two months later they eloped to Las Vegas, much to the disapproval of his family.
Christian’s father, Henri, who claimed he was a descendant of Louis XIV, was enraged that his only son had married a common Irish girl who hailed from the wilds of County Cork. There was talk of Christian being disowned which was eventually quelled by his devoted mother. She managed to put her disapproval aside for the sake of her son.
Luca was born a few years later, an adorable blond cherub with his mother’s blue eyes. Tara, desperate to prove herself to Christian’s rigid family, studied fine art in college. Through the guidance and support of her tutor, Alex Chensky, she blossomed into a fine painter and sculptor. Soon she was exhibiting her work in galleries around New York and by the late nineties had become very successful in her own right. Christian became a workaholic and after the death of his father was promoted to leading partner in the Joyce, Jacob and Firkin law firm. Christian and Tara grew apart; they led very different lives. The Jacob family had standing in New York society. Tara’s startling beauty and unconventional career choice caused speculation and rumours. Gossip about Tara and her mentor Alex spread like wildfire amongst the society ladies.
Luca, however, remained unscathed by all of this. His childhood was filled with nannies, weekends in the Hamptons, the adulation of his mother and above all the guidance of his widowed grandmother, Marcheline Jacob. A small, delicate French lady, she doted on her grandson and insisted that he be exposed to European culture and language. At the age of ten, she took him to Paris where they stayed in a lavish hotel near Place de l’Opéra.
He pleaded with her to take him to Disneyland Paris, much to her chagrin. Instead, they visited Musée D’Orsay, the Louvre and the Sorbonne. They climbed the hill to Montmartre and a thrilled Luca rode the carousel. They ate moules frites in a small bistro on Ile St. Louis and breakfast in Ladurée near La Place de la Concorde. After a week of non-stop monuments, museums and French influence, a satisfied Marcheline strapped her grandson into his seat on the plane.
‘I ’ope I ’ave given you a love for my country, mon petit,’ she crooned, ruffling his hair.
‘Sure, Mimi,’ he answered, smiling. ‘Next time we do Disney though, okay?’
Nearly fourteen years later, Luca decided to do an English Master’s in Cork city. His mother came from County Cork and he yearned to know more about her past as she never really talked about her childhood. Another year of study was preferable to finding a job; he didn’t want to face the real world just yet. Craig, an Irish cousin who he hadn’t seen in the flesh since they were both small kids, was studying law at the same university and had offered to share a house with him for the year. When he told Mimi, the old lady was horrified.
‘Pourquoi, mon petit, pourquoi? Why you do zees?’ she cried in despair. She had hoped he would be drawn to Paris, her native city, to continue his studies.
He laughed at her distaste. ‘Aw, Mimi, you know I want to see where Mom grew up. Plus, it’s a great university.’
Marcheline sighed. As a child he had always been headstrong. She knew it would be impossible to change his mind. She watched him sip his beer as he cheered on the Yankees on the TV. He was just so American. Sometimes she wondered if he had any French blood in him at all.
Staring out the lattice window at Central Park below, she remembered him as a little boy. He was always so bright and interested. He loved to hear her speak about her life in France and he seemed to share her interests. They had toured countless art galleries together, they had seen opera at the Met; she had tried to expose him to as much culture as she could. She loved him to distraction but he didn’t seem to have any goals. He had no direction in life. She blamed his mother – she had never exerted much discipline on the boy. Then again, Christian was always too busy for the child. Despite her advancing years, she had practically raised him herself.
Marcheline examined her beautifully manicured hands. Her simple gold wedding band remained on her finger, despite her being a widow for nearly fifteen years.
Dear Henri! How she missed him sometimes. Bien sûr, she had her charity functions and her benefits, but age was catching up with her, slowly but surely. She was still striking with her petite frame, silky grey hair and her deep brown eyes. Her taste in clothes was impeccable; she wore Chanel, always Chanel.
Best to humour him, she decided, getting to her feet. He was going to Ireland whether she liked it or not.
‘I am always ’ere for you, mon cher. You know zees.’ She ruffled his golden hair. ‘You ’ave my support.’
Jumping up, he pulled her into a massive bear hug. ‘I knew you’d come good, Mimi.’ He kissed her soft cheek.
She patted his back awkwardly. He was always so loving and open; she was not used to blatant displays of affection. This was another American trait. He had always been like this. When he was a child he would run into her arms and kiss her fiercely when she picked him up for the weekend.
Her childhood couldn’t have been more different. Raised in Paris, she had been sent to a private boarding school at the age of ten and then to finishing school in Switzerland. All she could remember of her parents was that her father was never at home and her mother liked to drink a lot of champagne. When she returned to the family home during school holidays, the nanny was her main carer. She had little or no experience of family life.
An only child, she was a catch in Parisian society. Her family, the Durands, were a leading political family in France at the time. She was paraded around at parties, her parents desperate for her to marry well. She met Henri at the age of twenty-one and surprisingly fell in love. This made the marriage far nicer than she had expected.
A yell from Luca brought her back to the present. ‘Out!’ he roared at the TV. ‘That was out, you asshole!’
The old lady winced. The language the young people used nowadays! It was positively choquant.
Luca arrived in late August to his mother’s country of birth. His plane landed in Shannon Airport on a glorious sunny day. The hills were lush and green, the air was clear and the sky was the same blue as his mother’s eyes. He travelled by bus to Cork City where his cousin Craig Dillon picked him up.
‘Luca, welcome!’ Craig thumped him on the back. ‘I can’t believe you’re moving here from a place like the States!’
‘Hi, buddy,’ said Luca, shaking his cousin’s hand warmly. ‘Great to meet you again – not that I remember meeting you the first time!’
‘Christ, we were only about three at the time – we’d hardly remember! But, sure, we’ll make up for it now.”
‘We sure will. Hope you found us a nice place to live?’
Craig raised an eyebrow. ‘Nice? I suppose it’s nice enough. I saved the best room in the house for you.’
Luca grinned. ‘I’m sure you did.’
They walked companionably towards Craig’s car. Buses drove by, emitting warm exhaust fumes. Cars revved impatiently as they wa
ited to cross the busy intersection at St. Patrick’s Bridge.
‘This year will be busy, huh?’ Luca grinned at his cousin. ‘But you know what they say, man – all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.’
‘Yeah, I heard that. Don’t worry. We’ll have fun too. It’s still college.’
They reached Craig’s Toyota Corolla.
‘Nice ride,’ Luca observed.
‘Really? It belonged to my uncle. He sold it to me for a hundred quid a few years ago.’
‘Hey, I mean it, man! It rocks. I don’t have a set of wheels.’
‘You don’t need one in New York, I’d imagine.’ Craig opened the boot. ‘Fire your bag in there.’
Luca flung in his bag and closed the boot with a bang.
‘Okay, let’s go.’ Craig hopped in and started the engine.
They arrived at an old house around the corner from the main gates of the university. It had three storeys and the walls were a strange green colour. The windows were grimy from the passing traffic and the old oak door had a rusty doorknob. Luca stared at the overgrown garden and thought of his grandmother. He could not imagine Marcheline in this environment.
‘Home sweet home!’ announced Craig, opening the front door.
Luca inhaled the smell in the hallway and grimaced. It smelt of old socks. No, it was worse. Like old socks mixed with trash.
‘Holy shit, man, this place stinks!’
‘You’ll get used to it.’ Craig dragged Luca’s bag upstairs.
‘This is my room,’ he said, pointing to a brown door. ‘Yours is on the top storey.’
‘The penthouse, huh?’
‘Yeah, something like that.’
Minutes later, Luca stared at the tiny attic room. ‘You’re joking, right?’
Craig shrugged. ‘It’s either that or move home to my parents’ place.’
Luca ran his hand through his hair. ‘How am I supposed to bring girls back here?’
Craig laughed. ‘Go to their place.’
Luca dumped his bag on the floor. ‘Let’s get out of here. You want to get a beer?’
‘Okay, just give me a sec. I’ll text the lads to meet us.’
Luca opened the dormer window to let some fresh air into the room. It was a far cry from the penthouse he was used to, but he didn’t care. He was free. Free from the pressures of his family, free to explore life, free from the ancien régime. His father’s image floated into his mind. He’d show him. He’d prove that he was worth something.
‘Come on, Luca!’
Snapping out of it, he grabbed his jacket. ‘You got it.’
He bounded down the stairs.
Chapter 3
‘Lydia!’
Lydia stopped and looked around the crowded student centre. It was Freshers’ Week and the university was buzzing. Flyers for parties and pub promotions littered the ground and, after a summer of relative tranquillity, the campus was vibrant once more.
‘Lydia! Wait up!’
Samantha burst out of a crowd of earnest-looking first years and straightened her dress. Her cropped brown hair was dishevelled from the wind and her normally sallow cheeks were tinged with pink from the cold. Her small frame was clad in a black trouser suit and she had the added height of black stiletto boots. Her dark-brown eyes were circled with kohl and a gold bracelet dangled from her wrist. She looked like a contestant from The Apprentice:professional and capable.
Lydia smiled. She couldn’t get used to the fact that her best friend had a real grown-up job. She was more accustomed to seeing Samantha in jeans and brightly coloured jumpers.
They had been friends since playschool. A fight over a rag doll had brought them together and they had been friends ever since. All through primary school they stuck together, though all the trials and tribulations of the school yard. When Michelle Ryan had tripped Lydia during a game of hopscotch, it was Samantha who had pushed Michelle onto the grass and pummelled her. When Denis O’Shea broke Samantha’s heart by going off with Alice Holland at the Town Hall disco, it was Lydia who had berated him.
Samantha was the rational one; Lydia was the dreamer. Together they worked. All through college they had lived together, through all the ups and downs. It came as no surprise when Samantha opted for teaching after their graduation. They both knew that she was born to do it.
Lydia, on the other hand, was another story. Her future was not as planned out.
‘Jeez, it’s so bloody busy in here,’ Samantha complained as a long-haired man with a leather jacket pushed her to the side.
‘Tell me about it,’ agreed Lydia, pushing the door open with all her might.
The cold air hit them like a slap.
‘God, I don’t miss this place. Give me the real world anytime,’ reflected Samantha as they strolled through the quad. ‘School was crazy today. I was teaching the imperfect tense to third years and there was a fire drill.’
Lydia made a face. ‘The imperfect tense? Yuk. That reminds me of Sister Angelica and her terrible French accent.’
Samantha laughed. ‘I hope that I’m more inspiring than old Angie.’
But Lydia wasn’t listening. Instead she was staring over at a group of students by the entrance to the Old Bar, the most popular pub on campus.
‘Good God, is that Colin?’ she exclaimed.
Samantha narrowed her eyes. ‘I think so. I mean, what other guy would wear a hot-pink ski jacket?’
The girls giggled as they headed in Colin’s direction.
‘Lydia! Babycakes! And the lovely Samantha! How are you both?’
Next moment the girls were smothered in Hugo Boss.
‘I was about to text you – any chance you two could come to dinner later?’ Colin picked up his Chloe satchel. ‘I have a friend calling over, this guy from my salsa class. I could do with somebody to break the ice.’
‘Oh, really?’ asked Samantha slyly. ‘A love interest? What’s his name?’
Colin blushed. ‘His name is … Val.’
Lydia didn’t dare look at Samantha. ‘Val? As in Valerie?’
‘No!’ Colin looked affronted. ‘As in Valentine.’
Samantha snorted. ‘Valentine? Are you serious?’
‘A rose by any other name would smell as sweet!’ said Colin, rolling his eyes theatrically. ‘Anyway, Valentine is a bona fide name. He was a saint! Valentine’s Day? Like, hello?’
‘You don’t say!’ Lydia mocked. ‘So, is he good? At dancing, I mean?’
‘Amazing.’ Colin nodded furiously. ‘All jokes aside, he’s hot!’
‘We’ll be there,’ said Lydia. ‘This I can’t miss. Around seven?’
‘Yeah. Bring a bottle of red. Chianti will do.’ Colin disappeared up the stairs of the pub.
Two hours later, Lydia was sitting in front of her make-up mirror which was perched on a creaky shelf in her new room.
‘Sam, do you have some mascara I could borrow?’
A make-up bag came flying in Lydia’s door and landed on her bed.
‘Thanks.’
A few minutes later she surveyed her appearance.
Not bad at all, she thought, shaking her long dark hair so that it framed her face.
Lydia was very attractive, a fact she was not overly aware of. Her green eyes were large and framed with long, dark eyelashes. She had a heart-shaped face and long shiny hair that she tended to wear loose. Naturally slim, she had an eye for clothes.
Dominic was her first real boyfriend. Sure, she’d had flings with the local boys, but nothing as serious as her present relationship. He was gorgeous with his long, lithe body and his thick dark hair. She loved the way her legs turned to jelly when he touched her, the way his chocolate-brown eyes crinkled when he laughed and his wacky sense of humour. And she loved the way he slotted into her life so easily – the way her family adored him.
They had travelled to Cuba during the summer and toured the island. Dominic had always been a big fan of Che Guevara and was thrilled when he saw random paintings of hi
s hero painted on walls along the way. The tropical beaches and aquamarine water had been so idyllic. They had even sailed on a catamaran out to an uninhabited island and made love on the beach.
She sighed and fingered the picture of them swimming with dolphins that was pinned on the wall.
Enough moping, she scolded herself. He will be down in four days.
Gathering her coat and bag, she switched off the light.
‘Ready, Sam?’
‘On the way!’
‘Lasagne al forno!’ announced Colin, in a heavy Italian accent.
‘Thanks, Gino Ginelli.’ Samantha smiled as he plonked a steaming dish on the table. Thick, aromatic ragu was seeping out over the top of the Pyrex dish and the smell of garlic, basil and oregano permeated the room.
‘Wow, Col, this looks fantastic!’ exclaimed Lydia, thinking of her own signature dish and wincing. There was no denying it, the boy could cook.
Colin joined his three guests around his dining-room table. A Barbra Streisand CD played softly in the background.
‘So, Val, are you in college?’ Lydia held out her plate and looked politely at Colin’s guest.
‘No, I graduated last year. I’m an engineer but my heart has always been on the stage. I decided to pack in my job and try to make it in the acting world.’
Lydia’s eyes widened.
Colin looked at Val proudly.
‘Isn’t he fabulous?’ he mouthed at the girls.
Lydia giggled.
‘So, are you in a play right now?’ asked Samantha, helping herself to some salad.
Val nodded. ‘I’m playing Mike Glavin in Sive. It’s a small part but at least I have my foot in the door.’
‘We’ll come to see you, won’t we, girls?’ announced Colin, fixing his eyes on Lydia.
‘Of course we will,’ she said. ‘When will it be running?’