However, he said nothing to Deirdre and allowed her to lead him across the graveyard to the black Daimler that was waiting. A nice car, thought Fred professionally. Great suspension. Very smooth. He got inside. A few minutes later his two sons and his daughter got in beside them. Nobody said a word as the car pulled away out of the cemetery. They’d never been good at communication, and today, Fred knew, wasn’t the day that things would suddenly change.
The mourners had been asked back to Donald and Deirdre’s house in Clontarf, where she’d arranged to have soup and sandwiches waiting for them. Fred had been happy to allow her to organise the refreshments because he hadn’t wanted anyone back at Furze Hill. Not without Ros. He sat on a chair in the corner and listened while people talked about his late wife and said how wonderful she’d been. They were right, of course. She had been wonderful, and Fred suddenly wished that he’d bothered to tell her when she was alive how much he’d appreciated her and loved her. She’d probably known anyway. He comforted himself with the thought. Ros had understood him. She’d married him for the man he was, not the man he should have been.
His three children were standing in a group. It was the first time they’d been together in almost ten years, because it was the first time Suzanne had been home in that long. Ros had blamed Fred for that, but he didn’t blame himself. Suzanne had always been, and still was, difficult. The youngest of his three children, she’d caused far more trouble than Donald and Gareth. She was headstrong and opinionated, wouldn’t listen to him, wouldn’t live within the rules he laid down. Fred was a great believer in having rules and regulations, but Suzanne used to scoff at him as she broke them. Although in many ways she reminded him of himself, her stubbornness was a constant source of anger to him. He watched as she said something to Donald, who gestured dismissively. He wondered what they were talking about, what catching-up they felt they had to do. Perhaps they were sharing stories about Ros. They’d all loved their mother, he was pretty sure about that. And equally sure that they’d loved her more than they loved him. She’d always been there for them. He hadn’t.
There was a lot of emphasis put on ‘being there’ these days. But the truth was you couldn’t be there every single time; sometimes you were too busy doing other things, important things, things that mattered. All this being there stuff was happy-clappy nonsense, Fred thought, not allowing his thoughts to travel that road. Lot of good his being there for them would have been if there hadn’t been a roof over their heads
Suzanne glanced in his direction and for a moment the two of them looked at each other. He couldn’t read her expression, but he was pretty sure there wasn’t any forgiveness in it. He admired that in her. He admired the fact that she’d gone away, hadn’t come back and still hated him. (Perhaps hate was too strong a word, but she certainly didn’t love him.) If he was being strictly honest with himself, he was probably prouder of Suzanne than he was of the boys. She’d never compromised. Not for a single moment.
‘I should probably talk to him.’ Suzanne turned away from her father and back to her brothers.
‘Be nice,’ said Gareth. ‘It was a shock for him.’
‘And it wasn’t for the rest of us?’
‘You don’t have to carry chips on both shoulders,’ said Donald.
‘It keeps me balanced.’ Suzanne made a face and Donald laughed. It was the first time any of them had laughed since Ros’s death.
‘I’ve learned to live with mine,’ said Gareth.
‘You have chips?’ Suzanne looked at him in surprise. ‘What on earth about?’
‘About how I was treated by him.’
‘Huh?’ As far as Suzanne remembered, the boys had got off far more lightly than her. Gareth surely had no reason to complain about how he’d been treated by Fred.
‘He always thought I was gay, you know.’
‘What?’ She smiled as she looked around the room and saw Gareth’s elegant French wife, Lisette, pregnant with their first child.
‘Because I didn’t like Gaelic football and pints of Guinness,’ said Gareth. ‘Because I chose to do a poncey degree – his term – instead of working with him. Because I read the broadsheets and not the tabloids.’
‘Noah’s Ark would’ve been way too socially inclusive for the likes of Dad,’ remarked Suzanne.
‘He does his best,’ said Donald.
‘So speaks the favourite,’ Suzanne said.
‘I’m not,’ protested Donald.
‘You did what he wanted and went into business with him. It would have been Fitzpatrick and Son if there’d been a family name on the company,’ said Gareth.
‘There were no other jobs at the time,’ Donald pointed out.
‘But you liked working for him, didn’t you?’ asked Suzanne.
‘Are you mad?’ Donald looked at her in disbelief. ‘He was a total slave-driver. Always criticising me, always wanting things done differently.’
‘Sounds familiar,’ agreed Suzanne. ‘But it must have worked out. Didn’t the new crowd keep you on as a director?’
‘Yes. But it’s very different from the old days. It’s all meetings and strategies and targets … the aul’ fella is well out of it.’
‘He did OK out of the sale, didn’t he?’ observed Suzanne. ‘It made him richer than I’m sure he ever thought possible.’
‘He blew a vast chunk on that bloody house.’ Donald made a face. ‘Such a waste.’
‘He’s entitled to spend it on himself if he wants,’ said Gareth. ‘It’s not like any of us need his money.’
‘How’s Dad’s own health?’ Suzanne ignored the sudden look her brothers had exchanged.
‘Do you care?’ asked Donald.
Her tone was impatient. ‘Of course I care.’
‘He seems well enough.’
‘All the same, without Mam, it’s hard to know how long he’ll keep going,’ said Gareth.
‘It is a mystery to me how well your father is.’ Lisette, who’d joined them in time to hear Gareth’s comment, made her own assessment of Fred’s health. ‘He eats all the wrong things, drinks too much and smokes.’
‘I suppose we all need some vices.’ Suzanne looked over at Fred, who was pouring a generous measure of Powers whiskey into a glass. ‘Though he has more than his fair share.’
‘He’s not that bad,’ said Donald.
Neither Suzanne nor Gareth responded, and Donald shrugged.
‘He’s getting on,’ he said. ‘You’ve got to make allowances.’
‘Maybe.’ Gareth didn’t sound convinced.
‘Hope he doesn’t drink himself to death,’ remarked Donald as Fred downed the whiskey in one gulp and poured himself another.
‘You can’t kill a bad thing,’ Suzanne told him. ‘Besides, he likes being a thorn in our sides.’ She glanced towards Fred again, and her father, catching her look, raised his glass to her, a mocking expression on his face.
Suzanne turned away. She was glad she’d left. She was glad he didn’t have power over her any more.
Chapter 3
San Francisco, California: 8 years ago
When the door to the art gallery in Geary Street opened, Abbey Andersen immediately switched her computer screen from the game of solitaire she was playing (and losing) to the generic one which carried the gallery’s logo. But when she looked up and saw the person who’d walked in, her eyes widened in surprise.
‘Pete,’ she said. ‘What on earth are you doing here?’
‘Don’t sound so pleased to see me.’ Pete Caruso, a tall, balding man in his early fifties, walked past the paintings hanging on the walls without looking at them and sat on the edge of the enormous glass table that Abbey was using as a desk.
‘You don’t often drop by. And I’m delighted to see you,’ she added hastily. ‘As my father figure you’re always welcome. But as a customer …’ her eyes twinkled, ‘you’re way down the pecking order!’
‘I am, am I?’ Pete took a moment to study the art that he’d just ignore
d and then looked at her. ‘Anything you recommend?’
‘There’s always this,’ said Abbey as she stood up and reached behind her desk. She selected a framed painting which had been leaning against the wall. ‘He’s a new artist, going to be huge.’
Pete studied the painting. ‘It’s a blue dot on a pink background,’ he said finally.
‘Got it in one.’
‘So why would I buy that?’
‘Because you can look at it as a blue dot on a pink background,’ said Abbey. ‘Or you can interpret it as how one small thing can affect something much greater.’
‘You’re jerking my chain.’ Pete scratched his head as he stared at the painting.
Abbey grinned. ‘Slightly. But it’s true that he’s becoming more popular, and it’s a good price.’
‘How much?’
‘A thousand dollars,’ Abbey told him.
‘That’s a joke, right?’
‘Not at all. And with the discount I can give you, it’s yours for nine hundred.’
‘I didn’t come in here to buy a painting,’ said Pete.
‘But you will one day.’
‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘Though not blue dots on pink backgrounds. You know me, honey, I like proper pictures.’
‘Oh, Pete.’ Abbey shook her head in mock despair. ‘I’m doing my best to drag you into the twenty-first century, but you’re not making it easy.’
‘I know what I like,’ said Pete stubbornly. ‘Anyway, if I wanted abstract, I’d go for something with more bite. Speaking of bites,’ he added. ‘The real reason I dropped by was to ask you if you wanted to have lunch with me.’
Abbey looked disappointed. ‘I’m sorry, Pete. I can’t, I’ve got to work.’
‘Isn’t today your half-day?’
‘It is,’ said Abbey. ‘From the gallery. But I’m due at the salon as soon as I finish up here.’
Pete frowned. ‘I thought you were giving up that job.’
‘And why would I do that?’ asked Abbey. ‘I like it and I make more money there than I ever could here. There aren’t any tips at the gallery, you know.’
‘Don’t you get a nice bonus if you sell a painting?’
‘Hmm. Theoretically. But I don’t sell that many paintings. I’m only part-time, after all.’
‘How much did you say that silly blue dot was?’ Pete reached into his jacket and took his wallet out of his top pocket. He extracted an AmEx card and handed it to her.
Abbey smiled at him. ‘That’s sweet of you, Pete. But I can’t let you buy a painting you don’t want or like just so’s I make some commission.’
‘You were perfectly prepared to hard-sell it to me a few minutes ago,’ protested Pete.
‘That was when I thought you might buy it as an investment,’ she said.
‘Look at it as an investment in your future,’ said Pete. ‘And in my lunch.’
‘A damn pricey lunch!’ Abbey laughed. ‘Honestly, I can’t let you do this. And I can’t bunk off no matter what. I have clients waiting for me at the salon. Why don’t we meet later this evening?’
‘I’m busy until around nine thirty. Is that too late for you?’
‘Of course not,’ said Abbey. ‘We can grab a coffee.’
‘Great.’
‘Is there something wrong?’ Abbey looked suddenly anxious. ‘Some reason you want to see me?’
‘I like chewing the fat with you,’ said Pete. ‘I always have.’
‘You’ve got to give up that full-fat lifestyle,’ she joked. ‘Meet you at our usual.’
Pete nodded. ‘See you later, honey.’
‘See you later, Pete,’ said Abbey.
She looked after him as he walked out the door. There was still an anxious expression in her eyes.
An hour later, she was at the much smaller table in the beauty salon where she worked three days a week. Unlike the gallery, which was edgy and modern, the salon on Valencia Street was warm and welcoming. Abbey always felt relaxed when she arrived there, and she enjoyed working with Charlene and Bella a lot more than she did with Nerissa, the manager of the gallery. She could have a laugh and a joke with the other two nail technicians, whereas with Nerissa she continually felt on her guard, as though the older woman was waiting for her to make a mistake. She knew that at twenty, she had a lot to learn. She wasn’t stupid or overconfident. But she couldn’t help thinking that the salon was a friendlier place to be, and she wondered if her heart was really in the world of art as she’d once believed.
‘Hey, Abbey.’ Charlene, five years older and the most experienced of them all, sat down in front of her and began to rearrange some of the bottles on the table.
‘You leave my stuff alone, Mizz Taite,’ said Abbey. ‘I know you, you’re trying to nick that bottle of Absolute Scarlet.’
‘Totally not,’ said Charlene. ‘I’ve a bit of news for you.’
‘Which is?’ Abbey replaced the bottles of varnish in the order she preferred.
‘I’m leaving.’
‘What!’ Abbey was surprised. She’d thought that Charlene enjoyed working at Mariposa as much as she did. The other girl had never said anything about wanting to leave.
‘Tripp’s got a job offer on the East Coast,’ Charlene said. ‘He asked me to go with him.’
‘No way!’ Abbey’s expression was a mixture of delight and hesitation. ‘You want to go? Well, sure you do. You’re going!’
‘It’ll be fun,’ said Charlene. ‘Besides …’ She extended her hand to show Abbey the small solitaire diamond on her engagement finger.
‘Oh, wow!’ exclaimed Abbey. ‘You’re properly engaged! That’s wonderful. Congratulations.’
‘Thank you,’ said Charlene.
‘Were you expecting this?’ demanded Abbey. ‘Did you plan it? Because you never said a word.’
‘We talked,’ admitted Charlene. ‘But it was “one day in the future” sort of talk. When he got the job offer, though, and wanted me to come, he said that he couldn’t ask me to give up my job here without offering me something better. And then he produced the ring.’
‘How cool.’ Abbey sighed. ‘He’s such a romantic.’
‘He is a bit,’ agreed Charlene. ‘And you know, even though I always wanted a circle of diamonds for my engagement ring, this is perfect.’
‘It sure is,’ said Abbey. ‘I’m so happy for you.’
‘I’m pretty damned happy myself,’ agreed Charlene. ‘Anyway, we’re going for drinks tomorrow night to celebrate. You OK with that?’
‘Sure am.’
‘One other thing.’ Charlene looked directly at her. ‘This is an opportunity for you.’
‘For me?’
‘Nail work is one of the most popular things we do here. Right now, I’m the only full-time technician. Selina will want either you or Bella to take over. You’re exceptional at this, Abbey. It should be you.’
Abbey glanced towards the table where Bella usually sat. She wasn’t working this afternoon.
‘Bella’s as good as me,’ she protested. ‘Besides, nails are her full-time job. OK, she’s only part-time here, but she works in that hotel salon too.’
‘Thing is, she’s not as good as you,’ said Charlene. ‘You’ve a talent for nails, Abbey. You know you do.’
‘I’m not a nail person,’ Abbey told her. ‘I’m an art person. Admittedly the gallery can be a bit of a drag sometimes, but …’
‘You say that all the time,’ said Charlene. ‘And you also say you prefer working here. So why not grab the chance?’
‘Well, because …’ Abbey looked thoughtful. Suddenly she didn’t know what the because was. It wasn’t the money. It wasn’t the atmosphere. It wasn’t that she didn’t enjoy doing nails.
It’s because Mom wouldn’t approve, she thought suddenly. Nor would Pete. He’s convinced that I’m destined for great things in the art world, and Mom believes that beauty is frivolous and silly.
‘We’ll see.’ She smiled uncertainly at Charlene. ‘Selina
might prefer Bella.’
‘You’re the best,’ said Charlene obstinately. ‘And Selina always wants the best.’
‘I must be the best,’ said Abbey to Pete later that evening as they sat in their favourite coffee and doughnut place overlooking the bay. ‘Because Selina offered me the job.’
She’d been surprised. She’d thought that Selina would turn the full-time post into a competition between her and Bella, a prize for them to fight over, but before the salon had closed for the evening, Selina had called her into her office and made her the offer. Abbey was glad that Charlene had given her a heads-up, because otherwise she would have been utterly speechless. As it was, she still told Selina that she needed to think it over. The salon owner’s response was that she had forty-eight hours to make up her mind.
‘You’re not going to take it, though.’ Pete wiped his sticky fingers on a napkin. ‘You’re not a nail woman.’
‘Nail technician,’ Abbey corrected him. ‘And yes, I am.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said Pete. ‘You’re an artist.’
‘I studied art,’ Abbey corrected him. ‘Doesn’t make me an artist. Not one little bit.’
‘Abbey, sweetheart, you can’t spend your day doing rich women’s nails.’
‘First of all, they’re not rich women,’ said Abbey. ‘Everyone gets their nails done these days. It’s big business and you should know that. Secondly, my appointment book is always full, so I can easily spend all day doing it.’
‘That’s not what I meant and you know it.’ Pete’s brow darkened. ‘You’re wasting your talent.’
‘Oh, Pete, I wish I had the sort of talent you’re talking about to waste,’ said Abbey. ‘I really do. But the truth is, I’m only a competent artist, and even if I was beyond brilliant, it doesn’t guarantee I’d sell any paintings. You see way better people than me struggling.’
‘You’ve got to have belief,’ said Pete. ‘What have I always told you?’
Things We Never Say Page 2