by Cathy Kelly
‘If you could wait with the camera and a bottle of cava for when things improve, that would be great,’ Vonnie said.
‘What happens if things turn nasty?’ asked Lorraine mischievously.
‘They won’t,’ said Vonnie firmly.
At the prescribed time, Lizzie turned up with Marta, who had a prestigious job in London, and Tina, who’d married well and lived in Dublin. Marta wore a cashmere coat and carried a handbag that cost as much as a small car. Tina wore designer jeans, a designer polo shirt and pink wellingtons, as if leaving the capital city inevitably implied trudging through muddy fields and being attacked by herds of rampant cows. And yet they had both been born in Bridgeport, Vonnie knew. Clearly they had been keen to wash its dirt from their feet.
Still, she’d expected this and was prepared.
She had taken the trouble to blow-dry her flaxen hair, which she rarely did, and it hung in salon-perfect ripples over slender shoulders clad in sky-blue silk – her one and only dress. Two could play that game, she thought when she saw the surprise in Lizzie’s daughters’ eyes.
She hugged Lizzie, shook hands with the daughters and welcomed them in.
‘A lot of our work comes from second marriages,’ she said, smiling but with eyes glittering like diamond chips. ‘It’s one of the joys of working here. Seeing people of all ages seizing another chance at happiness after divorce or the tragedy of widowhood. We’re so pleased that your mother and Charles came to Golden Vanilla. Their joy is infectious. I know your mother was on her own for ten years – isn’t it lovely that she’s found love again?’
Marta, who physically resembled Lizzie but with none of her sweetness, didn’t look as if she thought it was lovely at all. Neither did Tina.
In the background, Lizzie stood with hands clasped, an eager smile on her rounded face, hopeful that at some point her daughters might share her joy.
‘Your mother’s cake is still being finished, but here’ – Vonnie clicked a key on her computer – ‘is what it will look like.’
Lizzie and Charlie had chosen a simple two-tier off-white cake decorated with a red bow and a spray of red roses modelled on an old floribunda bloom. Very hard to make, but exquisite-looking when done correctly.
‘Dad would have hated it,’ snapped Marta, barely glancing at the screen.
Vonnie summoned up a smile. ‘It sounds like your father was a lovely man,’ she said. ‘Lizzie and Charles were talking about him the other day. As a widow myself, I understand how important it is to remember past happiness when one is getting married again.’
Marta and Tina stared at her, thrown by the information that this coolly glamorous blonde was a widow.
‘Tell me,’ Vonnie changed tack swiftly. ‘You live in London, Marta? Do you get to come back to Bridgeport often to see your mother?’
Marta flushed, sensing the barb. ‘No, I travel a lot for work.’
‘And you, Tina? Dublin’s only up the road.’ Vonnie’s eyes were like steel.
‘I work, and the children … you know,’ Tina faltered.
Vonnie nodded sagely. ‘It must be a great comfort then to both of you to know that your mother has her own life here with Charles. It’s hard for other people to understand what widowhood is like, isn’t it, Lizzie?’ She reached out to Lizzie, who nodded. ‘People expect you to get on with life totally alone, which is so unfair.’
From the direction of the kitchen, she thought she heard a snigger. Lorraine, listening in. Cheeky brat! Nevertheless, she soldiered on.
‘That’s why I personally love second weddings.’
Beside her, Lizzie beamed.
The shop doorbell rang and Charlie arrived, as previously arranged.
‘Trust me,’ Vonnie had said to an uncertain Lizzie as they ate angel cake.
‘Charles!’ Vonnie went to greet him as if he were a returning king. Charlie, whom nobody had called Charles since his First Communion, faltered for a moment, but then smiled bravely at his surly soon-to-be stepdaughters.
‘How lovely of you to drop by,’ Vonnie said. ‘We’re all so excited here about the wedding. I do hope I can pop into the reception myself briefly.’
Charlie, a red-faced man with just as much kindness as his wife-to-be, grinned at her.
‘I hope so too, Vonnie love. All the effort that’s gone into the cake, well, we’d love to have you, pet.’
In front of Vonnie, there was no way Marta and Tina could be as rude as they might have wished.
‘Hello, Charles,’ they both said formally.
‘Ah girls, call me Charlie,’ he beamed. ‘I’m so glad you’re going to be here for your mum on her special day.’
‘A photo!’ cried Vonnie, as though the idea had just hit her. ‘We need a photo of this lovely moment. Lorraine?’
Lorraine almost fell through the swing door with the camera.
Much palaver went on over the photos: everyone posed with everyone else. The kitchen staff arrived in their aprons and joined in. It was like the Changing of the Guard with a busload of tourists in front. Vonnie whispered to Lorraine to get the cava from the fridge. Gradually Marta and Tina’s faces lifted and an air of faint celebration began to circulate.
‘Charles is really quite nice,’ Marta, on her second glass, whispered to Vonnie.
‘He’s highly thought of around here,’ Vonnie said gravely. ‘As is your mother. A real lady. We’re all so pleased that two such lovely people have found each other.’
Listening in, Tina managed a smile. A lady, that was nice.
She and her sister exchanged glances. Perhaps this little hole-in-the-corner wedding they’d thought they were coming to was a grander affair altogether. Plus, Charles had a business and was clearly highly thought of in Bridgeport.
Finally it was all over.
‘I can’t thank you enough, Vonnie,’ said Charlie as he left. ‘Look at her: she’s so happy.’
‘We’re all happy for you,’ Vonnie replied. ‘And remind Lizzie that both of you deserve your happiness. Nobody can dictate to you when it comes to love, just because it suits them better.’
‘Yeah,’ Charlie agreed.
‘I think it would be great if Lizzie and the girls booked into the Horizon Spa or Clara’s beauty salon up on Dame Street tomorrow. Have the works done. Make it all the more special,’ Vonnie suggested.
Charlie agreed. ‘Lizzie and me would have never thought of that,’ he said in amazement.
‘It’ll keep the girls amused,’ Vonnie said wisely. That way they wouldn’t be stalking round their old home, working out the resale value of everything.
After the wedding party had departed, the kitchen staff retreated to the kitchen, leaving Vonnie alone to blow out the candles.
If only organising her own life was as easy as organising other people’s, she thought.
Fifteen
Love conquers all. VIRGIL
In one part of Leila’s world, there was peace. The lovely peace of knowing that her mother was settled in the Hummingbird Nursing Home and that Nora was looking after her wonderfully.
Every time Leila phoned or visited, Dolores was discussing some new friend or activity.
‘It’s like a little community, honestly, we do so many things. Nora said I might learn to play bridge, although I don’t know, I always think that’s sort of an older person’s game, don’t you?’
‘Supposed to be very good for the memory but fiendishly hard to learn,’ said Leila. ‘I think you’d be marvellous at it.’
‘I’ll think about it. In the meantime, I’m knitting again,’ Dolores said happily. ‘Miss Polka who does the music classes has a friend with a craft van and she drives in once a week with the most beautiful knitting wools and beading things – oh, you’d just love it. Ginny’s Glorious Craft Van it’s called. I got this beautiful dark blue wool, Aran weight but soft, and I’m going to make Jack a cardigan. It’s so long since I’ve knitted anything, I’m quite sure I’ve forgotten how to do it, but Nora says it’ll come
back to me in no time. My hands are a bit stiff, but still, I’d like to try while I still can.’
She chatted on happily about the lovely trainer, Ger, who said that physical exercise was very important for people with RA, and how he’d designed a gentle programme for her for when she was back to full strength.
Leila had been so delighted hearing the happy tone in her mother’s voice. It was only now that Dolores was somewhere she felt safe that Leila was beginning to appreciate the stress she must have been under for so long. She said it now.
‘Mum, I didn’t realise how hard things were for you before. I’m so sorry you felt you couldn’t tell us about the rheumatoid arthritis. You sound like a different woman now.’
‘I am,’ her mother replied. ‘And Nora says she’ll help me to get organised so that even when I go home it’s going to be OK. It’s such a relief to know that I won’t be a burden to you or your sister. And talking of Susie—’
Leila interrupted her. ‘Mum, so sorry, but I have to dash,’ she fibbed. ‘Let’s talk tomorrow, OK?’
Even thinking of Susie was too painful right now. Her sister was one part of her life that Leila felt she’d completely messed up on. It had been easy to forget the wedge between them before, but since Mum’s accident, that was no longer the case.
Leila had barely spoken to her sister these last few weeks. The few phone conversations they had had were terse and strained, and Susie managed to visit their mother in Bridgeport at times when she knew Leila wouldn’t be around.
To Leila’s surprise, Susie had agreed to be a bridesmaid at the wedding, though as soon as she heard that Katy was coming to Bridgeport to look for bridesmaids’ dresses with Leila, Birdie and Fiona, she’d made her excuses.
‘Mollsie can’t look after Jack that day,’ she’d told Katy. ‘Just buy what you want in my size.’
‘You phone her,’ Katy had suggested to Leila that night on the phone. ‘There’s no point me doing it. This is between you and her.’
‘How can I fix it?’ replied Leila crossly.
‘Don’t ask me. I’m an only child,’ Katy said, almost cheerfully. ‘You’ll figure it out. You and Susie have to sort out this crisis.’
Leila promised to phone, but she knew Katy was wrong. Susie wasn’t having a crisis. She was hurt and angry.
Summoning all her energy, she called her sister.
‘It’s great you can be a bridesmaid,’ she said cheerily. ‘Katy says you can’t make it to the fittings because of Jack, but perhaps he could come with us?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ snapped Susie. ‘He would be bored within ten minutes. You and Katy go and choose the dresses. You don’t need me.’
Guilt smothering her, Leila said goodbye and hung up. The thing was, she did need Susie. But would Susie ever forgive her?
‘I’m sorry,’ Leila said later on the phone to Katy, ‘but she won’t budge. Just talking to me seems to annoy her.’
‘It’s me too,’ said Katy. ‘Michael pointed out that things haven’t exactly been easy for Susie, and neither of us have been there for her the last couple of years.’
‘Michael said that?’
‘Yeah. He’s got a point, too. Says we both have exciting lives and she’s stuck in a job she hates with nobody to turn to. He made me feel very guilty,’ Katy admitted.
Leila rubbed the bridge of her nose. It ached these days; she had a constant headache. She wasn’t sleeping, either. Too much thinking about Susie – and bloody Devlin.
‘Michael’s right,’ she said. ‘But I don’t know what to do about it. I mean, how do I mend bridges if Susie doesn’t want to?’
‘Write her a letter telling her how sorry you are?’ suggested Katy. ‘You pushed her away when she told you Tynan was wrong for you.’
‘Well, wouldn’t you push someone away if they said Michael was the wrong man for you?’ demanded Leila.
‘Oh, Leila, totally different story,’ Katy said. ‘I gave Tynan a hard time too, remember. And you were different when you were with him. You weren’t you. Susie was only pointing out the truth.’
‘The truth is a pain in the butt,’ Leila muttered. ‘Bet nobody will ever put that on a Hallmark card.’
That was two letters she had to write now: an ‘I’m sorry I was a hopeless sister when you were only looking out for me’ one to Susie, and an ‘I ought to leave the job because it’s so uncomfortable working with you after what happened in Rome’ one to Devlin.
‘I thought you were supposed to write difficult letters and not post them?’ she said, thinking it through.
‘That’s when you’re angry at people and you’ll never sort it out,’ Katy tutted. ‘This is different. This is fixable. Honestly, have you learned nothing from Cosmo?’
Fixable, thought Leila. Ha! She hadn’t told Katy anything about Rome. Now that was entirely unfixable, no matter how brilliant the writers in Cosmopolitan were.
The following morning, showered and with a just-walked Pixie looking up at her adoringly, Leila stared into her closet and tried to figure out exactly what to wear. It was still only half seven; she’d been up since six, what with walking Pixie, grabbing some toast and coffee, showering and blow-drying her hair, and now she had ten minutes to get dressed and hit the road. It was going to be a very busy day. A three-times-Oscar-nominated movie star was in town to promote her latest film, and a long day of press interviews had been scheduled, with Leila sitting in. The actress, Dara Car, was incredibly beautiful and had a reputation for quiet professionalism and intelligence. She was not one of the people who demanded champagne and white furnishings and muslin curtains. Her requirements had been simple: a hotel suite on a high floor so she wouldn’t be too disturbed by city noise, because when she wasn’t working, she lived on a remote farm in Arizona.
Yes, she had dietary requirements, but then few people in the movie business turned up these days without them. Lactose-free, wheat-free, dairy-free – you name it. The top hotels knew how to cater for every possible diet, and nobody in one restaurant they’d booked had so much as blinked when a movie star had her assistant produce a set of scales in order to weigh her food and calculate the precise portion she should eat.
Dara, with the bare minimum of requests and no demands, was going to be a joy to work with – several of Leila’s friends in the company’s US offices had told her so.
However, there was no doubt that when you were going to be sitting in a room all day with an incredibly famous, charismatic and beautiful woman who spent her life being photographed, it made you ultra-careful about what you were going to wear and critical of how you looked in it. It was one of those rare and difficult-to-explain downsides of the job, Leila grinned to herself.
That aside, possibly the most tricky aspect of the day would be steering the reporters away from questions about Dara’s personal life. Like most A-list stars, Dara understood that people who paid at the box office wanted to know everything about you; when promoting a film, it was often impossible to avoid the questions about your life outside the movies. But certainly, from all the interviews Leila had studied, Dara was an expert at gently deflecting such questions rather than playing the diva and insisting that the offending reporter be ejected from the room forthwith.
Devlin was already in the Four Seasons when Leila arrived, clad in her current favourite and most flattering outfit: the beautiful velvet blazer she’d bought in Rome and a pair of perfectly fitting black jeans that made her legs look as long as it was possible for a five-foot-two woman’s legs to look. He was having coffee with Dara’s manager in one of the two suites set aside for interviews. Dara was in a third suite, further along the corridor, being made up and having her hair done.
‘Good morning,’ Leila said. ‘Hope you slept well, Mr Davis.’
‘I told you to call me Poppa,’ Dara’s manager replied genially. ‘Yes, I slept fantastically.’
Leila couldn’t help but smile. There was something about Poppa Davis’s soft, honeyed accent that conju
red up sunshine and oranges, blue skies and holidays.
‘And how are you, Leila?’ Devlin asked, studying her curiously. ‘You look well today,’ he added.
Leila was beginning to think it was a mercy that she didn’t blush easily, but somehow she still felt the heat rise in her neck every time Devlin said something nice to her. It had been the same ever since Rome and there was nothing she could do about it. It was unfinished business and uncomfortable – half curious, half something she couldn’t quite put her finger on.
Their relationship had definitely changed. He didn’t talk to her the way he used to, didn’t come into her office late in the evening to put his feet up on her desk and chew over the day, ask her opinion, tell her what had gone wrong or right in his world. She missed it, she missed their easy camaraderie. But Rome had put an end to all that, as if some dreadful line had been crossed and they could never go back to how they used to be.
Stupid, stupid, Leila had told herself so many times. Why had she done it? She kept toying with the idea of changing jobs, leaving the company, but she knew she was being ridiculous.
Even so, she was still thinking about it four hours later when it was time to break for lunch after the sixth interview of the morning had ended. Dara said goodbye to the journalist as warmly and kindly as if their talk had been the most enjoyable she’d ever had, then Leila showed him out and shut the door. When she turned back to Dara, the actress seemed to visibly shrink in front of her eyes. Even though it was a phenomenon Leila had witnessed before, it still astonished her how stars could fill up a room with their screen or stage persona, then revert to their real selves again, almost physically diminishing, when showtime was finished.
‘Are you all right, Dara?’ she said.
‘I’m doing just fine,’ Dara said, smiling at her, a tired, genuine smile. ‘This part’s more exhausting than the acting, you know. On set, you can fly. Here, you have to keep your feet on the ground. Everyone wants to know when I am going to get married again. Do I think I’m going to have any more children now that Joshua’s fourteen? I mean, come on,’ Dara said, ‘look at me, I’m forty-five.’