‘You’d better come to me for your dinner every day. I want to make sure you’re eating properly,’ she ordered.
‘Now we’ll see, Ma. I’m up to my eyes at the minute—’
‘All the more reason to have a good dinner inside you,’ Cora retorted.
‘Look, how about if you cook me the odd dinner now and again and I can heat it in the microwave,’ he suggested. Cora’s lips tightened. She had no time for these modern conveniences. Food didn’t taste the same as fresh out of the oven or saucepan – still, if it meant she’d see more of him, it was better to agree, she argued silently with herself.
‘Right. You’d better take me shopping so I can get in a few extra stores.’ She hopped up in a sprightly manner from her chair. She was in fine fettle these days, thank God, only the odd twinge of arthritis. ‘I’m just going to get my hat and put on a bit of powder. It won’t take a minute.’
‘No rush,’ he said, but it was clear that his mind was miles away. Cora pursed her lips and her nostrils flared. The cheek, the absolute cheek of that Noreen rip to dump her son. How dare she! Who did she think she was, treating the Flynns like that?
She was very vexed over the whole affair. If Oliver had thrown Noreen out, Cora would have been as happy as Larry about it. She’d be glad to see the back of her, but how could she be glad when Oliver looked as miserable as could be? What kind of a fool was he to have fallen for a biddy like her? He should have listened to his mother. Cora had always told him that Noreen wasn’t the right one for him and now she’d been proved right. And the annoying thing was, it didn’t make her feel one bit better to have been proved right. All she could see was her poor, fed-up son, looking like he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders. It wasn’t good enough, and she was going to have serious words with the Sacred Heart tonight when she got into bed to say her prayers.
Oliver deserved to be treated much better and if she had that Noreen one on her own for a few minutes she’d let her have the sharp edge of her tongue and not mince her words either. Cora was hopping mad as she dusted her cheeks with powder and dabbed some Lily of the Valley on her wrists.
40
Heather was absent-mindedly cleaning table tops one wet and windy morning when Ray Carleton popped his head around the door of Fred’s.
‘Good, you’re on your own. Something brilliant has happened,’ he exclaimed exuberantly, clenching his fists.
Heather laughed at him. ‘What?’ she asked, tickled by his behaviour.
‘Joan Nolan tripped going into an old cottage half-way up White Heather Hill and she broke her leg and her arm and she’s not coming back to work … ever. Oh happy, happy day! Oh there is a God, Heather.’
‘Stop that, the poor woman,’ Heather giggled.
‘So?’ Ray challenged.
‘So what?’ Heather said, dimly.
‘So when can you start? You’ll be doing a bit of everything but I would like to get you involved in the makeover side of the business. I’d like to get it up and running as soon as possible. I’ve made an arrangement with one of the big furniture shops in Navan to start up a fitting-out service for new apartments, houses and show houses. Oliver Flynn’s developing a big site near the lake and I’m pushing him to let me do the show house. Are you on?’
‘Are you offering me a job?’ Heather stared at him.
‘Well, of course I am, if you’re interested. How can I let you go to waste? Can you drive?’
She nodded, flabbergasted.
‘You’ll need a car – we have farms and houses for sale up to fifty miles away. Dad had customers far and wide. I’ll sort one out for you. It won’t be top of the range but it will get you from A to B. Can you start next Monday? Same salary you were getting in Crooks & Co?’
‘You bet,’ Heather agreed excitedly. Ray’s enthusiasm was infectious, and from talking to him he had high business standards, unlike her previous employers in the property world. The makeover scheme was up and coming in the bigger agencies, and she’d enjoy getting involved. Developing a website with him would be a challenge, something new to get her teeth into.
What had made her cross over the road that day to look in Ray’s window at that particular time? Was this the serendipity people talked about, she wondered. Or was it one of her friend Margaret’s growth opportunities? All she knew was, she’d gone into Mangan’s looking for a job in accounts and had ended up back in the property business. This time it would be better. Ray Carleton seemed to have integrity and good business ethics; it should be totally different from the offhand carelessness that had pervaded Brooke, Byrne & O’Connell.
‘Well, you landed on your feet there,’ her mother said with satisfaction when she imparted her news. ‘You deserve a bit of luck, Heather. I’m delighted for you.’ There was a note of relief in her voice. Heather knew that she wasn’t too happy with her working in Fred’s. There was no future in it. It had been a respite from the real world, Heather acknowledged, but it had kept her going in those first, shock-filled days when her world had crumbled around her ears.
She gave Fred her notice that evening and he wished her well. ‘Told you you wouldn’t stay too long. You go and make a success of that new job for yourself, Missy. You’re a great worker and a very nice girl,’ he wheezed, and beamed broadly when she gave him a hug. ‘Oh, and by the way, the chips will always be on the house,’ he told her kindly, and Heather was touched by his generosity of spirit. He’d been good to her in her hour of need; she’d buy him a nice gardening book and a crate of beer, she decided.
That night as she undressed for bed, a thought struck her. Anne Jensen, the psychic, had told her that the man she was going to get involved with was on the periphery of her life and she’d also told her that she’d be using skills that she’d learned previously in her new job. Was Ray the new man? He was a nice chap, Heather acknowledged. They got on well. She liked him, and the psychic had said it would be a great friendship first. Maybe Anne could see things. Ruth swore by her. The job had come true, that was a start. And she was going to have a car. She hoped Ray wouldn’t buy it at Neil’s. A dart of sadness stung her: he hadn’t even tried to woo her back. Had she meant so little to him? It looked like it. It looked as if he’d just been using her until something better came along. Forget him, she ordered. He was history.
For the first time in weeks she felt a bit like her old self. Felt in control of things. It would be nice to be out and about in her new job. Ray was interested in the job and ambitious for his company, and that was enough to motivate staff. The clients were there, and there was no reason why there shouldn’t be a lot more on his books. She’d work her butt off and help him expand, she decided, and every time Neil Brennan drove past Carleton Auctioneers and Estate Agents he’d see what he was missing.
* * *
Neil was edgy. He was flying to America this very week and the days were dragging. He needed to buy some new underwear. It was quiet enough in the garage – he’d take a stroll up the town and see what was on offer.
‘Carol, just going up the town for an hour. Call me on the mobile if anything comes up,’ he instructed his secretary.
‘OK.’ She didn’t lift her head from her computer. She wasn’t half as interested as Heather had been. Neil knew she was just putting in the time until something better came her way.
He was walking past the church when a pale green Ford Focus drove into a parking space outside Carleton’s and he saw a woman dressed in a navy suit get out. He stared in surprise as he recognized Heather. She was carrying a briefcase and walking purposefully into the estate agent’s.
What was that all about? Was she looking for a place to rent? And where did she get the car? And what was with the briefcase? He couldn’t help feeling a bit miffed. She didn’t look too heartbroken any more, not like she’d looked when he’d had a go at her in Fred’s. He nearly got a crick in his neck looking in the window but it was tinted glass and he couldn’t see anything. Was she still working in Fred’s, he wond
ered. He couldn’t very well waltz in and ask. It was none of his business now, he knew, but he was just curious. She certainly hadn’t bought the car from him. It was two years old and had a Dublin reg plate. Was she working in Dublin? But why would she be going into Carleton’s if that was the case? He was quite preoccupied as he ambled into McMahon’s Quality Man Shop in search of some designer boxers.
When he came back three-quarters of an hour later the car was gone. For some odd reason seeing Heather unexpectedly, all dressed up and businesslike, driving a new car, put him in a bad humour.
To cheer himself up, he rang the leisure centre in the hotel and booked a session on the sunbeds. He didn’t want to be all pale and pasty going to see Lorna. He wanted to look his absolute best. He’d get his hair cut and perhaps have a manicure. He was a successful businessman, he assured himself. He wanted to look the part.
* * *
Lorna stood on the pedals of her bike, spinning furiously. All around her, lithe, toned, tanned bodies worked hard to stay with the pace. A guy on the bike beside her took a draught from his water without breaking his rhythm. She hadn’t reached that level of competence yet. It was seven a.m. and her shift started at eight. She had joined a gym near Times Square and took spinning classes three mornings a week. Lorna felt it was a very NY thing to do. Her gym wasn’t upmarket enough to meet an Upper East or West Side millionaire, unfortunately. There were a lot of resting ‘actors’ among the clientele, due to the gym’s proximity to Broadway. They were a dead loss: they spent their sessions admiring themselves in the big wall-to-wall mirrors that lined the gym. Totally narcissistic, she thought disdainfully as she started to pant.
She was relieved when the class ended. Her butt was aching as much as her calves and thighs. But what toned calves and thighs they were, she thought with satisfaction as she lathered herself with Carolina Herrera shower gel. She’d gone mad and treated herself to a host of goodies in Sephora, in the Rockefeller Center. How she loved that shop, with its exotic scents and magical arrays of glass jars and bottles all stylishly displayed, teasing and tempting her. Dollars just disappeared out of her purse when she gave in to temptation after a hard day lugging trays around. She adored wandering around inhaling this perfume, sampling the other, testing this cream, or that jelly.
She’d bought herself a gorgeous Tod handbag yesterday and she was skint again. She was sick of it. She couldn’t afford New York and it was getting her down. She was so looking forward to her luxury weekend with Neil. It was a pity he was only starting out in the motor trade; if he had a few garages under his belt he’d be loaded. He was probably in hock up to his ears, unfortunately. And if he wasn’t he would be by the time she was finished with him. Her eyes sparkled at the thought of money being showered on her. Neil would want to impress her and she’d certainly let him.
She should ring him, she supposed. He would think it odd that she hadn’t given him her phone number. It was just that everyone knew New York’s code was 212/718. Unfortunately Yonkers was 914 and she didn’t want him knowing that she didn’t live in Manhattan. She might give him a call nearer the time he was coming over. She had no intention of trotting out to JFK, he could get a taxi to the hotel. She’d tell him that she couldn’t get off work. She was going to tell him that she worked in publishing. It seemed to be a totally cool career in NYC. She could say she worked for Vogue or Vanity Fair, as a staffer. She was damned if she was telling him that she worked as a waitress in a diner off Times Square. She could hardly believe it herself, she thought despondently as she dried her hair. One of the girls in the house had got an office job but she’d gone back waitressing because the money was better. It all came down to money, the harder you worked the more you made, but she didn’t want to work at all!
What a failure she was. Carina thought she was mad to feel like that. Her colleague was thrilled with the amount she was making in tips. She was spending all her spare time doing sporty things in the Catskills and having a ball, according to herself. She spent her night-time socializing in Irish bars. Lorna was much more interested in clubbing in the Bubble Lounge in TriBeCa, or Lansky’s. She’d strutted her stuff but got nowhere in Cibar and had tried not to be in awe of the totally gorgeous model types that floated around sipping cocktails as if they were born to it. Cheetah cost a minimum of $100 a go and was full of Europeans, but it was clubby and different and she’d enjoyed it. Not so Carina, who claimed a night in Tir na Nog, the Irish pub in Penn Plaza, was far more fun and you never had to put your hand in your pocket. She was a grave disappointment to Lorna. She didn’t seem to mind her long waitressing stints. She was always chatting and laughing with the customers. Lorna couldn’t be bothered.
The realization that she did not want to work for the rest of her life had hit Lorna like a hammer blow. She didn’t want to go back home with her tail between her legs and work godawful shifts as a receptionist in a hotel. Nor did she want to get married and live in a boring three-bed semi-detached. And she’d seen enough of life in NYC to realize that most single women worked to pay their rents if they lived in Manhattan, with not a lot left for retail therapy. Sex and the City was not about the likes of her, unfortunately, no matter how much she aspired to the lifestyle. It cost an arm and a leg to socialize. She wanted to be wealthy enough never to have to worry about money again but she just couldn’t figure out how she was going to achieve that particular goal. She certainly couldn’t do it on her own, she admitted.
Lorna sighed deeply. Under no circumstances could she say that she had taken New York by storm. That had simply not happened, nor was it likely to. She hadn’t the drive or the nerve to crack it. The sophisticated façade that had worked for her in Dublin did not cut it here, because there was nothing to support it. She was on the make like everyone else and she couldn’t hack it, and that was a bitter pill to have to swallow.
Perhaps she should start going to the theatre and art galleries to try and meet some eligibles, but it all seemed like such hard work after a ten-hour stint on her feet. If she could even find a sugar daddy she might consider that option, she thought ruefully as she crossed Eighth Avenue and hurried along West 43rd to work.
* * *
Heather twisted the key into the lock of the badly warped wooden door and let herself into the small two-bedroom cottage that Carleton had recently added to their ‘For Sale’ lists. The owner had died suddenly and the executors wanted a quick sale. They had told Ray that they would be prepared to spend some money on smartening the place up. Heather took out her pen and notepad and began to take notes. A thorough cleaning job was called for, windows in particular. A coat of paint throughout – perhaps a warm buttermilk colour would be nice, she pencilled in, in brackets. Throw out existing sofa and threadbare chairs. Better off not having them there at all. A few lampshades to cover naked bulbs. Some blinds on the windows to replace tatty curtains, she scribbled happily, in her element.
Only her second day on the job and she was given a nice meaty challenge. And the joy of having a car. Neil had been promising and promising that he was going to organize a car for her and he never had. She didn’t need him or his cars now, she thought with satisfaction. She had a great job and her own set of wheels and all on her own merit. It made her feel good about herself. Better than she’d felt in weeks.
Today was a good day – she didn’t feel lonely, forlorn and in the depths of despair. She hadn’t thought of Neil for at least two hours. That was progress, she thought ruefully. ‘Up yours, you bastard,’ she muttered as she inspected the bedroom and wrinkled her nose at the stale smell that permeated the room. By the time she was finished with this place no one would recognize it.
When she was finished work tonight she might go for basketball practice. She’d put on ten pounds since her split with Neil; the waistband of her suit was digging into her uncomfortably and she had the beginnings of jowls where once she’d had cheekbones. Time to get a grip, Heather decided as she locked the door after her and sat into her gleaming pride an
d joy. She’d show Neil Brennan that life was just as good without him. She didn’t need a man in her life, she was perfectly capable of managing without one. She was going to buy a place of her own and be completely independent. She drove down the narrow winding lane, ablaze with brilliant yellow gorse. The sky was cloudless and the heat of the sun warmed her. She was so glad she hadn’t left Kilronan, she thought gratefully as a field of young corn came into view, a rich emerald carpet of green ringed by dark green hedgerows. She was about ten miles from the town, in the depths of the countryside. It was a peaceful place to be. She smiled remembering how she’d sat cursing in traffic, waiting to get to an apartment or town house in Dublin. There really was no contest, she thought happily as she pulled in and rolled down her window, content to sit for a little while and enjoy the vista.
41
Heather was busy typing out an inventory when she vaguely noticed that someone had come into the office.
‘Hello, Heather,’ a familiar voice said, and she looked up to see Oliver Flynn looking at her in some surprise. ‘You do get around.’ He smiled.
‘Well, let’s hope I get on better in this job than I did down the road,’ she said wryly.
‘I’m sure you’ll be fine. Er, is Ray around?’
‘He’s not, I’m afraid, he’s showing two properties and he won’t be back until this afternoon.’
‘Oh!’ Oliver looked disgruntled.
‘Can I help?’
‘Well, I’m putting the house up for sale, I was hoping he’d look after it for me.’
‘Oh, I’m sure he will. Are you moving?’ Heather asked innocently, wondering why Oliver and his wife would want to move from that beautiful house overlooking the lake.
Oliver flushed. ‘I’m in the same boat as yourself, Heather. On my own again. Noreen and I are separating,’ he said gruffly.
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