Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Two Months Later
In a Moment Prologue
In a Moment Chapter 1
In a Moment Chapter 2
Interview with Caroline Finnerty
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names,
characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the
author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons,
living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
Published 2013
by Poolbeg Press Ltd
123 Grange Hill, Baldoyle
Dublin 13, Ireland
E-mail: [email protected]
www.poolbeg.com
© Caroline Finnerty 2013
Copyright for typesetting, layout, design, ebook
© Poolbeg Press Ltd
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 9781781991305
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photography, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. The book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
Author cover photo Peter Evers of Penry Photography
www.poolbeg.com
About the Author
Caroline Finnerty lives in the County Kildare countryside with her husband Simon and children Lila, Tom and Bea and their dog Sam. Her debut novel, In a Moment, was also published by Poolbeg. You can find out more about her on her website www.carolinefinnerty.ie or say hi on Twitter where she is @cfinnertywriter and is glad of an excuse to procrastinate.
Acknowledgements
Firstly, a big thank-you to the team in Poolbeg who really do an amazing job in such difficult times. You are all so good at what you do. I am honoured to call you my publishers. Paula Campbell, you are a one-woman wonder. And the brilliant Sarah and Ailbhe – it is a pleasure to work with you. Thanks also to Gaye Shortland whose skill was really tested on this book – thank you for helping me to see the wood from the trees, and your enthusiasm and encouragement are always so helpful.
Writing this book definitely has not been a solo effort. There are some people who deserve huge thanks for making it happen:
My husband Simon for his support and for keeping the ship afloat so that I can do this. For all that you do for us every day, I am very grateful. My love, always.
My beautiful daughter Lila who amazes me every day, making me so proud to be her mother, and of course for all the ‘zzzzzxcgggggggggxxxjjjjjjjjj’ that she added to this manuscript along the way.
My twins Tom and Bea who were so small when I started writing this story. Thank you both for being such good babies and for taking turns to keep my knees warm while I write.
Mam and Dad for all that you did for me growing up and still do for me now, especially since I’ve had my own children. Thank you for your unwavering belief in me, Mam. I know I told you I’d dedicate a book to you one day but I never really believed that it would happen. You were the one who kept me going when the self-doubt was creeping in, so this is for you.
My family, Niall and Nita and Dee-Dee who gave me a place to stay for ‘research’ purposes. And to Tom Finnerty for answering my questions about primary school – love you all.
My other family – Mary and Neil, Abbie, Enda, Lucy, Eoin, Sophie and Andrew – thank you for your support, especially Mary and Neil who really go above and beyond the usual grand-parenting duties.
Dr Gráinne Flannelly and Joan Cuthbertson of the National Maternity Hospital, Holles Street, who helped me with my research for this story even though they are under huge time pressure. I do appreciate how busy you are, so thank you for taking the time to answer my questions. Any errors or inaccuracies in the story are wholly mine.
The very talented Laoise Casey for enthusiastically sharing her love of London and for first telling me about Postman’s Park. She also makes me salivate on a daily basis with her blog www.cuisinegenie.ie. She has a sticky-toffee-pudding recipe to die for – you should have a look but don’t blame me when you eat the whole thing in one sitting.
Rebecca, for always being there.
Margaret Scott for understanding what it’s like and keeping me sane with coffee and cake.
And lastly, there is not a day that goes by where I don’t thank my lucky stars for the privilege of being able to do this. I really appreciate how fortunate I am to be able to thank people in print. So a big thank-you to the booksellers, librarians, book-bloggers and most especially the readers who pick up this book.
Thank you all so much. With much love, Caroline xx
For Mam, who still holds my hand in hers.
A mother is she who can take the place of all others but whose place no one else can take.
Cardinal Mermillod
Kate 2012
Chapter 1
I had always thought that she was selfish for doing what she did. I knew that was harsh but I felt if she had done things differently, then everything could have been very different. I often wondered, if she had known the outcome, the way that it would all play out, would she still have made the same decision? It was on my mind a lot at the time, the questions spinning around and around inside my head, especially when I was left alone with my idle thoughts. I suppose with everything going on, it was only natural. There was just no escaping it, though, no matter how much I tried.
The Tube jerked to a stop and the doors slid apart. No one was getting off, yet more people managed to squash on. It never ceased to amaze me how, just when you thought it was impossibly packed, there was always room for one more person. The crowd moved back to make way for the new people, causing the crotch of the man standing in front of me to move even closer towards my face. The rhythmic motion of the carriages snaking along through the tunnels ma
de me feel sleepy. I closed my eyes and listened to the voice broadcast the stops as I did every morning. Finally it was Green Park and I stood up, feeling light-headed as I did. The man sitting beside me had his paperback folded back on itself and was smiling to himself as he read. A grubby bookmark with a furry monkey’s head rested on his knees. It was at odds with his pinstripe suit and leather briefcase – like he had robbed it from his child in a hurry. I grabbed onto the pole to steady myself. Disgustingly, it was still sticky with sweat from the last person. I squeezed through the small gaps between bodies until I got to the doors. Some people hopped off to let me out before getting back on again.
I stepped onto the platform and made my way to the escalator. A wall of warm air hit me full force in the face as I walked and I thought I might be sick. Beads of sweat broke out all across my forehead and I could feel my mouth beginning to water. No way, not here. I ascended on the escalator from deep down in the bowels of the city, gliding past posters advertising films, books and shampoos that claimed to reduce split ends by 52%.
When I finally emerged into the fresh morning air, I breathed it deep into my lungs and felt better instantly as my body started to cool down again. The low sunlight was glinting off the shop windows on the street and burning a golden trail on the footpath in front of me. The gallery was only a five-minute walk from the Tube station. The London traffic inched forward on the road beside me, the roofs of the black cabs sticking out amongst the mêlée of cars like hard-shelled beetles. I knew some people hated this city – they hated its relentless pace, how it sucked you in and then when it was finished with you, after you’d given it your all, when you were broken, when you were spent, it just chewed you up and spat you back out again – but I loved everything about it. I felt alive here – the endless possibilities of things to do, the centuries of history fronting every pavement. The streets were always full – you never felt alone here.
Soon I was at the gallery. I pushed the door open. Nat was already in.
“Morning.”
“Hi, darling,” she replied.
I walked over and lifted the strap of my yellow satchel over my head before putting it onto the white contemporary Formica desk. Our reception desk was the only piece of furniture in the gallery, which was all stark white walls, with black-and-white photos inside black frames, and honey-oak floors.
“Want a coffee – I’ve just boiled the kettle?” Nat asked.
“Nah – better not.”
I turned on the computer and waited for it to boot itself up while she went into the kitchen and came back out a minute later with a mug of instant coffee clasped between her hands. I had brought the mug back for her from Majorca a few years back. It was one of those tacky ones with the caption Someone I Know Went to Majorca and All They Brought Me Back Was This Mug.
Nat and I practically ran the Jensen Photography Gallery ourselves. We displayed the work of several high-profile photographers – they paid us a small rent for the space and a commission for any work we sold. The owner, a lady called Tabitha Jensen, spent most of her time living la dolce vita in her villa in Tuscany. She only came to check up on us a handful of times a year. We emailed her a weekly report with sales figures and a summary of what was happening in the gallery and she was happy with that.
“What’s wrong?” Nat said as she combed her fingers through her thick auburn hair before tying it up loosely with a bobbin so that the front of it stuck up bumpily like waves on a choppy sea.
“Nothing.”
“C’mon, I know you too well.”
“It’s Ben,” I sighed. “He’s like a dog with a bone.”
“Is he still harping on at you about going back to Ireland?”
She said ‘Ireland’ in the way that all English people said it. I have always liked the way their accent made it sound – like it was a place that you might actually want to go to.
She perched herself on the end of the desk with her two hands wrapped around her chipped mug.
“Uh-huh. He just won’t let it go.” It had been eight years since I was home last – I hadn’t been back since my younger brother Patrick’s wedding. And I wouldn’t have even gone to that except that I might as well have severed whatever thin ties with my family that were left if I hadn’t. I had got a flight to Dublin that morning and flew straight back home to London first thing the following morning, less than twenty-four hours later.
“He’s never even met them, has he?”
“Nope.”
“Well, maybe now would be a good time – you can’t stay away forever.”
“You sound just like Ben . . .”
“Well, he just wants to meet them – find out more about where you come from –”
“I’ve told him all he needs to know – why does he need to meet them?”
“Come on, Kate – stop being unreasonable.”
“He knows what happened – I’m not keeping anything a secret from him.”
“He’s not asking for that much – he just wants to meet your family!”
“He reckons I have ‘unresolved issues’.” I sighed wearily at the phrase Ben was so fond of quoting at me.
“Well, you do!” She laughed, showing her teeth. She had good teeth, straight for the main part and just slightly overlapping on the bottom. Most people would probably get them straightened but I thought they suited her better like that.
I started to laugh then too.
Nat had known me a long time, even longer than Ben had. We’d met when I first moved to London at seventeen years of age. I had finished my Leaving Cert and then the very next day I packed my rucksack and took the boat to Holyhead. I would have gone sooner but Dad wouldn’t let me leave school without having my Leaving Cert. As soon as the ferry had pulled out from Dun Laoghaire Harbour, I’d felt nothing but relief. Not even a twinge of sadness or regret. From Holyhead I took a very long and slow bus down to London because I couldn’t afford the train fare. We travelled through Welsh tunnels carved out of rock, chocolate-box villages and acres and acres of tumbledown country estates.
For the first few nights after arriving in London, I had stayed in a hostel full of American backpackers and students who were all inter-railing around Europe. They would be comatose in the bunk beds every morning after only getting into them only a few hours previously, while I got up early to look for a job. I would try and make myself look somewhat presentable, peering in the hostel’s dimly lit, six-inch-square bathroom mirror, before heading out onto the streets to start my hunt. I had a very limited amount of money to tide me over so I needed to get work quickly before the cash I had saved from my part-time job in the local supermarket at home ran out. I didn’t have a clue about what kind of job I wanted to do – I was just so glad to be away from home that I would have taken anything. I dropped into a few of the large department stores on spec but they weren’t currently hiring. So after a few days of not getting anywhere, I decided my best bet would be to register with a recruitment agency.
As I was walking down the street to the address I’d been given, I walked past a gallery with a beautiful taupe-and-green striped awning outside. I noticed a handwritten sign in the bay window, which read Now Hiring. Deciding that I had nothing to lose, I pushed back the door. It had one of those old-fashioned bells that gave a ‘trrrrrrring’ when the door was opened.
A tall, thin girl stood up from behind the counter. She looked to be about the same age as myself. She had the kind of build that women described as ‘striking’ often have. Her height was further emphasised by her hair, which was backcombed several inches off the top of her head. She was wearing a black scoop-necked bodysuit tucked into a tight stonewashed denim skirt, which laced like a corset up the back. Her make-up was dramatic, with heavy kohl accentuating her cool blue eyes with their vivid flecks of green. My eyes travelled down her body and landed on a pair of scuffed Doc Martens. Her style was way beyond anything I had ever seen at home – suddenly I felt self-conscious in my baggy jeans and frumpy sweats
hirt. My hair didn’t have a style – it was just dead straight and hung down at both sides of my face like a pair of curtains framing a stage. I had only ever seen people dressed like her on TV. If I had worn those clothes in our village, let alone the hair, I would have been the talk of the town. I had felt intimidated by her. I wanted to turn around and run back out the door again.
She looked at me expectantly, waiting for me to speak.
“I’m here about the job?” I said timidly.
“You Irish?” Her accent was pure London. I had only been there for a few days at that stage but already my ear was starting to distinguish the different accents. She looked at me quizzically with her head tilted to the side as she tried to assess me.
“Yeah.”
“The owner’s not here at the minute – hang on and I’ll give her a call . . .”
“Okay.” I stood there, idly glancing around the gallery while I listened to her talk on the phone.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, okay. Got it. Byyyye.” She hung up the phone and turned back to me. “She says it’s fine with her, once I’m happy with you. The name’s Nat – what’s yours?”
“Kate,” I said.
“Well, Kate, looks like you’ve got yourself a job.”
“What? Don’t you want me to do an interview or something?” I had only been enquiring and it felt like the job had just been thrust upon me. And even though I was desperate for work, I wasn’t sure I wanted to work with her. I didn’t even know what kind of work I would be doing.
“Nah, no need!” She waved her hand.
“Okay, well . . . I suppose I should say thank you.”
“Do you smoke?”
“No,” I said, feeling instantly like a Goody Two-Shoes. “I gave up a few months back – because I couldn’t afford them,” I added so she knew I wasn’t completely square.
“No worries – here, can you hold the fort while I run round to the shop and get some fags?”
The Last Goodbye Page 1