by Ber Carroll
Once in the club and propped with their expensive drinks, the traders began to talk about the subject matter at the fore of their minds: the annual bonus. With the end of the year approaching, speculation had begun in earnest.
‘If they don’t pay me three hundred thousand, I’m going to Merrill Lynch . . .’
Sarah’s mouth gaped when she overheard the enormous sums of money these young men, some only a few years older than her, expected to earn.
‘That bastard better not get paid more than me . . .’
Rivalry fuelled their greed. It seemed that no matter how big the bonus, it would not suffice if it was less than someone else at the same level got paid. Sarah wondered what was on their shopping list. How much would they whittle away on designer clothes and eating in the city’s best restaurants? How much would they spend on sensible things like real estate or other investments? One thing she was sure of, after Grant’s callous attitude to the beggar, little of the money would go to charity.
Much later on that night, when he had finally tired of talking about his bonus, Grant whispered in Sarah’s ear. ‘How’s Mother Teresa?’
‘Fuck off.’
His breath was warm as he slurred, ‘Come on, let’s go somewhere quiet.’
‘Fuck off,’ she repeated again.
Grant, oblivious that she despised him, stroked his hand down her waist-length hair.
He cocked his head to one side. ‘Forget Mother Teresa – I’m going to call you Rapunzel.’
Sarah pointedly removed his hand from her hair and went to find Tim.
Grant’s comment goaded Sarah into getting her hair cut. She chose Fred’s Hair Salon simply because she passed it every day on the way to work. When she saw the inside, with its old- fashioned décor along with two elderly ladies sitting under dryers, she quickly turned on her heel to leave.
‘Hold on.’
A hand gripped her arm, its long talon-like nails stained with dye. Her gaze moved up to the hand’s owner, a middle-aged man with bleached hair and a sun-bed tan. She presumed he was Fred.
‘I was mixing dye out the back when you came in. Sit over here.’ He propelled her towards a seat and then ran his talons through her hair as he assessed its thickness and condition. ‘This style is medieval – you look like Rapunzel.’
Sarah bristled. ‘That’s why I’m here – I want something more modern – something that says “don’t mess with me”.’
‘How about colour?’
‘What’s in?’
‘Streaks – I could do a few blonde ones down the parting.’
Sarah shot a worried glance at the old ladies and prayed that Fred knew how to do more than blue rinses.
‘Okay.’
He shampooed and conditioned her hair without making any further conversation.
Across the room, one of the old ladies croaked, ‘It’s getting hot under here.’
He didn’t seem to hear.
A few minutes later the other woman called out, ‘How much longer, Fred?’
He didn’t respond.
Sarah, watching his expression in the mirror, saw his lips twitch ever so slightly. He could hear perfectly well.
With several silver foils sticking out at angles from her head, she was at his mercy, just like the old ladies.
‘Sassy,’ Denise commented approvingly when she saw Sarah’s hair.
Sarah was pleased. Despite her misgivings about Fred, she liked the shoulder-length cut and the careless layers on the sides. He’d also done a good job with the colour, the blonde streaks complementing her natural chestnut.
‘Sex-y,’ Rob Spencer remarked when she reached his pod.
Sarah didn’t blush; she was used to him by now. She opened her folder at the allotted place.
‘Sign on the dotted line, please, Rob,’ she instructed in a businesslike tone of voice.
She continued on around the floor, obtaining all the necessary signatures whilst turning a deaf ear to the wolf whistles and suggestive remarks about her new hairstyle. She was just about finished when Denise, who had been staring at her screen for the last while, suddenly jumped up and shouted, ‘Calls!’
Pandemonium followed. All at once, everyone was on the phone.
‘Fifty-two, fifty Sterling,’ someone yelled out.
‘Take ten,’ Denise shouted back.
Sarah’s eyes widened as she realised that ‘ten’ meant ten million dollars.
‘Fifty-two, forty-nine,’ was the next response.
‘Take twenty,’ Denise instructed without pausing to think.
‘Fifty-two, fifty-two.’
‘Nothing there.’
In awe, Sarah watched the ping-pong between Denise and those on the phones. Tim was in there too, his shirt sleeves rolled up, shouting his prices loud and clear.
Sarah felt both proud and envious of Tim. She longed to have a part in the action. This was the coalface of investment banking, where millions could be gained or lost in a matter of minutes. With a sigh, she acknowledged that inputting the chits onto the computer system was the closest she would get to any action. For now.
Sarah began to look forward to going home. New York was so vastly different to Ireland that for most of the six months it had been hard to visualise anything from her old life: Kieran, the shop, even Carrickmore itself. Now, with her departure imminent, Ireland came back into focus. She looked forward to hearing the soft accents. To seeing the lush green fields. To being back with Kieran.
He wasn’t one for long-distance relationships, that much had been proved. Phone calls or letters weren’t his mode of communication. Kieran needed to see and touch. There was no one better when it came to support with the shop, or encouragement with her running, or making love. Now that she had him figured out, she was excited about being with him again and regaining the closeness they’d had before she went away.
Although Sarah was ready to leave the brashness of New York, she wasn’t ready to leave the banking world. Even the most mundane aspect of her current job, the data entry, was a thousand times more exciting than ringing up sales in the shop. She couldn’t imagine what it would be like to deal with pounds and pence again, she’d got so used to the millions flying around the trading floor. Her daily interaction would be limited to friendly yet unstimulating locals, a far cry from Denise and the traders. She knew that some difficult decisions about the shop lay ahead.
On her last day the dealers surprised her with a male stripo-gram, a muscled hunk in tight leather pants that he quickly removed to reveal a leopard-skin G-string. Sarah didn’t even blush when he danced his crotch into her face. She’d come a long way.
Later that night, in a club called Rascals, Denise handed her an envelope.
‘It’s a reference,’ she said.
‘For what?’
‘For EquiBank in Dublin – I’ve told them that you’ll make a great assistant.’
‘Thank you so much, Denise.’ Sarah smiled at the woman who’d been a wonderful mentor over the past few months. ‘For everything.’
‘No problem,’ Denise shrugged, her tone matter-of-fact. ‘This business is tough for women. We have to look out for each other.’
Carefully, Sarah put the envelope in her handbag. Now was not the time to think about what she was going to do with the reference, or with the shop. The music was too loud and her head was starting to swim from all the champagne. She’d lost count of how many times the cocktail waitress had been around.
Tim came over.
‘Are you really sure you want to go back?’ he asked.
‘Yes. It’s been great, but New York isn’t where I want to live forever.’
‘I’ll miss you,’ he said, his voice barely audible above the music.
Sarah kept her tone light. ‘And me you.’
An uneasy silence stretched between them and Sarah was as confused as ever about her feelings for him. There was something there. Attraction, for sure. Admiration too. On a few occasions, mostly after Friday night d
rinks, they’d almost transgressed the line of friendship. Nights where it seemed they had the same ambitions, the same sense of humour and the same perspective on the world. Nights where, both a little drunk, they would look at each other in a way that friends shouldn’t.
But somehow Sarah had resisted the temptation. She didn’t have it in her to cheat on Kieran. She knew only too well what it was like to be the one at home. Waiting. Trusting.
The music changed and INXS, Tim’s favourite band, blared out over the speakers.
‘Let’s dance,’ he suggested suddenly.
She nodded, set down her glass of champagne, and let him take her hand. He led her through the throbbing crowd. They danced right under the rotating disco ball. Every few seconds pure white light illuminated his face and Sarah would steal a look at his dark flashing eyes and ruffled hair. Other girls looked too.
The track changed. More rock. They stayed out. The beat mixed with the champagne and with all the odd emotions that swirled inside Sarah. As the music reached a high, Tim crushed her to him as if he would never let her go. She could feel every line of his body. The light sweat on his back. The heat of his arousal. The music pulsated through their bodies, fusing them together.
Far, far away she heard the voice of reason.
Stop now. Before it goes any further.
Sluggishly, she pulled away from his embrace.
‘Better get back to the others,’ she said shakily.
Quickly, Sarah lurched through the crowd, terrified that if she stayed another moment she would completely disregard that nagging voice of reason.
Chapter 20
A northerly wind gusted across the runway at Cork Airport and Sarah hugged her arms around her as she ran towards the terminal. Once inside, she couldn’t help noticing that passport control was a mickey-mouse affair in comparison to JFK.
Don’t turn into one of those unbearable people who are always comparing Cork to some bigger and better place, she chided herself.
Hoisting her bags onto a trolley, she headed towards the arrivals’ lounge. Only one person knew she was coming home. It looked like he wasn’t here to meet her.
‘Sarah, over here.’
The voice sounded familiar but the person who owned it wasn’t.
‘Kieran?’
His gorgeous tangly hair had been cut in a short back and sides, and a tie hung loose around the collar of his blue shirt.
The stranger caught her up in a hug and then took charge of her trolley.
‘Come on,’ he said, walking briskly towards the exit. ‘Let’s get out of here before the rain comes.’
Even his car had changed.
‘Very nice,’ she commented as she sat into the passenger seat of the brand new Peugeot. ‘Your job must be going well.’
‘I’ve landed on my feet all right.’
Once out on the main road, he showed her just how fast the Peugeot could go. She asked him more about his job. He asked her about New York. It was all dreadfully polite.
A half-hour later, when he pulled up outside the shop, nothing of significance had been said. He turned off the engine. The awkwardness grew. She made it easy for him.
‘You want to finish it, don’t you?’
Even though he didn’t say yes, or even nod, there was acquiescence in his eyes.
‘You’ve met someone else?’ she asked.
‘Sorry.’ His voice was so quiet that she almost didn’t hear the apology.
‘It was the risk I took.’ She used a falsely bright tone. ‘It’s not surprising that someone else grabbed you up while I was away.’
He grinned. Some of the awkwardness dissipated.
‘We can stay friends, can’t we?’
‘Yeah,’ she replied but didn’t believe they would.
‘Let me bring your bags inside,’ he said, looking keen to get away.
‘It’s okay. The suitcase has wheels. Just pop the boot open for me.’ She leaned across to kiss his cheek. ‘Bye, Kieran.’
Tears threatening, she quickly got out of the car.
Sarah stood in the yard and tried to steady herself before going inside. Kieran was gone. He’d met someone else. Just like John. Deep down she’d known. All the signs had been pointing that way: the sparse phone calls and, when they did talk, the evasive replies to her questions. But towards the end she’d glossed over all the warning signs and fooled herself into believing that distance was the only thing keeping them apart.
We weren’t meant to be together forever. We’re too different.
True, but it didn’t make it any easier. Driving away in that car was someone who’d made her feel happy. Now she was on her own again. Unanchored. Without the buzz of New York to offer distraction. Would she be okay?
After a few deep breaths, she started to become more aware of her surroundings. Something was different. Not the kind of different that comes from seeing everything with fresh eyes after being away. Sarah glanced around, trying to pinpoint what it was. Her eyes rested on a crumpled tin can over by the second pump. Then they were drawn to a wrapper, buoyed by the wind, skipping across the yard.
Litter!
Having identified what it was, she could see it everywhere.
Grabbing her suitcase by its handle, she strode across the yard. As the glass doors slid open, she saw that they were smudged with fingerprints. Boxes cluttered the aisles inside, grime coated the linoleum flooring, and dust was thick on the shelves. Rage surged through her when she saw Brendan behind the counter, reading the newspaper. He didn’t even bother to look up at the sound of the door.
She cleared the rage from her throat. ‘Hello, Brendan.’
His head shot up. Guilt flooded his face.
‘Sarah,’ he spluttered. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Thought I’d surprise you,’ she said in a sharp staccato. ‘Where’s Mary?’
‘She’s not here,’ he mumbled.
‘I can see that. Has she got the day off? Is she sick?’
‘Actually, she doesn’t work here any longer – I had to let her go.’
Sarah’s eyes narrowed. ‘Since when was that your decision?’
He floundered. ‘You weren’t here –’
She cut him off. ‘I was a phone call away.’
He continued to dig himself deeper. ‘Me and Mary weren’t seeing eye to eye –’
‘About what?’ Sarah interrupted again. ‘About keeping the place clean? About taking the stock out of the boxes and putting it on the shelves?’
He bristled to his defence. ‘Listen, I’ve been on my own these last few weeks, I obviously couldn’t do everything . . .’
Sarah saw a car pull up outside and realised that soon a customer would have a ringside seat to their quarrel.
‘Take the rest of the day off, Brendan,’ she said, approaching the counter. ‘We can finish this discussion tomorrow.’
‘I want to stay,’ he objected, his spindly fingers hanging onto the counter edge, intimating that she’d have to drag him away.
‘I want you to go,’ she snapped, her eye on the customer who was getting out of his car.
Brendan still didn’t budge.
She used a softer tone. ‘You said yourself that you’re overworked, Brendan. Go home. Have a rest. We’ll both be in better form when we talk tomorrow.’
Her logic was hard to refute and reluctantly he let go his grip on the counter. He pulled his apron over his head. He and the customer passed each other at the doorway.
Sarah stayed up all night. She reconciled the bank statements to the cashbook and the totals from the till. Methodically she worked through every day of the six months she had been away. The differences at the start were irregular and, when they did occur, the amounts were insignificant. But by the time Mary had been ‘let go’ at the end of the third month, the discrepancies became both regular and significant. As dawn started to break, Sarah totted up almost five thousand pounds of missing cash. She didn’t doubt that the missing fifty on the da
y of her grandmother’s death had gone into Brendan’s pocket too.
How could he cheat me like this?
She buried her face in her hands. Who in the world could she trust? Not Brendan. Not Kieran.
You can count on yourself. You’re strong. You can cope with this.
Brendan came in shortly after seven. His face grey and shoulders hunched, he put a brown envelope on the counter.
‘There’s nearly a thousand pounds in there. I have another thousand in the bank that I’ll withdraw later on. I’ll have to work for the rest of it.’
She pushed the envelope back towards him. ‘Keep it and let’s call it quits.’
Shock registered on his narrow face. ‘Are you firing me?’
‘I’m letting you go,’ she said, using the words he’d used for Mary.
‘Please!’ He looked close to tears. ‘Please, I’m begging you, don’t bring my disgrace down on my family. I promise you –’
‘Why did you do it?’
His answer was ready; it was clear that he’d analysed his reasons many times before. ‘I was just trying to get a small bit ahead. All my life I’ve teetered on the brink of unemployment, lived hand to mouth. I wanted to have some money in my pocket, for once. I knew it was wrong . . .’ He broke down crying.
‘I won’t mention this to anyone,’ she said. ‘I just want you to go – quietly.’
He left. Quietly, as she’d asked. In his wake she felt shaken. But strong. Her experiences on EquiBank’s trading floor had hardened her.
Later on that day, just as Sarah was about to lock up, the door flung inwards and a familiar voice called out, ‘Sarah Ryan! Come here and give me a hug!’
‘Well, if it isn’t the bride-to-be!’ Sarah grinned. ‘Nuala Kelly.’
They hugged then stepped back to examine each other.
‘You’re positively glowing,’ said Sarah in admiration.
‘It’s all the facials I’ve been having in preparation for the big day.’ Nuala touched Sarah’s hair. ‘Those highlights are mad. What was it like getting your hair done in New York?’
‘Crazy. Just like everything else there.’
Sarah told Nuala about Fred’s Hair Salon as she locked the door and turned off the lights.