by Ber Carroll
The show ended after two encores. Sarah stood with the rest of the audience and clapped till her hands were stinging. The crowd spilled out to the foyer and her eyes sought out the usher she’d given the message to.
‘Well?’
‘Mr Delaney will see you. Follow me.’
For some reason she hadn’t thought it would be that easy. She faltered while the usher strode ahead and unlocked a door that led to a flight of stairs.
‘The maestro’s suite is at the top.’
Sarah forced herself forward to face her past. She ascended the stairs and knocked on the door of the dressing-room. John opened the door.
‘Sarah!’ He caught her up in a hug. Then, hands on her shoulders, stepped back to look her up and down. ‘I can’t believe it’s you. Here in New York!’
‘I know,’ she smiled waveringly. ‘I was passing by . . .’ She looked down at her running clothes. ‘Actually, I was going for a run . . . Then I saw your name . . .’
‘What are you doing here? Do you live here?’
‘No, I live in Dublin. I’m here with work.’
John dropped his hands and she had the opportunity to study him. He looked well, very well. His face was youthful, his body trim. But then appearances were important in his profession, almost as important as talent.
‘You’re married?’ he asked, his eyes glancing to her wedding ring.
‘Yes. To Tim.’
‘The boy from college?’
‘Yes. And you?’
‘I’m married to Sophie.’ His whole face smiled as he said her name.
Sarah swallowed. ‘Do you have children?’
‘No. This life – the constant touring and antisocial hours – isn’t suitable for little ones.’
Sarah took time to absorb that. Children weren’t part of his life. They didn’t fit. Their baby wouldn’t have fitted.
‘How about you?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Kids. Do you have any?’
‘No. Not yet.’
Silence filled the room, creeping along the red carpet and up the beige walls. A sad, sad silence.
‘Do you ever go back?’ he asked quietly.
‘To Carrickmore? No, no, I don’t.’
‘My mother and father are still there, running the pub. Sophie thinks it’s quaint. Mother loves her, of course.’
Yes, his mother would be happy with the violinist. In her eyes, Sarah had never been good enough.
‘Listen, do you want to go for a drink?’ he asked suddenly. ‘I have to shower first, but I’d be ready in ten minutes.’
‘I can’t,’ she replied in a rush. ‘I’m here for business – I’ve a big day tomorrow.’
They stared at each other.
‘I’m glad you called by, Sarah . . . I often think about you . . .’
‘And me you.’ She stepped forward and kissed his cheek. ‘Good luck with the rest of the tour.’
She needed air. Quickly. She hurried out of the dressing-room, down the stairs, past the auditorium and down more stairs, until she was finally out on the street. She bent over, hands on her knees, and inhaled big deep gulps of New York’s air.
‘Goodbye, John,’ she whispered, looking up at his neon-lit name.
She could breathe again. In fact, she could breathe easier than she’d been able to for years.
She threw the program into a nearby rubbish bin and began to run, back towards the hotel. Her legs were fluid, her body buoyant and her lungs full of delicious air. She was free of John Delaney.
Bradley Simons paused for a moment before briefing the board on the second shortlisted candidate.
‘Jodi Tyler originally comes from Sydney but she has worked extensively in London and Singapore. Her background is largely in sales and her strength lies in client relationships. Jodi has been with her current employer, CorpBank, for seven years, testament to both her loyalty and capability. Her most recent role is head of the UK capital investment division. In her interviews, Jodi presented as very professional, and evidently demands the same standards from those around her . . .’
Only the most discerning ear could detect that Bradley favoured the second candidate. In truth, he thought very highly of both women. Sarah Ryan was a trader. She had a sharp mind, faultless instincts, and she was good with people. But in Bradley’s considered opinion, Jodi Tyler was the better woman for the job. She had considerable international experience and knew how to sell across markets and countries. She would revolutionise EquiBank’s culture and values, and lead the bank to new levels of growth and success.
Bradley looked around the board table at the directors with their predominantly grey hair and solemn expressions. It was anyone’s guess which candidate they would favour tomorrow. And Sarah Ryan did have a formidable ally on her side: the current CEO, Denise Martin.
Jodi knew that she should stay in her room and prepare for the panel interview in the morning, but New York was like a candy jar she couldn’t keep her fingers out of. She changed into a knee-length denim skirt and a white singlet top, and took the lift down to the hotel’s foyer. Outside dusk was giving way to night and all the billboards were lit up, brazenly competing to catch the eye. The traffic behaved in a similar fashion, revving and hooting, wanting to be noticed.
Jodi walked at a leisurely pace past the shops, restaurants and bars. She drank in the atmosphere. It had much the same effect as alcohol: it made her head spin and her blood pump with excitement and a feeling of invincibility.
On impulse, she went into one of the bars and ordered a Bloody Mary. She had no sooner sat down than her mobile phone began to ring.
‘Hello.’
‘Jodi! It’s me.’
It was James. He’d been shell-shocked when she’d told him she was going to New York in pursuit of a new job. There’d been too little time to fully talk it through.
‘Hi. Is everything okay?’
‘Yes . . .’ He paused awkwardly. ‘Well, actually, everything isn’t okay. I’m not okay. I miss you. I love you.’
Her heart squeezed. ‘I love you too, James. But –’
‘Please, Jodi, don’t leave me.’
‘Oh, James . . .’
‘I’ll have a baby with you.’
‘No, James. You don’t want a baby, you just want me.’
‘And I’ll live in New York, if that’s where you want to be . . .’
His voice was raw and desperate. She didn’t feel any sense of victory. Only sadness. Because it was too late. She’d already distanced herself from him. He was part of her past, like Andrew and, in a more unpleasant way, Bob.
She sipped the Bloody Mary and winced at the bitter taste.
‘I’m sorry, James. It was you who said at the start that we shouldn’t be together, and I know now that you were right.’
She was in a new place, a new city, where she could make another clean start. There was no going back. To London. Or to James.
Sarah was out of breath when she arrived back at the hotel. She hurried through the foyer, ignoring the curious looks that were being cast her way. When she reached her room, she pounced on the telephone. She called Denise first.
‘I’m pulling out,’ she said in a rush. ‘I should never have come here. I don’t know what I was trying to prove –’ She stopped and corrected herself. ‘Actually, I do know what I was trying to prove, but that’s a long story. I’m sorry, Denise. I hope I haven’t put you in an awkward predicament with the board . . . and I hope my existing job isn’t impacted in any way . . .’
Denise’s reaction was calm. ‘Of course your job won’t be affected. Are you sure you’re doing the right thing? That you want to stay in Dublin?’
Sarah was very sure. ‘Yes, I am.’
‘Well, don’t worry about the board. They’ll understand.’
Sarah put down the phone, took a few deep breaths, and then picked it up again. The phone at the farm rang through to the answering machine.
‘Tim! I’m ringing to let you
know that I’m coming home in the morning, and to tell you how sorry I am for being such an idiot, and for not being honest with you . . . You see, there’s something you don’t know about me, something that happened when I was eighteen, and it might explain why I am the way I am. Why I feel I don’t deserve to have a baby. Why I’m always pushing to get to the top, to be the best. I know I’m talking to a machine . . . but I just needed you to know that I’m sorry . . . and that I’m coming home . . . I hope you can forgive me . . . I love you . . .’
She didn’t say on the message that she was willing to try IVF. Nor that she’d been to a classical music concert and had finally let go of her first love. She would explain all that when she saw Tim face to face. She would explain the self-hatred after the abortion and how it had nurtured the notion that she didn’t deserve another baby. She would explain how the need to prove herself had compelled her to fly to New York in pursuit of a job she didn’t really want or need. Only now could she see the past few weeks for what they were: her old demons disguised as self-righteous anger rather than their usual manifestation of depression and anxiety.
Tim would forgive her, Sarah was sure of it. He’d already shown her in a thousand ways how much he loved her. He would gently tell her that she shouldn’t hate herself or feel unworthy.
‘You’re more than good enough as you are, Sarah,’ he would say. ‘There’s no need to be better.’
The following morning dawned with heavy cloud and drizzling rain. The traffic on Seventh Avenue was even more aggressive in the wet, but the double-glazed windows of the Renaissance muted the squealing tyres and honking horns.
Jodi looked critically at her reflection in the mirror. The suit she wore was grey, the skirt falling to her knees and the jacket nipping in at her waist. Her pastel green shirt softened the grey, as did her hair, golden and loose. Her make-up was subtle, her lips glossed. She looked both feminine and professional.
Who is Jodi Tyler? She’s smart. She’s loyal. She works hard. Family is important to her. She likes the smell of the sea and the feeling of sand between her toes. She doesn’t compromise. She’s a survivor.
Jodi checked her compendium to ensure that she had everything she needed: a few spare copies of her résumé, a notepad and a pen. She felt quietly confident. She’d always been good at interviews, possibly because she was good at sales, and what were interviews, after all, but a sales pitch?
She could do this job and she was quite certain that she would be able to convince the board of this fact. She would share her enthusiasm with them, let them see how much she wanted to live and work in this city, to breathe in its vibrancy. In a few years’ time, when she’d tired of the glitz, she would return to Sydney, to live in Grandma’s house, her inheritance, her home. But that was not for her interviewers to know and it didn’t in any way diminish what she could achieve for EquiBank in the interim.
With her compendium under her arm, and her matching Oroton bag on her shoulder, she closed the door to her room and headed towards the lift. It came without delay and she stepped inside. Just as the doors were closing, she saw a woman rushing down the corridor, pulling along a travel case.
‘Can you hold it, please?’
Jodi had lived in London long enough to be able to pick an Irish accent. She pressed the button to hold the lift open and the woman smiled her thanks as she got in. With a slight jerk, the lift started downwards. The woman smoothed her chestnut hair, which had fallen out of place in the rush. Her skin was pale and clear, typically Celtic.
‘Going home?’ Jodi enquired politely.
‘Yes,’ she nodded. ‘A last-minute change of plans.’
They said nothing for the rest of the journey down. When they alighted at the foyer, the woman headed for the desk to check out and Jodi went outside to get a cab.
‘There’s not many around this morning, miss,’ the bellboy told her. ‘It’s the wet weather.’
Jodi had plenty of time to get to her interview, so there was no need to worry. After a few minutes, the Irish woman hurried outside and her expression became panicked when she saw that Jodi was still waiting.
‘I hope I don’t miss my flight!’
She seemed to be in a very big rush to get back to Ireland.
Jodi smiled reassuringly. ‘I’m sure there’ll be other flights this morning.’
The woman still looked anxious. ‘My husband is meeting me off the plane. I don’t want him to have to wait, he’s been patient enough.’
Her face brightened as not one but two taxis pulled up outside the hotel.
‘Thank goodness for that.’
Jodi smiled. ‘Have a good trip home.’
Moments later, the yellow cabs rejoined the heavy traffic, one behind the other. Shortly after, the second one changed lanes and the cabs were abreast. They stayed like this until the next intersection, and there they went their separate ways.