“Oh! Oh, hi! Is that where they were? I’ve been looking all over the place for them!” Marie-Claire exclaimed, relieved but exasperated at her stupidity.
“Easily done—I’ve looked for my phone and I’ve been talking on it,” he said matter-of-factly.
“I’d ask you in, but I’m legging it to the airport and I’m late. I keep meaning to knock and introduce myself. I’m Marie-Claire Durand.” She held out her hand. It was taken in a firm clasp. He had long fingers and neatly cut nails, she noted. And he had nice eyes.
“Senan O’Connell. Don’t let me keep ya. Knock on my door if you’re ever stuck.” He handed her the keys and raised his hand in a wave before loping off to go up his own path.
“Thanks,” she called after him before running back upstairs to get her handbag, where she was hoping mightily that she’d put her car keys. She’d been carting bags of groceries into the hall and clearly forgotten to take her keys out of the front door. She found her bag and her car keys and sprinted downstairs into the kitchen to turn down the oven where a beef casserole was simmering. The aroma was tantalizing and her stomach rumbled. She’d hardly had time for lunch earlier, making do with a sandwich scoffed on the run. She grabbed a banana and hurried out to the car.
She was halfway down Eccles Street when she remembered she’d to ring Frankie Walsh back. “Hey, Frankie, how are things?” she said cheerfully, relieved to see that the traffic on Dorset Street was flowing smoothly.
“Let’s say they’ve been better, MC, and it’s one of the reasons I’m ringing you. I heard you were back in town.” Frankie’s Cavan accent was as pronounced as ever, even after years in the capital.
“How can I help? What’s up?” she asked, remembering what fun they’d had in college.
“It’s Dee; she’s pregnant—”
“Ah, Frankie, that’s great news, congratulations,” she said warmly.
“Yeah, well, we’re delighted of course, but the problem is she has that all-day morning sickness, hyperemesis gravidarum—you know, the one that Kate Middleton had?”
“Oh no! How horrible.”
“It is truly, MC. She’s throwing up morning, noon, and night. She was recording an ad last week and right in the middle, while the voice-over actress was trilling ‘lazy days of sun and sangria,’ Dee threw up into a paper bin and added some stupendous sound effects.”
“Oh God!” Marie-Claire laughed in spite of herself. “How awful for her.”
“Fancy coming back to the business? I heard you’re hobnobbing with the D Four set, so we might be a bit downmarket,” he teased.
“Are you serious?” Marie-Claire’s eyes lit up. Frankie had opened up his own post-production company a couple of years back.
“Look, if you want to, I’d love to have you on board. I’m up to my eyes with a project in LA with a good buddy of mine. We’re working on the Solfeggio Frequencies—”
“Oh cool! My mum’s really into the frequencies in her holistic work. She uses them a lot, especially the 417 Hz.”
“Yeah, that’s a good one all right, great for clearing the past,” Frankie agreed enthusiastically. “We’ve got funding to develop headphones, with the various frequencies tuned in—”
“Wowza! What a brilliant idea.”
“I know, and I wouldn’t say this to Dee in a million years, but right when I need her most in the business, she gets preggers—”
“And I suppose you had nothing to do with it,” Marie-Claire joked.
“Ah, you know what I mean.” Frankie laughed. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m delighted, but she can’t stay at work. She’s as sick as a dog. She keeps having to go into hospital so they can put her on IV fluids.”
“Gosh, that’s terrible, Frankie. Poor Dee.”
“Fancy taking charge of the post-production end?” he asked hopefully.
“Really?” Marie-Claire felt a frisson of excitement.
“You bet. When I heard you were back, there was no one else I wanted. We were a good team together, you and me.”
“We were.” Marie-Claire grinned, remembering some of their college escapades. “Look, I’m going to Scotland for a few days. How about we hook up when I get back and have a chat?”
“Great stuff,” Frankie agreed.
“Give my love to Dee.”
I will. Great talking to ya, MC Looking forward to catching up.”
“Me too. See you soon.” Marie-Claire smiled.
Things are looking up at last, she thought, cruising through the Whitehall–Griffith Avenue junction, which usually took an age. An opportunity to get back into post-production was exactly what she needed, she realised. She was back in her own house, not quite sorted out yet, but getting used to it again. And now this. Maybe Dublin was where she would settle, after all.
Marc had called several times, urging her to come to New York to take charge of his new business there: “Marie-Claire, I know you’d make a fantastic success of it. I trust you implicitly,” he’d implored. “Please come back. I miss you, babe.”
But I don’t trust you! she’d thought, enjoying his grovelling. He wanted her in New York because she was excellent at her job, but he wouldn’t pay her the salary he was going to have to pay to get someone as qualified and experienced as she was. She knew Marc of old.
She’d thought about it. Working and living in New York would be a whole new experience, even if she weren’t romantically involved with Marc anymore. New York moved at a much faster pace than Toronto. There’d be a lot of schmoozing and networking required to attract new clients. Did she really want to put in all that effort for someone else’s business? Did she also want the upheaval of uprooting again when she’d got her house back and was beginning to settle?
The unexpected offer of a job from Frankie, right when she felt she couldn’t stick Chloe and Ines for another minute, was a sign from the universe. Frankie was highly thought of in the business. They’d worked well together in college and she had a lot to bring to his company. They would be working as equals, with genuine mutual respect. That very much appealed to her.
Marie-Claire felt a flicker of happiness and optimism. Something she hadn’t felt since she’d overheard that phone call the previous Christmas. She saw a United Airlines jet descending over the M1 on its flight path to land. Maybe last week she might have been tempted to book a ticket Stateside, but today she was happy to be in Dublin. It was the first time she’d been able to say that since her return from Toronto. Now all she’d to do was get her mother and grandmother reconciled and life would be well and truly on the up again.
Chapter Forty-Seven
Keelin’s eyes lit up when she saw Marie-Claire waving at the Arrivals barrier.
“Chérie, what a treat!” she exclaimed, throwing her arms around her daughter. “I love that you’re back living in Ireland. It’s so much easier to get to see you.”
“Maman, you look great. I love the hair.” Marie-Claire drew back and studied her mother. Keelin’s new ash-blond highlights and flick-out cut, tucked behind her ears, emphasized the green of her eyes and her high cheekbones.
“Hmmm, I needed to do something with it. I’m too old for long hair now and there’s more grey than there used to be, so I’m embracing it.” Keelin laughed, tucking her arm into her daughter’s. Together they set off towards the exit.
“Granny and Mère are at the hotel, so they survived the trip to Dublin together.” Marie-Claire grinned, sliding her parking ticket into the machine.
“Well, that’s something, I suppose,” Keelin said. “To tell you the truth, I’m dreading the next few days. I don’t know if it was such a good idea to invite Mam.”
“I know. We don’t want to be watching our p’s and q’s every time we open our mouths. But I think, from the short time I spent with her when Mère and I called in unexpectedly, she’s relieved to have an opportunity to sort things out and move forward with the rest of us. Maybe it might be a blessing in disguise,” Marie-Claire soothed, rooting for coins.
“Yes, hopefully,” Keelin said, but doubt lingered in her voice. “All I know is that a mirror is being held up to me and I don’t like myself very much. I never realised how angry I was at her and how resentful. I’d buried it for years. So I suppose it’s time for me to walk the walk, put my spiritual beliefs into practise, and clear all this toxic energy between us. No matter what the outcome.”
“You’re very hard on yourself, Maman,” Marie-Claire said. “None of us have found Granny easy to deal with.”
“I’m the one teaching holistic classes and holding spiritual retreats and pontificating about how to live our best lives.” Keelin followed Marie-Claire into a lift, glad they were alone. “What if I can’t do it, though? What if I can’t hack it with Mam. Then where are we?”
“What would you say to someone in that position if they were asking your advice?”
“I suppose I’d say, provided you’ve done your best, let them go. We can’t love or even like everybody who’s in our lives, and that’s OK. Bless them and let them go, basically.”
“Well, that’s what you’ll do then, Maman,” Marie-Claire said pragmatically. “Stop beating yourself up. Who knows, a miracle might happen and we’ll have a fun time,” she added. “Speaking of miracles, you’ll never guess what happened to me today!” she exclaimed, hoisting Keelin’s case into the boot of the car. “An old college friend phoned me, out of the blue. His wife is pregnant and very sick and he needs someone to run the post-production side of his business, and that someone might be moi!”
“Terrific,” enthused her mother, settling into the passenger seat.
“That’s a real sign that I’ve to stay in Dublin, isn’t it? I was so unsettled, I didn’t know what to do with myself and thought of going to the States—”
“And going back to Marc?” Keelin couldn’t hide her shock.
“No!” scoffed Marie-Claire, reversing out of the parking bay. “I’d never go back to him—though I did think about taking the job in his New York office. But now this has come up and I really like the idea of it.”
“And you’ve moved back into your lovely house. It’s perfect,” Keelin encouraged, relieved that Marie-Claire was staying put. “Mary Magdalene is working her magic already—let’s hope she gifts us with a serene few days in Scotland.”
“Somehow I don’t equate the word ‘serene’ with Granny,” Marie-Claire replied, and they laughed heartily as they headed for the hotel.
* * *
Brigid knocked on Imelda’s door. She’d got a text from Marie-Claire to say that she and Keelin were leaving the airport, and to be in the foyer in ten minutes. She was thoroughly enjoying this great new adventure. Staying in a hotel was a real treat. Whenever she’d travelled for work, she’d always stayed in convents.
She’d had a lovely post-lunch siesta, lying on her bed and flicking through TV channels before losing herself in her latest Patrice Chaplin book, which was all about life in a small French village. They were going to dinner and to make plans for their Scottish itinerary at Marie-Claire’s house. She hadn’t been this excited since she was a small girl waiting for Santa to come.
For so many years, there’d been nothing in her life to make her feel really enthusiastic. Now every day had a new joy and a new sense of freedom for her. It was thoroughly invigorating, Brigid thought happily.
Imelda’s perfume wafted out the door, when it opened. Brigid could see that her sister had taken extra care with her make-up. She really was looking very well for her age.
“I must get you to give me make-up lessons sometime. You look very glamorous,” Brigid complimented her sister.
“I try.” Imelda admired her reflection in the mirror. She’d got a new foundation the last time she was in Brown Thomas and it was very smooth compared to the old one, which had always looked patchy.
“They’re on their way to collect us. Marie-Claire said to be in the foyer waiting,” Brigid explained.
“Did they ring you?” Imelda asked sharply.
“Text.” Brigid wondered why the tone.
“Huh, they could have sent me one. Just as well I was ready in time,” Imelda said snippily, gathering her bag, scarf, and jacket.
Don’t start your nonsense. Brigid felt irritability prick her bubble of anticipation. Imelda’s humour had changed. She wore that dour expression that Brigid was more familiar with. She realised that Imelda was nervous. It was her first time to meet Keelin after the row. It would be awkward for both of them.
“Do you want to take the stairs or the lift?” Brigid asked.
“I suppose we should take the stairs. It’s good exercise.” Imelda arranged her scarf just so over her shoulders as they walked along the corridor.
“The Dunne ladies shall make their impressive descent, then,” Brigid said light-heartedly. “Remember after we went to the cinema to see Gone with the Wind, we wrapped Granny Dunne’s shawls around us and pretended to be Scarlett and Melly, walking down the stairs.”
“We did, didn’t we? I’d forgotten that.” Imelda brightened at the memory. “You forget so much, don’t you! Oh look, there’s Keelin waiting for us,” she murmured. “I wonder will she be snooty with me.”
“She wanted you to come with us,” Brigid reminded her gently. “She’s probably wondering will you be snooty with her.”
“Well, she was quite nasty to me,” Imelda said self-righteously as they reached the last step and walked past Reception to where her daughter was waiting for them.
“Hello, Mam,” Keelin said calmly.
“Hello, Keelin.” Imelda felt her mouth go dry and her heart start to beat faster. She didn’t know what to say next.
Brigid saved her. “Hello, dear, where’s Marie-Claire?” she asked, reaching up to kiss Keelin’s cheek.
“She’s in the car outside, she’s anxious to get home because she has the dinner simmering in the oven, so I said I’d run in for you.”
“Grand, we’re all ready to go,” Brigid said, ushering Imelda and Keelin ahead of her.
“Did you have a good flight?” Imelda made an effort.
“I did. It was very smooth and it was such a treat to have Marie-Claire waiting for me in Arrivals. I’m so glad she’s back in Ireland for good.”
“Is she going to stay, do you think?” interjected Brigid as they crossed the foyer. “She was a bit betwixt and between when I saw her last. Couldn’t decide what to do.”
“I think so. She’s moved back into the house, and earlier today she got a job offer in post-production, which is where her heart lies. As I said to her, Mary Magdalene is working her magic!” Keelin smiled at her aunt, who was waving at Marie-Claire.
She jumped out of the car when she saw them and kissed Imelda and Brigid.
“You sit in the front, Keelin; Imelda and I will get in the back.” Brigid took charge, thinking it might be awkward if Imelda and Keelin were sitting in the back, not knowing what to say to each other.
Keelin leapt into the front of the car with alacrity. The last place she wanted to be was sitting beside her mother, trying to make polite chitchat.
“I’ve a beef casserole in the oven. You’ll be my first guests, for dinner. I hope you’re hungry, because I’m starving,” Marie-Claire said over her shoulder as they set off.
“We had a delicious lunch earlier, in the hotel, but I’m beginning to feel peckish all right.” Imelda settled herself comfortably, beginning to relax.
“That sounds tasty,” Brigid approved, wondering would it be better to clear the air with everyone over dinner, so that they wouldn’t all be walking on eggshells for the duration of their trip to Scotland. How many times had she sat at dinners with her community after a row had taken place and antagonism had crackled around the table, despite the silence, while they ate?
Perhaps they should wait, at least until the meal was over. No point in ruining Marie-Claire’s first dinner party. “Tell us about the new job offer Keelin mentioned, Marie-Claire,” Brigid moved the conversation
to another safe topic.
Her grand-niece turned onto the Ballymun Road and regaled them with tales of her time in college with Frankie, and his job offer to her.
“And what will the fella in Toronto have to say about that?” Imelda queried.
“He can say what he likes, Granny. It’s got nothing to do with him. I’m my own woman and I make my own decisions,” Marie-Claire retorted.
“It really is a time for women to come into their own in Ireland now, isn’t it?” Brigid remarked. “So different from our day, Imelda. It’s wonderful to see women standing together and standing up for one another to repeal the Eighth.”
Imelda did a double take at her sister’s words. “But you’re a nun, Brigid—surely you wouldn’t be voting Yes to abortion?”
“I’m a nun who has been sleepwalking through life, believing what I was told by my Church. Now I’m awake, thinking for myself, making my own decisions. And while I don’t condone abortion, neither do I judge anyone who has had one. I’ve never had to make that decision. There but for the grace of God went any of us. And my Yes vote will give women the chance to make their own decision, so that they’ll no longer have to put their lives in danger, or have to travel to a foreign country for a termination, if it comes to that. There’s a great liberation in being free to work all these things out for myself after all these years of toeing the party line, so to speak.” She smiled at Imelda.
“Could you be excommunicated for voting Yes?” Imelda asked.
“They can excommunicate away. They got the best of me. Now I’m giving my best, or what’s left of it, to myself!” Brigid countered, and they all laughed.
“There’s a squad car outside your house; I hope there’s nothing wrong,” Imelda said when Marie-Claire turned onto the road where she lived.
“That’s my neighbour getting out. He’s a copper—”
“He’s not wearing a uniform,” Imelda observed as Marie-Claire indicated and waited patiently to get into her parking space.
“Maybe he’s a detective Garda,” Brigid said. “What’s he like?”
The Liberation of Brigid Dunne Page 30