Then to really calm herself down, she fished out the by-now battered and raggedy A4 printout from the depths of her jacket pocket and spread it on the table in front of her.
You see this? This is the reason why you’re here, she sternly reminded herself. The one and only reason.
This was the only woman she’d ever thought of as Mum, and there was no power on earth that would stop her from paying her last respects. Absolutely nothing, no matter how high the risk.
God knows, she felt badly enough that she couldn’t get in touch with Foxborough these past two years, but then, that was out of the question. A phone call from a South African number enquiring after Mrs K. would immediately arouse suspicion and could so easily be tracked. Even an anonymous email enquiry to the home was fully traceable, she knew. Every computer had a unique IP address that could be tracked down and it was a risk she just couldn’t afford to take. She’d written to Mrs K. every chance she got though, and then would cajole anyone at the hotel who was travelling onto Europe, Australia or the States to mail letters for her whenever they were passing through. Knowing that Mrs K. wouldn’t be able to read or even focus on them, but hoping that someone at Foxborough would be kind enough to read them out to her. She was always careful never to say where she was, and she knew the postmark wouldn’t give her away; she just wrote that she was OK, that all was well but that she missed her dreadfully.
To her shame, she’d done next to nothing else for Mrs K. over the last two years, bar alternate between thinking about her and worrying over her. Knowing that at least in her condition, the poor woman wouldn’t be able to grasp the enormity of what had happened. Wouldn’t even be aware that she’d stopped visiting her, that she really was gone. Poor consolation, but still. It got Jean through more than a few dark nights of the soul. So being there for her today felt like the least she could do, no matter how big a gamble she was about to take.
She went over it all in her head again, for about the hundredth time: the plan she’d worked out so carefully. She was still OK for time, because even if her flight was delayed till much later on that night, the funeral still wasn’t until midday the following day.
First, she’d hire a car at Cork airport and drive all the way to Rocky Island in Ringaskiddy, Co. Cork, where the memorial service and cremation was to take place. She’d done all her research, had even printed off an AA route map, and figured, all going well, that she could manage the drive in well under two hours.
She was pretty certain there wouldn’t be anyone who’d know her at the church. How could there be? She worked out that poor Mrs K. had been moved from Foxborough to the hospice in Youghal some time ago, probably so she could be closer to Cork University Hospital. ’Course, there was always the slim risk that someone from Foxborough might travel down to pay their last respects, but it seemed doubtful anyone would. They were always so understaffed and overworked in there, taking a day off to travel all that distance was highly unlikely.
The main thing was that he wouldn’t be there. How could he be? He knew of Mrs K.’s existence alright, but rarely even asked about her and had never once come with her on a visit. For God’s sake, he didn’t even know Mrs K.’s full name, how could he possibly just turn up? Even if by some weird chance, he’d happened to see the tiny notice in the paper, the woman’s full name would have meant absolutely nothing to him. He’d never remotely interested himself in anything to do with Jean’s past. It was her present and, worst of all, her future, which was all that concerned him.
A good, strengthening thought. Just cling to that, she told herself, and you’ll live to tell the tale. Half a bottle of icy cold water later, she felt stronger, more like herself.
Yet again, she went over it. It was simple, really. She’d arrive as late as she dared to the church, when everyone else had gone inside for the service. Stay well at the back where she wouldn’t be seen, then slip away before everyone else got up to leave. No lingering around and, above all, no entering into conversation with anyone she didn’t know. Get in, get out, fast. Do it for Mrs K.
And she could, she knew she could. Once she stuck to the plan, she’d be OK. The more she said it over and over to herself, the more she started to believe it. Everything would be all right. Her exit strategy was all worked out. With any luck, she’d be back on the road to the airport, safely out of there and back to her life of obscurity in no time.
She’d come this far. She could do it.
After all, she had no choice.
ANGIE.
Chapter Eleven
27 September, 8.15 a.m.
BIG, red-letter day in the life of Angie Blennerhasset. Huge. If I ever came to write my own autobiography, today would probably take up an entire chapter. Our new business, The Chocolate Bar, is, as of today … drumroll for dramatic effect … officially up, running and open, available for all your needs beverage- and chocolate-related! I’m so beside myself, I’m actually running around like an over-excited nine-year-old, having a sugar high on Christmas morning.
Mind you, Sarah’s taking it all far more professionally than me, and in a heroic attempt to calm me down, reminds me we’ve still got our big interview with the Business section of the Daily Post to navigate our way through first. Which, by the way, is a proper photo shoot with an actual, professional photographer … I know, I can scarcely believe it either! Me, the Queen of the Flake-Heads, actually being featured in a business section, read by busy, important, briefcase-wielding types? It’s an amazing victory lap for Sarah and me and – with apologies for the pettiness of what I’m about to say – a serious smack in gob for everyone who laughed and belittled us over the past two years, as we crawled our way up.
Because just take a look at me now … swanning up Grafton Street to meet a journalist and photographer who want to run a full feature on the business, like I’ve been doing it all my life! Yes, me, big loser Angie, who once aspired to scrubbing floors on film sets, in the vain hopes I’d eventually work my way up to becoming the female equivalent of James Cameron (except maybe without banging on about the bleeding Titanic quite so much).
’Course, I still love and miss the world of film production so much it hurts, but eventually I had to grow up and face hard, cold facts. God knows, I’d more than my fair share of looking at things square on over the past two years, and this, in a funny way, was almost the least of it. Eventually, though, I made the v. painful decision that when it came to my first career choice, the utmost I’d ever most likely aspire to was a glorified tea-lady and general all-round go-for.
In fairness, it’s not entirely my fault. There just are no work opportunities in the film industry, unless you uproot and go out to LA. And even then you still end up as a glorified tea-maker, except all the accents are American and chances are the tea is green and caffeine-free, full of antioxidants.
Wasn’t easy, mind you, giving up on long-cherished hopes and dreams, but sooner or later the time comes to all of us when we have to cop on to ourselves. And I had to decide either to make something out of my life, or else stay on the dole moaning, till I was old enough to collect the state pension.
So I chose to move on.
And as Sarah never tires of reminding me, the Daily Post feature is a seriously huge deal for the two of us. Not only as PR for our new business, but as a sort of badge of pride/endorsement for us both too. As she quite rightly says herself, we’ve been through so much over the past two years and we’ve worked so bloody hard; so if we’re not going to pat ourselves on the back, then who is?
In fact I often think back to the sheer amount of grief the pair of us each had to put up with, back in those early, start-up days. Sarah from the banks and me from … well, I’ll come back to that in a minute. Have to say in Sarah’s defence, though, God help any banker that gets in her way now; she’s got to be so bloody well able for them. I’ve sat in with her on more than a few v. scary, high-powered meetings with branch managers in the past, and the girl would nearly astonish you. Goes in with the
attitude of, ‘You’re all basically a shower of morons if you don’t even consider investing in a small, but up-and-coming growing business opportunity! It’d be akin to turning down a licence to print money, and mark my words, you’d all end up laughing stocks! Far, far worse than when Simon Cowell turned down Take That, on grounds the lead singer was too fat!’
Less swaggering personalities like me sit cowering in the corner, cap-twisting, as my mother says, embarrassed and beyond apologetic at having the bare-faced cheek to look for an actual cash loan. Wondering when the part comes where they tell us the loan application has to be signed in blood under full moon with the sound of bloodhounds baying in background. But not our Sarah. Don’t think I’ve ever in all my born days seen any living creature like her. Seriously, Angela Merkel could do Sarah’s correspondence course in assertiveness and still manage to pick up a trick or two.
The Daily Post glossy business feature, however, would be more in the nature of a personal validation for me. Mainly because of the serious amounts of shite I was forced to take back in our start-up days from my delightful sibling, the perennially supportive Madeline Blennerhasset. I really thought the girl would burst ulcers from laughing when she first heard about what we were up to, all of two years ago. Can still hear her grating, nasally voice sneering at me.
‘A coffee shop called The Chocolate Bar? Is it possible that you’re being serious? The way you’re headed, Angie, you won’t be happy till you’re working as a cleaning lady! Mark my words, it’s a slippery slope.’
Really, really hate to gloat and I know it’s v. small-minded of me. But mark my words, after a few drinks at tonight’s launch party, chances are I’ll end up dancing rings around the old witch, chanting, ‘HA! In your face!’
And yes, am aware there’s such a thing as being gracious in victory, but on a day like today, sod that for a lark.
Westbury Hotel foyer, midday
The journalist who’s arranged to interview us is already here ahead of me, with Sarah sitting pretty on the sofa beside her. Journalist turns out to be absolutely lovely, by the way; she’s an older lady dressed head to toe in floaty white linen, who introduces herself as Clara, shakes hands warmly and says she’s really looking forward to the big launch party tonight. She thanks us profusely for the invite and says her little girl, who adores our chocolate, wishes us the best of luck too, and is very much looking forward to treating herself to a few of our special dark chocolate caramel surprises when she can.
‘That’s lovely to hear, thank you,’ Sarah smiles graciously. Then, ever with an eye to getting a good plug in, she goes on, ‘and maybe you’d tell your little girl that our suppliers are about to set up monthly children’s workshops, where kids can spend a full day seeing how the chocolates are actually made, then eat all they like at the very end. It’ll be a magical day out, perfect for children’s birthday parties.’
‘Well, I’ll be sure to pass that on,’ Clara says a bit uncertainly, ‘but when I say she’s my little girl, she’s actually thirty-four.’
Then, all apologies, she steps away from us, to take an urgent call from her editor on her mobile phone.
The minute she’s out of earshot, I give Sarah a warm bear hug, even though I only saw her a few hours earlier at work.
‘Look at you, Ange, you look a million dollars!’ she beams at me.
‘Ah, would you ever give over!’ I nudge her back playfully. ‘You’re just getting far too used to seeing me behind a counter with my hairnet on, that’s all!’
We’ve both changed out of our work gear and are all dressed up like two dogs’ dinners for this, Sarah in an elegant black shift dress from Karen Millen, with her hair neatly tied back; v. Kate Middleton-going-to-inspect-the-troops sort of look, if you’re with me. But then, Sarah’s just born to wear Karen Millen; she’s got a handspan waist and is absolutely doll-sized, just like you have to be to even fit through the door of that shop.
As for me, given my new career and in spite of all my best efforts to shift a few pounds for today, my waistline slowly seems to be engaged in coup de corps, trying to take over my whole body. (And as an aside, I defy anyone to spend all day working round the yummiest chocolate yet discovered by man and not gain weight, but there you go. It’s somewhat in the way of being an occupational hazard.)
Anyway, it’s not easy finding clothes that cover a multitude and yet look good on me, but as a very special splash-out present to mark the day, I decided to really push the boat out and treat myself. So I’m now all togged out in a long, floaty maxi-dress from Reiss, with a dotey little matching cardigan to shield the public from having to gawp at my fleshy, dinner-lady arms. Feels great on, and again, at Sarah’s insistence, I even had a blow-dry this morning, something I never do. Well, in my line of work, it tends to be a big waste of time, given the restraints of hairnets. Not certain what I look like, but I can tell you one thing with absolute confidence. At this moment in time, I feel like I’m officially on top of the world.
‘Isn’t this just a dream come true?’ Sarah squeals excitedly.
‘Oh, babes …’ I start to say, but end up just lamely trailing off instead.
Almost impossible to even put into words, but it’s been such a long, long time since I felt this positive about myself. Amazing, wonderful sensation, like I’ve finally come full circle and I’m bloody determined to squeeze every last drop out of it. Sarah and I have each had so much to deal with on every level over past two years and today is nothing short of a major celebration.
I’ve this overwhelming urge to yell at everyone I meet: ‘Look! We’ve done it! And in spite of everything, by some miracle, I’ve come out the other side!’ I do a lightning-quick spotcheck of my feelings and realise something. That I’m actually happy. Really, genuinely happy. Now whoever would have thought?
Never thought I’d be happy again, not after what happened and certainly not after everything that was thrown my way, not two short years ago. And it turns out I couldn’t have been more wrong. But then, I suppose that’s the thing about life. Just when you think it’s all headed down the toilet, that’s when it’ll surprise you most.
I’m way too overcome by it all to even articulate all this to Sarah; instead, I settle for just squeezing her arm and smiling warmly back at her. Besides, pretty much everything we’ve been through, we’ve been through together, shoulder to shoulder, side by side.
She already knows what I’m feeling without my even having to say it aloud.
12.15 p.m.
Clara eventually wraps up her phone call with many, many red-faced, flustered apologies, then switches on her tape recorder and kicks off with her first question.
‘Well, now, ladies,’ she smiles, ‘firstly, can I just say what an inspiration your story has been to women everywhere. A good news story like yours coming out of the economic gloom could hardly fail to put a smile on anyone’s face, now could it?’
’Course I beam, while Sarah just nods and takes all this in her stride. But then out of the pair of us, Sarah is v. much the visionary and won’t be happy until we’ve achieved world domination. It’s pretty much the main reason why she and I work so well as a team.
‘So,’ Clara goes on, ‘let me start by asking you, what was it that first gave you the idea to set up The Chocolate Bar?’
I let Sarah field that one. It’s like an unspoken agreement we have. Although the business is an equal fifty-fifty split, she always talks about the nuts and bolts of it, but when it comes to the actual product, that’s when it’s over to moi. In other words, she’s the money gal, I’m the one you chat to about all things grub-related. But sure, who in their right mind wouldn’t be happy to chat about chocolate all day? Sure that’s not work, it’s more like my hobby at this stage. And believe me, I’ve the cellulite to prove it.
‘Easy,’ Sarah says, sitting bolt upright like she’s about to read the nine o’clock news. ‘As you know, my family have a franchise of sandwich bars …’
‘Yes, I remember
reading about that …’ Clara smiles, all encouragement.
‘So you could say I effectively was born into the catering industry,’ Sarah goes on smoothly and confidently, almost like she’s rehearsed this. Which knowing her, she probably has, in front of a mirror and everything. Sarah’s always thoroughness itself. Secret of success, she says. Fail to prepare, prepare to fail, etc. is her motto.
‘But then,’ she continues, ‘over time, I slowly started to notice something. A few years back when the credit crunch turned into a full-blown recession, and then when the economic meltdown first began to hit hard, customers unsurprisingly began to cut back on their take-out lattes and low-fat mochas. Instead they’d make their own coffee at home and take flasks into work with them, or else do without. Which is absolutely as you’d expect. It’s completely understandable and, unfortunately for us, how people behave whenever money is tight.’
‘Of course,’ Clara smiles and nods along.
‘But here’s what I began to pick up on. Customers were still coming into us, but instead of ordering their low-fat Americanos to go, they’d make straight for the sweet counter. It was as though everyone was suddenly cutting back on luxuries, but still allowing themselves the odd, inexpensive little treat, like one or two handmade chocolates that still only cost less than fifty cents each.’
‘So, Angie, when did you first come on board?’
Right then, over to me.
‘Well, Sarah first came to me about two years ago. She’d had this idea and asked if I’d be interested in getting involved. At the time, I was already working in one of her family’s sandwich bars and really surprising myself at just how much I loved dealing with the public.’
‘She’s a born natural at it!’ Sarah chips in loyally. ‘It’s like Angie is everyone’s friend. We’ve got customers who seem to come in just for a natter with her! You should see her. They tell her everything, even the most personal things. You wouldn’t believe it. There she is, day after day, doling out chocolate and relationship advice …’
Me and You Page 18