The Importance of Being Me

by Caroline Grace-Cassidy

  I really think you should go to Cornwall for the summer, it’s a fantastic opportunity for you.

  Dad says as soon as you read my text can you call him. I’m sorry, Mom.

  Love Susan xoxoxo

  My hands are shaking. Do they think I’m stupid? Every word of that was from David’s mouth – it had new and chillaxed David written all over it. How dare he? How dare she? How dare they all plot this out behind my back? This is so unfair. I can’t stop crying, but I need to, because I can’t catch my breath. Walking to the window, I try to control my breathing. I heave. Never have I felt so alone in my entire life. Moving quickly to the bed, I stab in David’s number. He answers after the second ring.

  “Hi, Courtney.” David’s voice is clipped, defensive. I just know Susan and Mar-nee are sitting with him. I’ve never been invited inside their apartment, but in my mind’s eye it’s what the Big Brother house might look like: crazy, Andy Warhol-inspired.

  “David, what the hell are you doing?” I pant down the line.

  “So you have read Susan’s text message then?” He speaks slowly and clearly. Too slowly and too clearly, as though I am some kind of dumb fool.

  “Of course I read the text message, David, and she’s a fifteen-year-old girl who lives with me!”

  “I won’t talk to you if you are going to scream and shout—”

  “I am not screaming and shouting . . .” I scream at him, my heart pumping hard in my chest.

  “Let’s discuss this like adults and all just chillax.”

  His tone is incredibly patronising. I want to punch him in the face. I punch my leg, right where the guy whacked me with the briefcase. I grit my teeth in pain, but it brings me back to the moment.

  “David, firstly I have a surprise party in the local GAA club organised for Susan’s birthday night. I’ve booked a band, invited all her friends—”

  “Well, thanks for inviting me and Mar-nee. It seems you are making quite the habit of hiding things from me.”

  “It’s only for young girls, and I was going to ask you both this week as a matter of fact! I presumed you would take her for dinner or something on Sunday.”

  “Well, we didn’t know that. We asked Sue-Sue a million times what Mom was planning and she said nothing, so we booked for Belfast. It’s what she wants to do.” He knows how much I hate it when they call her Sue-Sue. It’s Mar-nee’s pet name for her. I can’t even get the words to leave my mouth. I’m gasping like a fish out of water.

  “Well, she isn’t doing that, David, because I’m throwing her a surprise party.”

  “I don’t think that’s what she wants, Courtney.”

  “David, we need to sit down and talk when I get back tomorrow.”

  “Indeed we do, because Madam Sue-Sue tells me you want her to go to Cornwall for the summer while you work. Hello? When were you going to ask us? Hardly seems fair or legal for that matter, that you think you can take my child out of the country without my permission.” He pauses for too long and I know he’s being fed lines. I know him so well I’d bet my life on it. He goes on. “She can stay here with us, near her pals, and get some extra money working part-time in Mar-nee’s salon.” He’s taken on a tone of authority that’s new to me.

  “David, Susan is only fifteen, I don’t think she needs a job! I don’t want to discuss this in front of Mar-nee, who I know is sitting on your lap . . . Oh God, am I on loudspeaker?” I raise my voice.

  “Chillax, will you? I—”

  “Stop telling me to chillax! What age are you, you stupid bloody idiot of a man?” I yell.

  “Mom! Stop!” I hear Susan’s frightened voice. I am right: he does have me on loudspeaker. The surprise party is ruined. I try really hard not to cry again.

  “David, I want to talk to you one-on-one tomorrow night. Come to the house, please, at seven o’clock.” My voice is steadier now. I know I must calm down.

  He takes his time again answering. “No problem, we will be there by nine thirty. Thursday night is late opening in the salon.” It’s as though Mar-nee is writing down his answers.

  “No! Not ‘we’, just you!” I shout again now. I know I am letting myself down, but I simply can’t help it.

  He pauses again, then I hear: “We are a package, sweetheart: we come together or not at all.” It is Mar-nee who is speaking now.

  Stabbing at the red button, I end the call. Jesus, I need a stiff drink. I throw the phone against the wardrobe. Mercifully it doesn’t shatter.

  I scream into the soft, thick pillow as I throw myself face down on the big double bed. Why is my life so unfair? As much as I want to text Susan back, I won’t. I can’t. I am the adult here. This is a situation I need to keep tight control of. I can’t conduct our affairs over text messages. This is my child. My baby. I will not lose her.

  Rummaging in my bag, I pull out headache tablets for my now throbbing head. I call Claire’s phone, but then I hang up immediately. She really has enough on her plate. Getting off the bed, I drop to my knees and open my small suitcase. The beautiful room now seems to be closing in on me. I just have a pair of black jeans and a red denim shirt to wear. My armpits are now drenched in sweat, so I slip off my clothes and head for the shower. As the boiling-hot water washes over me I start to calm down. I find talking to myself helps.

  “So, okay, what’s the worst that can happen? I make her come to Cornwall and she has a mood on her: it’s the same at home. Or I don’t come back here and I let Yvonne take the job: we just go on as normal at home. It’s only a job, at the end of the day. I will still have my position in Hatch Street.” I rub the lemon-scented hotel body wash over me. The thing is, if it was anyone else apart from Yvonne I might not even mind so much. It’s not the actual job that draws me. I like my job, but it’s not the be-all and end-all. I just loved the idea of change, of a summer in St Ives. I think I need it; I think Susan needs it. A new country, new people, new experiences.

  “I don’t even know where I stand legally . . . We don’t have any legal documentation as to how we bring Susan up. Does she have a right to choose where she wants to live? Even if she doesn’t, I don’t want her to be unhappy living with me,” I splutter into the white ceramic tiles as the hot water jets bounce off my face.

  Drying off, I turn on the hotel TV and find a radio station to listen to. I happen upon the same station that Tony Becker had on in the car. I like the music it plays: light rock. Slipping into my jeans and shirt, I find the tiny hairdryer in a drawer and blow-dry my hair. The power isn’t up to much, but funnily enough the hair-drying relaxes me and the feeling of being clean helps too.

  “That’s the last time I ever leave Susan with those two!” I tell myself crossly as I slam the tiny dryer away into the drawer and start on my make-up. Dark kohl eyes, minimal foundation, a bit of pink blush. I unplug my charging phone. Slipping my tired feet back into my black kitten-heeled shoes, I wince a little as I close the door behind me. At the lift, a young couple hold hands and feel obliged to say hello to me. I feel old. I feel old and lonely and washed-up. I feel unloved. We get into the lift together and they plan their evening of romance. Yet, catching my reflection in the mirror, I have to admit that at least I don’t look that old and weary. I look fairly okay, to my surprise. I just badly, badly need a massive drink.

  The smells emerging from the kitchen are mouth-watering and I wait to be seated at the main door of the beautiful Sands restaurant, but when the maître d’ comes over he informs me very apologetically that they don’t have a table for at least forty minutes. The wedding that I spotted earlier on the beach is in full flow and some of the reception guests have arrived early to eat before they join the party. He suggests, if I have the time, I take a drink at the bar and he will call me when a table becomes available. I agree and saunter inside. I pull myself up onto a high stool, the barman puts down a pretty doily and some nuts, and I order a large glass of chilled Pinot Grigio. I proceed to knock back the first cold glass of white wine, reckless teenage-drinking sty
le. I’m the girl propping up the hotel bar and I don’t care. I’m so upset. Pissed off. That’s the only way I can describe it. Pissed right off. Knocking out a text to Claire I simply say, “Thinking of you, pal.”

  A bubble appears to show she is immediately reading. A picture of a wine glass half full of red wine and a large bag of cheesy tortilla chips comes back.

  “Oh Claire,” I type. “Things are really shit right now, but they will get better, I promise.” I can’t guarantee anything, but I’m her best friend, so I promise. I think of Alice now and how strong she always was for me. I think sadly of how her dementia took hold and how she lost that strength. When I’d take Susan to visit as she got older, Alice was threatened by her: jealous, like a little girl. That was never Alice, the original founder of the term Girl Power! I wish Susan could have met the real Alice.

  Suddenly I become very conscious of myself. This is a work thing, I know that, it’s the only reason I am sitting here all alone, but I feel like I am being watched. Sitting alone people-watching only reminds me that people are probably looking back at me in pity.

  “Ah here, I’m getting out, I’m going out to explore and eat,” I whisper like a crazy lady to the empty bottom of my glass, and out the door I go. Immediately I’m hit by the sea air. Cornwall smells as I always remembered it, the salty air and warm breeze. I’m suddenly reminded of Steve, the taxi driver from earlier, and his culinary suggestions. Where was it he said his hard-working brother had a super fish restaurant again? I shut my eyes tight and think. Aha. Meloria’s.

  “Why not?” I scold myself. “What would Alice say? You are a strong, independent woman: if you want to dine alone, own it!” I take a deep breath and fish my phone out. Opening Google Maps, I type in Meloria’s and stroll down to the old fishing village. For whatever reason I get this overwhelming feeling that I belong here, and I’m not sure why. I’ve only been here once before. I meander leisurely behind an older couple holding hands. The wine is doing its job and relaxing me nicely. The town is bustling, and old and young suck on 99 ice creams, and everyone smiles at me. I glance left and realise I am outside the tourist office. Pit stop! I drop in because I can, because this evening is all mine and mine alone. It’s freeing not to be on the clock, or on Susan’s back, and not to have to worry about her. I’m ashamed to admit that, but it’s true. The tourist office is teeming with interested visitors and I size up possible relocation clients. Armed with various leaflets to read over my wine and dinner, I head for Meloria’s.

  * * *

  Steve wasn’t wrong: the views are out of this world. I ask, proudly channelling my inner Alice, for a table for one, sea view if possible. The waitress, in fairness to her, doesn’t bat an eyelid at my request but does seem very frazzled about something else.

  “Um . . . Hang on . . . Um . . . Sorry now . . . Um . . . That’s no problem, but I’ll need the table back at nine if that’s okay? Erm . . . Could you just hold on here . . . Just one second, sorry!”

  I nod and stand back from her desk as she walks rather too briskly, to my mind, towards the open hatch of the kitchen area. A chef is wiping down and delicately squeezing sauces on dishes at the hatch as another waitress moves away. There is something going on, but I’m not sure what. The girl returns.

  “Oh look, I’m so sorry. Jessica, one of our chefs, has had a family emergency. Her daughter has a burst appendix and she has to go. In twenty minutes, our boss is bringing some important people, the most important . . . This is the meeting he’s been waiting for . . . possible silent partners in for dinner . . . This isn’t good . . . He doesn’t deserve this . . . He works so hard . . . Oh, sorry . . .” She fights back tears.

  “It’s fine, I can eat somewhere else, no worries.” I try to move away, but she continues.

  “He’s been working his ass off! Sorry, pardon my French, but he has, trying to get backing for a new restaurant. It would create lots more jobs, but if we can’t even feed them here tonight that’s not going to happen, is it? We don’t exactly look investment-worthy now, do we?”

  “Oh, sorry . . .” I offer.

  A heavyset man in chef whites and hat approaches. “Daphne, we don’t need the drama, thank you, or you upsetting our customers.’ He looks at me. “Apologies.” He turns to Daphne and wipes sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. “I need to call him now. I can’t do this alone.”

  “This cannot be happening, Keith.” Daphne sniffs and clamps her lips together. A family of four now stands behind me, waiting to be seated. “I’m sorry, I’m afraid we have no tables left this evening . . . short-staffed,” she tells the family, who mutter annoyances but move away quietly.

  “Look, I’ll get out of your hair.” I fix my bag over my shoulder, knocking a pile of menus down from the desk as I do so.

  “Sorry,” I mutter and bend down to collect them. I glance at the short menu. Starters are ravioli, pan-fried scallops, king crab salad and bruschetta with sun-dried tomatoes. Mains are Dover sole, Cornish turbot, mushroom curry and seafood linguine. Nothing I couldn’t cook and haven’t cooked before at home in my crappy little Dun Laoghaire kitchen.

  “Are these all the dishes?” I ask, and Daphne nods and takes the menus from me. I stand tall. Keith clocks me, still looking at the one menu I’ve held onto.

  “Don’t suppose you can cook fish?” He half laughs. I read the details printed under each item: fennel, crushed potatoes, lovage, sweet-potato fries. All ingredients I cook and make. I nod.

  “Huh?” Daphne opens her huge eyes even wider.

  “I can help out. I can cook most of these; I grew up watching my granny cook everything, every day – there is one thing I can do really well, and that’s cook,” I tell an open-mouthed Keith.

  “Oh my God, are you actually serious? No . . . I mean . . . What if . . . ?” Daphne looks at her watch.

  “Lady, are you serious?” Keith is fanning himself with a menu. “We’ve prepped all day and evening; I just need someone who can actually cook fish to order!”

  “Keith, right?” He nods. “I can cook fish,” I say truthfully.

  “And you are willing to step in now or are you with someone?” He looks at me.

  I glance to my left and say, “Okay if I leave you, Mr Clooney? I’m needed in the kitchen.” I air-kiss an imaginary George.

  “You are a lifesaver!” Keith grabs my head between his two big, hot hands and kisses my forehead.

  “Get me back there, so.” I take off my coat and hand it to Daphne along with my bag.

  In the kitchen, a tanned guy who I imagine to be the commis chef shakes my hand and looks me up and down.

  “You cook fish?” He sharpens his blade, knife off knife, in a heavy Eastern European accent. “My boss, good friend, good man, we need to serve ze fantastic fish meal yesh?” He hands me a blinding-white apron.

  “Okay,” I say, slightly terrified by him but tying the pristine white apron around my waist all the same. The apron tie string goes around me three times.

  Keith quickly takes me through the menu, describing how each dish is put together and how it should be plated. Then he claps his hands and addresses the kitchen brigade.

  “Okay, listen up. We have the investors arriving in ten minutes; this service can’t go wrong. Courtney is here to help out, she can cook fish to order. Treat her as you would treat Jessica. Now let’s go.” He claps his hands.

  Keith goes through some dockets and then pulls me around the kitchen. He plonks me in front of a station.

  “This is Jessica’s station. She uses this oil and she makes incredible light fish. It’s all yours. I’ve to finish off table three now they’ve finished starters. I can do that myself; there’s only two of them.”

  I take stock of the kitchen. Looking around, I see the commis chef prepping the vegetables and making sauces. I look on.

  Another waitress approaches the hatch, looking grim, and slams a docket down.

  “Okay, this is it! They’re here early. No hanging around,
this is a business dinner for real!”

  “Thanks, Barbara,” Keith says as he picks up the docket. “From now on, you’re dedicated to the investors. Daphne can take care of the rest of the diners.” He shouts out to the kitchen, “Table ten, the big one, is in! Starters in: one ravioli, three pan-fried scallops, two king crab salads – hold the dressing on one . . .” He pauses.

  “Thank you, Keith!” Everyone shouts, even the little lad washing the dishes, and I jump.

  “Thank you, kitchen! Mains are one turbot, three seabass, two seafood linguines and one extra Dover sole for the table to share!” He slaps his hand off an old-fashioned bell.

  “Thank you, Keith!” they all shout again and I pathetically trail in at the end.

  “Got it! Courtney? You are on the two king crab salads. Jeff, get Courtney the ingredients, and plates.” The boy washing dishes jumps up and trots over to my station. “I’ll take all the others! Service!” Keith bangs the bell and plates up two incredible-looking Dover Sole dishes. The hairs actually stand up on the back of my neck. I’m wildly excited. I’m intoxicated.

  “Come on, Jeff, get me my ingredients!” I shout, and shock myself. “Sorry, Jeff, I don’t know where that came from . . .” I say.

  “Yes, chef!” Jeff runs off and comes back with my ingredients. First I smell the crabmeat, very fresh, and then I prep my starters. I spoon out two nice portions of crabmeat, and cut thick chunks of brown bread and douse them with cream cheese. Jeff throws two side plates in front of me and a huge bowl of mixed salad leaves of every variety.