Cathy Kelly 3-book Bundle (56 page)

There was no law to say a person had to be both. One was enough. But understanding one’s own abilities in these areas was a vital part of life. Charlie had been raised to the independent woman ideal but had found that parenting was the career that fulfilled her most. What hurt was having her mother treat this important part of Charlie’s life with such disdain.

When there was a lull in business, Charlie took a moment to ask Karen, the woman she was training, how she was getting on. Charlie enjoyed working with trainees: there was a buzz from being with someone learning about Organic Belle,
particularly when they were doing as she’d done and rejoining the workforce after having children.

Karen was forty and still very anxious about her new job, even though she’d worked as a personal assistant to a high-powered businessman before she’d left to have children.

‘That was then, this is now,’ she said to Charlie. ‘Ten years is a long time to be out of the workforce. I feel like I’m masquerading as a person with a job. I half expect customers to tell me to get out from behind the counter and fetch a real salesperson to help them.’

‘You’re great at this,’ Charlie said. ‘You’re good with people too. I felt the same when I started; I was just as nervous.’

‘That’s very kind of you, Charlie, but you’re only saying that,’ said Karen, still anxious. ‘There’s no way you were nervous. Look at you: you’re so calm and professional about this. I’ll never be like you.’

‘Trust me,’ Charlie said, ‘I was just as nervous. If you don’t believe yourself, Karen, believe me, and I’m telling you that you’re well able to do this.’

When Karen had gone to serve a customer, it struck Charlie as strange that the people who worked with her thought she was calm and professional, while her mother thought she was dithery and unambitious. It was the family box syndrome: your family put you in a certain compartment when you were small and, once you were in it, you weren’t supposed to leave–not in their minds, anyhow.

Charlie had been stuck in the
quiet, will never make anything of herself
box, and that’s where she was supposed to stay.

Well, now she’d decided she wasn’t staying in any box, for anyone.

Today was her late shift at work, which meant Brendan would pick Mikey up from his friend’s house at six and together they’d make dinner. Brendan was teaching Mikey to cook and they were slowly working their way through a Jamie Oliver book. In fact, Mikey showed great flair for cooking and was
improving at such speed, he’d soon be better than his dad.

‘Dad, like this–’ Mikey had said the night before, taking one of the sharp knives and cutting a courgette slowly but expertly. ‘You do them all sideways. They’re supposed to be straight, all the same.’ Mikey was dark like his father, with big hazel eyes and spiky hair that fell over his forehead as he worked. His tongue stuck out a little as he concentrated on slicing the courgettes, and that, combined with the intensity on his young freckled face, made Charlie’s heart contract. He was growing up so fast.

‘When you get your restaurant, we’ll go there every night,’ Brendan said proudly.

‘If you do,’ replied Mikey, still busy chopping, ‘you’ll have to pay like everyone else. I have to make money!’

‘Right then, we’ll join the huge queues waiting to get in,’ Charlie suggested.

Mikey considered this. ‘No, it’s all right, you can skip the queue.’

‘Why?’ demanded Charlie, ruffling his hair. ‘Because we’ll be too old and wrinkly and will ruin the look of the place?’

Mikey giggled, a big smile creasing up his face and making his eyes dance. ‘No. OK, you can eat for free.’

‘Same deal as here, then,’ his mother laughed. ‘Everyone eats for free.’

They were making a beef stew tonight and Charlie was looking forward to it. To add to the whole thing, she’d bought some apple struedel in the food hall and there was cream in the fridge. No matter how enormous the main course, Brendan and Mikey were always like wolves for dessert. Mikey had shot up in the past year, was nearly as tall as his father, and could eat to Olympic standard and still remain lanky.

It was after seven when she reached her car, a battered Citroën she was passionately attached to despite its decrepitude. Throwing her bag in, she switched on the heater to take the February chill from the air, and then phoned home.

‘Hi, love,’ she said as Brendan answered. ‘How was your day?’

‘Hello, Charlie. Oh, you know: the usual. It’s over, that’s the thing. How was yours?’

Charlie thought of the news Shotsy had imparted. She usually told Brendan everything–well, almost everything. She lied by omission sometimes when it came to her mother because Brendan wouldn’t stand for some of the things Kitty said. But tonight, she didn’t want to ruin their evening telling him about DeVere’s. She’d tell him tomorrow or at the weekend, perhaps. ‘Fine,’ she replied. ‘Has Chef started?’

‘Braising beef as we speak.’

‘He’s amazing,’ she said in wonder. She knew so many people with teenage sons who talked about them as if they were juvenile delinquents-in-waiting, and here she and Brendan had this wonderful son who cooked them dinner once a week. Sure, he grumbled sometimes, and left smelly socks and cycling kit all over his room and was totally deaf when he was at his PlayStation, but he never shouted that nobody understood him or told his parents he hated them, which was apparently the norm. Charlie felt so lucky when she thought about her beloved Mikey. ‘I didn’t know how to braise beef when I was thirteen,’ Brendan said.

‘Nor me,’ Charlie agreed. Hardly a surprise, she thought, given that cooking wasn’t at a premium in the Nelson household. ‘And I may never have to again, now that Mikey’s doing it all the time.’

‘He’s better at cooking than both of us,’ Brendan added ruefully. ‘Did you get anything for dessert?’

‘You only love me because I work beside Kenny’s food hall,’ Charlie teased.

‘Is that a yes?’

‘Yes, greedy guts. I love you.’

‘Love you too. You’re on your way?’

‘Yes, just leaving.’

‘Drive carefully.’

Charlie hung up and then deleted the missed call symbol on her phone. Her mother had phoned twice. Once at five minutes to three and again half an hour later. Staff on the floor at Kenny’s weren’t supposed to have their mobile phones on their person during working hours unless there was a specific reason for it. So Charlie, along with most people, left hers in her locker with her bag. Brendan, Mikey, and Mikey’s school all had the direct line into the Organic Belle department, and could reach her in any emergency. The only person, therefore, who left urgent messages on her mobile was her mother.

‘I’m at the doctor’s surgery, in the waiting room. I felt faint and I got a taxi to take me. There’s a long queue, mind you. But I’m sure Dr Flannery will see me quickly. He knows my heart’s not good, and that’s more serious than what’s wrong with most of the people here. Call me when you have time. I may need a lift home.’

Charlie felt the familiar tightening of her temples that foretold a massive tension headache and wondered if she had any ibuprofen in her handbag. Only her mother could leave such a message, dismissing everyone else’s ailments as nothing compared to hers, with the entire surgery waiting room listening.

The second message was more succinct:

Dr Flannery wants to do cholesterol tests on me. He’s worried. So am I. I knew this morning that something wasn’t right. I’ll be at home if you can spare the time to phone.

Charlie clicked off, then switched the phone off totally. Was that what Shotsy meant when she said ‘detach with love’? Charlie wasn’t sure. Between the news about DeVere’s and her mother’s double volley at both ends of the day, Charlie felt wrung out. She wanted to go home, eat dinner with her darling family and not talk to anyone else. What she didn’t want was to be at the beck and call of her mother. Was that too much to ask?

When you’re annoyed, don’t speak from that place inside yourself that nurtures all past hurts. That will just make it all worse.

Friday was Valentine’s Day. Passing a man carrying a big bouquet of red roses on her way to work, Ingrid thought of her daughter getting ready to go to Lizzie’s wedding. At the television studios, the security guard on reception was hauling a big bag of fan mail with red envelopes spilling out of the top, through the inner security doors to the offices.

‘Valentines for Ken Devlin?’ she asked.

‘Don’t know what they see in him,’ muttered the guard, panting. ‘He’s got a face like a robber’s dog. And he’s a midget, you know. Five foot two is all. A midget. Looks taller on television, of course.’

Ingrid nodded noncommittally, thinking of Marcella. One person’s midget might be another person’s love god.

It seemed there was no escaping St Valentine, even in the office. The
Politics Tonight
team was divided into two camps: those who thought Valentine’s Day was a ruthless marketing ploy by flower shops and card-makers, and those who saw
it as an expression of pure romance to have love declared in public with the gift of flowers or chocolates.

Ingrid found that where people stood on the matter largely depended on their current experience with the opposite sex. Martin, one of the producers, was in the throes of a vicious divorce and was muttering grimly about having been nearly knocked off his racing bike on his way into work by a fleet of flower delivery vans.

‘Waste of time and money,’ he was heard to snap. ‘It’s not as if it even makes any difference. Buy her flowers, cut your wrists, whatever! Like the bitches actually care.’

Ingrid had enormous sympathy for Martin because reliable rumour had it that his wife had hired one of the country’s top divorce lawyers, a woman whose motto was ‘Take him for everything he’s got.’ It wasn’t a snappy motto, but it worked. Outraged ex-wives were queuing up to hire her.

Meanwhile, Jeri, the show’s production assistant, was deeply in love with a new man she’d met on a blind date–a teacher, who was ‘…kind, funny, has a dog and does triathlons!’ She was walking around in the glorious haze that only came from receiving a public display of affection that showed the people she worked with that she was Someone’s Special Person.

‘Twenty-four red roses,’ whispered Gloria, Ingrid’s personal assistant, ‘and a teddy bear holding a red satin heart that says I Heart U.’

‘Gorgeous,’ said Ingrid with pleasure. She hoped it would last. Jeri was a sweet girl and deserved someone nice.

‘Wait till you see your bouquet,’ Gloria added.

Ingrid was surprised. David didn’t normally go in for the whole red roses schtick.

‘Unless it’s your secret lover,’ Gloria went on, seeing the surprise on her boss’s face. ‘I just assumed they were from David–’

Ingrid burst out laughing. ‘Secret lover, indeed! Where
would I find the time, Gloria? And can you imagine the fun the political parties would have if I did have a man hidden away somewhere? They’d never answer a question of mine again–they’d be too busy smirking at me on-air, ready to say “Don’t ask me anything, Ms Fitzgerald, until you tell viewers where you were last Saturday…”’

Gloria giggled.

Ingrid’s first thought on seeing the arrangement of creamy Vendella roses was that only a secret lover with exquisite taste and pots of money would send flowers so beautiful. Displayed in a cut-glass vase, with pale pink crepe tissue and a hand-tied satin bow around them, they were lovely.

She surprised herself at how touched she felt as she read the card:
Happy Valentine’s Day, love David.

She hadn’t got him anything; they rarely exchanged cards or gifts today. David wasn’t prone to romantic gestures, and, anyway, romance shouldn’t be confined to one day in the calendar, Ingrid felt, a theme she’d elaborated upon many times. And yet here she was, feeling as moony as a teenager at the sight of her beautiful bouquet.

David was amazing. He could still surprise her after all these years.

She wished she could meet him for lunch to say thank you, but she was seeing her sisters today. They met up every month for lunch and she couldn’t let them down.

But she could make a special dinner tonight, perhaps ask Mrs Hendron, their housekeeper who came twice a week, to buy some fish so that Ingrid could make her special fish pie, which David adored but which she rarely made any more because it took so long and was so fiddly. She phoned David’s direct line in Kenny’s and Stacey, her husband’s assistant, answered.

‘Hello, Stacey,’ Ingrid said, surprised. David’s personal line was sacrosanct. It was unusual for anyone else to answer

‘Hello, Ingrid,’ Stacey trilled. ‘Mr Kenny’s at a meeting. He won’t be long now, I’ll tell him you rang as soon as he gets back.’

‘Oh, not to worry,’ Ingrid replied. ‘I just wanted to thank him for the flowers.’

She felt that shivery thrill again, and it was a lovely feeling. The man in her life had sent her flowers. Was she finally turning into a girlie-girl in middle age?

‘Did you like them?’ Stacey asked eagerly. ‘They’re part of the new range in the last-minute gift department, came in last week and I hear they’re flying off the shelves today. It was all Claudia’s idea. That girl is a marvel. She’s only been with us a few months and she’s smashing, worth her weight in gold. She insisted all the men send the flowers to their wives,’ Stacey went on guilelessly.

Ingrid recovered in an instant. ‘Yes, they’re lovely,’ she said automatically. ‘What a marvellous idea of Claudia’s.’

‘She’s so young and so sparky, and she never stops,’ Stacey went on. ‘Here till all hours at night, working on new stuff. I don’t know what Mr Kenny would do without her.’

‘No, me neither,’ Ingrid replied.

She found it hard to concentrate on work that morning. At the pre-production meeting for the next night’s show, a special weekend broadcast because of the by-election, all the talk was about what the wrong result would mean for the government. Old surveys and political swing sheets were reprinted, and comparisons were made with the last time the government had lost a by-election. Ingrid found her mind drifting aimlessly, running back over David’s strange mood and the flowers sent, ostensibly, by Claudia. Something felt not quite right, but she couldn’t put her finger on it.

David loved her, she knew that, but he was anxious about something and not sharing it. He wasn’t the sort of person to cheat on her with someone else. She’d bet her life on that. But there was something.

It was tied up with the store and he was keeping it to himself. She knew business had been tough over the past year. She was
a director of the company, albeit not an active one, so she’d seen the profit and loss accounts. But if there had been a serious problem, David would have called a directors’ meeting and she’d have been invited, along with Tim, the company’s chief financial officer, and Lena, marketing director. And he hadn’t.

‘Men!’ she muttered.

‘Ingrid?’

Everyone around the coffee-ringed meeting table was staring at her.

‘Just remembered that the computer repair man is due at my house today,’ she improvised.

Everyone nodded. Repair men and their cosmic black-hole schedules: they all understood.

Ed, the director, put in his own story about the dishwasher repair man who needed wooing to get him to come at all.

‘That’s what you get when you have a fancy dishwasher with two separate compartments,’ teased Jeri.

Finally, the meeting ended.

Ingrid had plenty of work to do, but she couldn’t imagine doing it while her mind was elsewhere.

She dumped her stuff on her desk and picked up her bag. ‘Gloria, I’m going to lunch early.’

‘With your sisters?’ Gloria had met Flora and Sigrid many times. They were nothing like Ingrid, of course: she was unique. But they were lovely women, with enough of the Fitzgerald eccentricity for Gloria to see where it had come from.

‘Yes, I might be late back.’ Ingrid had a plan: she’d drop into Kenny’s after lunch. There was nothing urgent she had to do, nothing that couldn’t wait till tomorrow, broadcast day. And this was…well, it
felt
like an emergency.

All the way down to Ardagh, Ingrid kept the radio turned up loud to a talk show because she couldn’t quite bear to be alone with her thoughts. But they invaded her mind anyway. It was that niggling feeling she’d had for weeks now that something was wrong with David.

Ingrid never acted on impulse: she was thoughtful, careful, considered. But not today.

She knew about Claudia. David never kept anything about Kenny’s from her. Claudia was second-in-command to the unflappable Lena, who ran the company development office. Lena’s job was to come up with new marketing strategies for the business and to protect their core brand. If anyone had an idea, they went to Lena and she made sure it passed the Kenny’s branding test.

Claudia had been hired to strengthen Lena’s team. Ingrid could recall the recruitment process, with David poring over CVs in their living room. Ingrid loved reading curriculum vitaes: to her, they were glorious pictures of people and their lives.

‘I didn’t know anyone still listed “hang-gliding” in their Interests section,’ she’d said, leafing through them, fascinated. There had been a time when everyone professed to like sky-diving, deep-sea diving and reading out-of-print French novels in the hope it would make them sound more interesting. But now the interests tended to be more realistic, and if someone put ‘travelling round India on a bike’, chances were, they’d actually done it. Unlike the mythical sky-diving.

‘Show me.’ David peered through his glasses at the CV in question. ‘No,’ he said, ‘I didn’t like him. Too cocky. Didn’t say thanks to Stacey when she brought in the coffee.’

Ingrid laughed. If only the guy had been trained by Marcella, he’d have known that how he treated the people who weren’t theoretically important was a very useful tool in grading candidates. Being rude to the person serving tea was fatal. She’d never hire someone like that.

‘Now
she
was good,’ David went on, finding another CV and passing it to Ingrid.

Claudia Mills was twenty-eight, with a masters in marketing and another in business development. She’d worked in the States for a year and was keen to move back home.

‘Pretty,’ Ingrid said, admiring a professional colour photograph of a dark-eyed girl with a knowing expression, a glossy brown bob and shiny lips. ‘Sexy too.’

‘You’d have to ask Lena that,’ David said without pausing. ‘She notices if they’re cute-looking, I just watch out for who can do the job.’

David had never cheated on her in his life. She’d never worried for even a moment on that score. But the notion that the newest member of staff had insisted that everyone, including the boss, send their wives flowers on Valentine’s Day, set Ingrid’s sensors on full alert. Only someone flirtatious or very sure of her position in the company would do such a thing. What’s more, it was a calculated insult to the women involved: like saying, ‘Your husband wouldn’t think of doing it himself, but I asked him to send flowers to you.’ A very subtle insult, but an insult all the same.

Ingrid’s sisters, Sigrid and Flora, were ten and twelve years older respectively. She’d been the baby of the family, an adored ‘accident’ who’d grown up feeling loved and surrounded by kindness.

Flora’s passion in life was music. She taught piano and lived in blissful happiness in a cottage in Wexford with Brid, a violin teacher. Flora had been married, had three grown-up children, and had stunned them all when she’d left her bemused husband, Paul, for Brid.

She was fifty-five then; now, on the final approach towards seventy, apart from a dodgy back, she said she’d never been happier. The children came to visit with their children, her grandchildren, Paul came round every Tuesday for dinner, and Brid and Flora were planning to accompany a group of adult music students to Rome in April. Life was good, she said.

‘We’re going to a special Mass in the Vatican, too,’ she said. ‘I can’t wait.’ Brid’s cousin, who was a priest at the Irish College in Rome, had organised it. Neither Flora nor Brid
seemed to find it in any way odd that two women living very much outside the rules of the Church should visit the Holy See, for all its vehement disapproval of lesbian relationships.

But then, Ingrid knew that nobody was likely to throw them out of the Vatican since they looked for all the world like two genteel music teachers whose idea of a good time was a bit of Mozart followed by a mug of cocoa.

She was careful not to say this in Flora’s hearing, for anyone who leapt to such conclusions would be told in no uncertain terms that Flora and Brid enjoyed a perfectly healthy sexual relationship, thank you very much: ‘Why do young people think that they invented sex?’ she once protested over dinner. ‘It’s like playing the piano, you get better with practice and though you mightn’t have as much stretch in your fingers as you get older, you’ve got the technique to make up for it.’

David had choked on his soup the night Flora had said that.

‘Do you think they’re still at it?’ he’d asked Ingrid later.

‘Why not?’ she replied. ‘We are, aren’t we?’

Sigrid had the family dodgy back too, but she refused Flora’s litany of fabulous new osteopaths and kept supple with yoga.

Yogalates was her latest fad, although she had to travel to Dublin once a week for classes and all that driving was playing havoc with her sacroiliac joint.

Sigrid’s only complaint was that TJ, her husband, had no interest in keeping supple and was going to fuse to his old armchair one day from sitting in it and listening to horse racing on the radio.

‘If I were to drop dead tomorrow, he’d have to look at the
Racing Post
to see what time he could bury me between races,’ she said, but it was a joke. Both Flora and Ingrid knew that if anything happened to Sigrid, TJ would follow her into the grave within the week. They might mutter and moan at each other, but they were practically joined at the hip.