Never Too Late (21 page)

eager onlookers acidly. ‘We mean for stud purposes, much

later, so we don’t have to talk to you.’

‘Lezzers,’ hissed one discomfited bloke. ‘Don’t fancy

either of ya, anyway!’

They ignored him.

‘Ewan at work is very attractive,’ Zoe said idly, picking

cloves out of her glass, ‘and he likes you.’

‘But I’ve practically never even spoken to him,’ Cara

protested.

‘Maybe that’s why,’ Zoe added wickedly. ‘Seriously, he’s

a decent bloke. He gave me a lift home one night when we

were both leaving the office late. He drives an MG.’

‘So he’s decent boyfriend material because he has a car,

is that it?’ demanded Cara tetchily. ‘It’s immaterial

whether he’s an axe murderer or not because he has

wheels?’

‘He’s nice and just happens to have a car. That’s not why

he’s nice, but it helps. You’re narky tonight, Cara.’

‘Sorry’ She stared into her empty glass glumly. ‘I feel a

bit depressed, that’s all. Seeing Phoebe with Ricky made

me feel like some decrepit maiden aunt destined to a life

of celibacy and never having anyone to spend time with.’

‘I keep coming up with possible men and you keep

dismissing them!’ Zoe said irritably.

‘I know … Do you want another hot whiskey?’

‘Don’t change the subject. You’ve got to give men a

chance,’ Zoe argued.

‘You know why I don’t,’ Cara muttered, wishing this

conversation would end.

‘You should have got over that years ago. I doubt if he’s

spent the rest of his life brooding over you.’

Cara stared at her friend angrily, eyes blazing.

‘That’s different!’ she said hotly.

‘No,

it’s not. If you never let another man near you

again, then he’s won and you always vowed you’d never let

him win.’

They sat in silence for a moment, Zoe’s words hanging

in the air like giant icicles.

‘I suppose you want another drink?’ Cara said finally.

The tension evaporated and Zoe relaxed on her stool.

‘I’d love one. Rut only one. We don’t want to be late for

our first day back at work,’ she said, mimicking Bernard

Redmond’s booming tones. ‘I’ll hate going back tomorrow,’

she added with a grimace. ‘Do you think Bernard will have

any New Year’s resolutions planned that’ll turn him into

something approaching a human being?’

Cara snorted. The only resolutions he’ll have are to cut

the tea break bill by rationing tea bags and to switch the

heating down a few degrees to save money on gas.’

They chatted for another hour before they left for home,

Zoe turning up towards Rathgar Road where she lived

with Christopher, Cara turning down towards Leinster

Road.

When she turned the key in the door, the flat was lit up

like a Christmas tree with every light and lamp burning

brightly and a comedy show blaring from the TV. Phoebe

was nowhere to be seen but the moans coming from her

bedroom told Cara where she was. Ricky was apparently

staying the night, although sleep obviously wasn’t on the

agenda.

She went around switching off lights, put the lock on

the front door and went into her room. It was just as

much of a mess as it had been before she left for

Christmas: clothes strewn everywhere, books in leaning

Tower of Pisa piles on the floor and boots and shoes

scattered around near the dust-ridden dressing table.

Ignoring the mess, she went into the bathroom for her

night-time ablutions. She still couldn’t shake Zoe’s words from her head: ‘You should have got over that years ago. I doubt if he’s spent the rest of his life brooding over you … If you never let another man near you, then he’s won and you

always vowed you’d never let him win.’

As she brushed her teeth, Cara looked at the tired face

in the mirror and remembered what she’d looked like six

and a half years ago. Then, her black curly hair had been

cut in a shaggy style, soft curls feathered against cheekbones

that weren’t as pronounced thanks to the puppy fat

that remained even though she was on the verge of making

the jump from teenager to twenty year old.

She’d emphasised her hazel eyes with eyeshadow and

always wore rich ruby lipstick. It was very different from

now when the most make-up she wore was mascara and

colourless Body Shop lip balm. Her clothes had been

different too: after years of drab convent school greys and

the hideous A-line pinafore all St Agatha’s girls were

forced into, Cara had embraced the world of mufti with

delight. Living away from home for the first time, even if

she was living in Dublin with Evie and therefore under her

watchful, ultra-protective eye, Cara felt grown up, confident

and ready for anything. A convert to mini-skirts, she

never covered up her long legs and the sight of Cara Fraser

striding across the courtyard in black opaque tights and an

excuse for a skirt brightened many a dull morning for the

male students of Slaney Art College.

And not just the students, Cara thought, her eyes

blank. Maybe if she hadn’t gone so mad wearing youthfully

exuberant clothes, it never would have happened.

Those skimpy Tshirts she loved to wear under her

regulation black man’s cardigan just drew attention to

her, and as for the black John Richmond knee-high suede

boots with the buckles - fatal. She’d bought them in a

second-hand shop in Temple Bar for fun but they looked like the sort of things a serious dominatrix would don for a night of pain. The nineteen-year-old Cara hadn’t minded the attention she got when wearing them. She’d loved her new found skill at flirting, loved discovering she was a natural at it.

Having anyone who wanted to flirt with her in the first place was a novelty. Nobody had ever chatted her up before. The boys in Ballymoreen had known her in all her chunky, tomboyish glory and had considered her one of them, an honorary lad. But the guys in Slaney were a ripe crop ready to be picked by the mature reinvented Cara.

Her old friends, used to the tough girl who could play football with as much skill as any of them, wouldn’t have recognised her during those first few months in college. The boots were part of her new sexy and independent image. Although you wouldn’t think mere boots would drive so many men so wild. She’d thrown them out since, mainly because she’d been wearing them the day it started.

Cara sometimes forgot what she’d done the week before and she could never remember important dates like when she’d had her period or what date the electricity company insisted on being paid by. But the events of that freezing October morning were imprinted in her brain on indelible tissue. She’d never forget it. Never.

She’d missed the first bus from the end of Evie’s road and then, when she got on the next one, an accident on the dual carriageway meant the bus was stationary for at least fifteen minutes. By the time Cara flew through the doors of Slaney College, en route for Mr Theal’s History of Art class, she was half an hour late.

“I apologise,’ she gasped, trying to creep into the lecture hall where the other thirty people in her year sat quietly taking notes. “I missed my bus. I’m really sorry.’

Mr Theal - sorry, not Mr Theal: ‘Call me Owen, class, you’re in college now, not school’ - had looked at her slowly, a calculating gaze at odds with the avuncular impression he’d tried to create during the previous classes where he’d brought them all to the pub for a drink on him.

With his sleekly brushed back dark hair and deep-set dark eyes, the other girls in her class said he was gorgeous. ‘A ride,’ according to one admirer. He dressed much better than most of the other lecturers. That day he was wearing a fashionable suit over a collarless shirt. He was sitting comfortably on a low chair, facing the class instead of looking at the slide show on the wall behind him, giving the impression that he knew the painting he was talking about backwards and didn’t need so much as to look at it. Then he smiled at her, a warm smile as if they were the only two people in the room; as if they were close, dear friends instead of a teacher and a tardy pupil.

‘You’ll have to stay back to see what you’ve missed and how you can catch up,’ he said easily.

‘Of course.’ panted Cara as she made her way to her seat, breathless after her sprint from the bus stop and delighted to be in so little trouble for her lateness. Staying after class was nothing. In St Agatha’s, being late would result in a ten-minute lecture from the teacher and probably a four-page essay on whatever topic was being discussed as punishment. In the small convent school, punctuality was only one step behind cleanliness in being next to Godliness.

Relieved, and in her naivety never once questioning why a college lecturer would care less about a first-year student missing the initial ten minutes of a lecture, Cara got out her pad and began to take notes.

She loved the History of Art classes. Much more detailed than her secondary school curriculum, the programme in

Slaney College’s foundation art course was incredibly varied

and all-encompassing- Mr Theal’s class on. eighteenth

century French painters soon had her enthralled. Told in his

rich baritone, Theal’s stories about Jacques-Louis David

came vividly to life and he imbued the paintings he showed

on the slides with more life and vigour than ever Sister

Concepta had been able to.

The lecture was over before Cara knew it and as she

stuffed her A-4 pad into her bag, thinking of her next

lecture, she almost forgot she’d been late and had to stay

behind. Owen Theal hadn’t forgotten.

‘Cara,’ he said as she passed, his voice silky. ‘We need to

talk.’

‘Yes we do,’ she said, flustered at how rude she must

have seemed. ‘I forgot.’

‘We’ve got the Professor in five minutes,’ warned one of

the male students as he walked out of the room.

‘It’s all rush, rush, rush,’ Owen Theal said, leaning back against his desk and folding his arms across his chest. He was the picture of relaxation, the king in his castle. ‘Go to

the Professor’s lecture, Cara,’ he said, his voice amused. ‘He hates people being late.’

She coloured.

‘But I do want to have a few minutes with you later

today. You’re one of the most promising students we’ve got

on the course this year and I don’t want to see you drop

out for any reason. I’d like to help you and to encourage

your talent. Can I do that, Cara?’

He gave her an intense look from those dark eyes.

Tortured artist’s eyes, she thought irrationally, like a martyr in an El Greco painting.

‘Come to my office this evening,” Owen said firmly. ‘At

half-four.’

Talented, huh? His flattering words buzzing around her head like a swarm of summer midges, she hurried along the corridor with a swing in her step. One of the most promising students on the course and I don’t want to see you drop out for any reason …

She’d always adored art; now this important lecturer was

telling her she was talented after all, that she had the skill

to make it in the art world”! She couldn’t wait to tell F.vie.

It was dizzying, thrilling, especially after that horrible year suffering through the secretarial course she’d loathed. She

felt vindicated at last. Her sister had gently nudged her

into the small-town secretarial course: ‘just so you have

something to fall back on’.

In other words: ‘in case you make a dreadful artist and

can’t afford the rent, you can always type’.

Cara had hated it and had longed for the year to pass so

she could apply for art college in Dublin. Now she’d barely

settled into Slaney when her talent had been recognised.

Thank you, thank you, thank you, she sang to herself all

morning.

The day passed in a haze. At four, her new’ friend Zoe

suggested a trip to Nassau Street for coffee and a meander

about the bookshops.

‘Can’t,’ Cara said apologetically, ‘I’m meeting someone.’

She didn’t know why she’d covered up her meeting

with Owen Theal. After all, it was perfectly legitimate

and to do with college work, but she felt it would have

been bragging to say she was meeting a lecturer because

he thought she was talented and wanted to give her

special attention.

It’d be awkward to say it, it’d probably make Zoe feel

left out and not-so-talented. So she kept quiet and lived to

regret it.

It was a long time later that Cara discovered he tried it

on with all of them, all the female students who’d listen,

including Zoe. Only Cara had been stupid and naive

enough to let him get away with it.

‘Naive,’ suggested Zoe kindly later on.

‘Stupid,’ Cara said bitterly.

He’d taken Zoe to the pub and tried to ply her with

Scotch, telling her she was talented and very beautiful into

the bargain. Streetwise and with a strong head for whiskey

thanks to the illegal Irish poteen her father always kept a

supply of” she’d downed her first drink in a practised

motion and told Owen Theal if he ever laid a hand on her

again, he’d live to regret it.

‘He’s not a lecturer, he’s a lecherer,’ Zoe said harshly,

much later. ‘Scum of the earth.’

Blissfully unaware of all this, Cara went to the loo at a

quarter past four and fluffed up her hair until it framed her

face in a flattering dark cloud. She gave herself a blast of

deodorant for fear of smelling sweaty after her early