Rosewater and Soda Bread (16 page)

Marjan returned the soap to the box. She closed its lid, tracing her thumb over the engraved desert roses.

She had never been able to throw her sister a party; as head of the neighborhood's most conservative family, Khanoum Jaferi abhorred such public displays of sensuality. Bahar's future mother-in-law had insisted on a more subdued bridal get-together, consisting of prayers to the Almighty and a long supper of
khaleh pacheh
, roasted sheep's head.

“Are you all right?” A knock came from the other side of the bathroom door. It was Bahar.

Marjan quickly placed the box back on the top tier of the medicine cabinet and opened the door. “Just finishing.”

Bahar stepped aside to let her onto the landing. She looked at Marjan with concern. “What's wrong?”

“Nothing. Why?”

“Well, I don't know. After your outburst yesterday—”

“It wasn't an outburst.” Marjan stepped down the stairs. “Honestly, Bahar, you're not the only one who gets overwhelmed by things in the kitchen. I am allowed to feel stress sometimes, you know.”

Bahar followed her down. “But you never have before. What's wrong? Is it that Englishman? That Julian?”

Marjan threw her a withering look.

Bahar lifted a shoulder. “I'm just mentioning it. I've heard a few things, that's all.”

“And what's the gossip today?” Marjan asked, undoing her
apron. The kitchen was shining from its latest cleaning: Bahar had taken her worries out on the counters, it seemed. They smelled deliciously of rosewater cleanser.

“Oh, just that he's got his eye on the street. Probably getting ready to buy shops after doing up that old house.”

“And why is that a bad thing? If we have the right to build a new life, so should he, don't you think?”

Bahar sniffed. “Maybe. Sounds fishy, that's all I'm saying.”

Marjan shook her head. “What else have you heard on your daily walks?”

Bahar blinked. “What do you mean, daily walks? What walks?”

“Your walks to the shops. What other news have you gathered in that nest of yours?”

“Nothing. Why?”

Marjan turned to her sister. It suddenly crossed her mind to tell Bahar about the girl Estelle had rescued, about all that had been going on the last week at the hospital, but she quickly shook the thought off. Bahar would not be able to handle it. It would do neither of them any good to get into that story.

“Marjan.”

Marjan looked up. “Yes?”

“You're daydreaming again.”

“Was I?”

Bahar drew her lips into a thin line. “Better not be about that Englishman,” she said, taking up the scrubbing brush next to the sink. “He's not worth it, if you want my opinion.”

Marjan did not reply. There was no point in it: no man would ever be good enough for either of her sisters in Bahar's eyes.

“HE'S MY NEPHEW, and I was standing right over him and his brother during his christening,” Marjan heard Fiona Athey say as she pulled open the salon door, “but I have no qualms in saying he's being a right old bastard the way he's treating you.”

Fiona turned at the tinkle of the door chime. She beckoned Marjan in with her hand. “Which reminds me, I've still to lend you that book I was meaning to.”

Her junior stylist, Evie Watson, was crumpled up in one of the salon's pink leather armchairs, her eyes rimmed with tears. She was still holding a broom in one hand as she blew her swollen nose with the edge of her flowery smock.

“What book's that?” She sniffed, giving Marjan a pathetic smile.

Fiona switched on the row of theatrical vanity lights over the mirrors. “
The Female Eunuch
. It'll open up your eyes, Evie my dear,” she said, slipping on her bib. “Men are as incomplete a sex as there ever was, and that Peter Donnelly is one likely candidate.”

Fresh tears rolled down Evie's thin face, causing her to plunge further into the folds of her smock.

“What's happened, Evie?” Marjan asked softly, kneeling down to pat the young woman's hand. She noticed the Claddagh ring that Evie always wore on her right ring finger was turned around, the heart in the middle open to the world, an eligibility sign. “Did you and Peter have another fight?”

Evie nodded her head and blew her nose again.

Fiona tugged at a tissue carton, handing her the last Kleenex. “It's more than a fight, I'm afraid, Marjan. She's told him she'd rather snog a donkey than get back with him again. Mighty improvement, if you ask me.”

At the reminder, Evie threw back her head and bawled, letting go of the broom in her hand. The broom handle swung toward
the salon's mascot, a mannequin by the name of Fifi O'Shea, just missing her tissue-enhanced bosom.

“He said he was moving up in the world! Needs a woman with more meat on her bones!” Evie howled, pummeling her thighs with her bony little fists.

Marjan threw Fiona a bewildered look.

“For rearing children,” Fiona explained. She patted her own generous curves. “That
amadan
” she said, shaking her head.

“Moving up? Where's he going?”

Evie blinked, her eyes red-rimmed. “He's starting a real estate course in Castlebar. Him and Michael. Fancies himself a landlord all of a sudden.”

Fiona sniffed. “Landlocked is more like it.”

“To think, Marjan,” Evie said with remorse, “I gave up all your lovely sweets for the sake of my diets!”

Marjan stroked her hand sympathetically. “It's never too late. Stop by for tea later and I'll set you a proper pastry plate, okay?”

Evie sniffed her thanks and grabbed the broom again.

“Make one up for me while you're at it.” Fiona patted the seat before her. “What'll it be this month, Marjan? Your usual trim?”

“I was thinking of something a little different,” said Marjan, settling into the chair. She stared at her reflection. Her cloud of wavy hair was usually impervious to modern hairstyles. “Maybe some layers or bangs?”

Fiona tapped her chin with a wide-toothed comb. “Layers, huh?”

“Or maybe a color? Something warm for the autumn?”

“Hmmm … I don't know now. Not that kind of warmth he's going after,” Fiona replied. “Not from what I hear, anyway.” She winked at the mirror.

Marjan turned around. “Who?”

“You know who. I'd be careful, Marjan. That one looks like
he's read a few books, if you know what I mean. Got a way with words, Julian Winthrop Muir.”

Marjan's lips curved. “I told you, there's nothing going on. We're just friends.”

“Wish I had a friend like that,” Evie remarked, sweeping the floor around Fifi O'Shea.

Fiona grinned, jabbed her back with the comb. “Go on, open your gob. What's the latest there? Getting some loving or what?”

Marjan flipped through the magazine, well aware that both Evie and Fiona were waiting. When neither of them moved, she closed the magazine and glanced in the mirror. “It's nothing. Just a bit of talk.”

Fiona snorted. “Nothing, huh? Didn't look like it from where I sat the other night. Did you at least get a good rubdown after all that talk?”

“Fiona!” Marjan could feel her blush.

“What?”

“Isn't that a bit on the crude side?”

“You want romance? Okay.” She nodded. “Has he declared his devotions to you yet, madam?” She swept the comb in her hand into a deep bow.

Evie sidled up to the mirror, her face lit from excitement. The rush of fresh gossip had cleared her tears.

“Go on. Has he asked you out again?”

Marjan turned to face the two women. “He's come in a couple of times for lunch …” She trailed off.

“And?” Fiona tilted her head to one side.

“And, no. Nothing. He said he had a good time at the pub and that's all.”

“His loss,” replied Fiona, taking a clip from her bib collar. She pointed it to Evie. “See? Incomplete. Something missing, even from the ones who look like they should know better.”

Evie commiserated with a small nod.

Marjan turned back to the mirror. “I'm glad he hasn't asked me again, actually,” she said, staring at the magazine on her lap.

Fiona pinned the side of Marjan's head. “And why is that, exactly? You're entitled to a bit of craic like the rest of us.”

“I'm just not ready yet. For dating, and everything.” Although she had not told Fiona all the details of her time with Ali, the hairdresser was the one person in Ballinacroagh who knew of the first time Marjan had ever given her heart away. Only to have it shattered.

Fiona dragged the comb down her customer's crown. “I know. But who ever is ready? Listen, incomplete sex or not, men are still handy for a few things, if you follow my meaning.”

“Maybe …” Marjan shrugged. “I just—I don't know much about him.” She looked up. “He's been to Iran.”

“There you go. Don't know anyone for miles who can claim that.”

“Peter says he bought back the Hall for beggars' pay” offered Evie. “You could be a landlady if you play your cards right, Marjan.”

Marjan glanced in the mirror. She could see Fiona and Evie grinning behind her. “You two! You think you're so funny!”

Fiona laughed. “What's funny is the way your ears turn a beet at the mention,” she said, reaching for her scissors. She snipped a lock of Marjan's curly hair.

“I've got news that'll keep them rosy as ever—” Evie stopped short, grimaced. “Oh, maybe I shouldn't…”

Fiona stopped snipping. Both she and Marjan looked at the younger woman expectantly.

“ 'Fess up. You've gone and started it already,” Fiona said.

Evie bit her bottom lip. “Well, it's sort of about Layla.”

Marjan turned in her seat. “What about Layla?”

Evie held up her hands. “Now you didn't hear it from me. If she asks, wasn't even I who saw him.”

“Him?”

“Oh, for the love of— Just get on with it.” Fiona blew out an impatient breath.

Evie raised her shoulders, tilted her head. “Well, the other day, on the Saturday, now, I was making my way into Castlebar, down the roundabout near Dunne's. You know the one that's always getting the scraps? Sure didn't Tom Ford's bull take a licking the other month, coming in from the side road and all—” Evie stopped. Fiona was tapping her feet impatiently. “Oh, right. Well, who do I see coming out of Alfred Bennett's Chemists but Malachy McGuire himself. There he was, rushin' out, head down, with a nice brown bag tucked under his arm. A
small
brown bag, if you get my drift.”

Marjan turned to Fiona, confused.

“There's only one thing Bennett's tucks away in plain bags,” Fiona explained. “Every young lad's worst nightmare.”

“What nightmare?” Marjan stood up from the chair, locks of cut hair falling from her shoulder. “What are you talking about, Evie?”

“It's nothing, nothing to worry about, I'm sure. It could be any number of things,” Evie said uncomfortably.

“Protection, Marjan. Malachy was buying protection,” Fiona said.

Marjan brought her hand to her forehead. Protection. Oh, God, she had completely forgotten about Layla. She looked up. “When did you say this happened, Evie?”

“Last Saturday. Day after the fire.”

Marjan sat back down, trying to register the information. “I can't believe it. She promised she wouldn't do anything.”

Fiona patted her on the shoulder. “Ah sure, it's better safe than
sorry. I don't want to even think of what my Emer's up to in that Los Angeles. Between the three of us now—and that includes you, Evie—I had her get a prescription from a doctor up north. Best have her prepared for the land of men, eh? Not likely they'd take the step. Malachy's a rare boy, that's what I say.”

“But she's not ready, Fiona! I told her so. I told her to wait,” Marjan replied in frustration.

Evie took up the broom again. “Sure, I've waited, Marjan, and look what happened. Tossed to the ditches by Peter Donnelly himself. Should have gone to the Beach like he wanted. Now he's off getting some Castlebar heifer up the pole, I bet.”

“You two.” Fiona shook her head and took up the scissors again. “Remind me to get two copies of
The Female Eunuch
, Evie.” She snipped another layer of Marjan's dark hair with expert swiftness. “I'll make feminists of you lot yet.”

“HAVE YOU SEEN LAYLA?”
The door slammed behind Marjan as she looked around the kitchen. Bahar was at the island, prepping eggplants for the next day's stew special,
khoresht bademjoon
.