‘I hope mine is as good.’ She gets into the car and begins practising her speech to the osteoporosis people. It’s funny and serious at the same time and I’m sure it will go down well. I also make a mental note to get Mum to have a bone density scan, to be on the safe side.
‘Are you sure you don’t need me to drive you later?’ I ask when we arrive at the hotel and I open the door to let her out.
She shakes her head. ‘I’m staying for a meeting with the organisers and then going home with my daughter,’ she says.
I know, because she told me before, that her daughter is on the board of the charity. Thea’s other children are equally successful.
It must be amazing to be part of such a talented family.
‘Not always,’ says Thea when I remark on this. ‘We’ve had our problems like everyone else. Sometimes different people don’t feel as valued as others. But I do my best to encourage all of my children, and now my grandchildren, to be the person they want to be. Otherwise what’s the point? Does anyone want to live a life of regrets? I very much think not. I love how you’re doing your own thing too, Roxy. I really enjoy being driven by you.’
‘You do?’
‘Absolutely. Leaving aside the niceness of having a woman doing the work, you’re an excellent driver. What’s your star sign?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Your star sign,’ repeats Thea.
‘Um, Capricorn.’
‘I knew it!’ She looks at me triumphantly. ‘Capricorns are good at pacing themselves and they’re practical, realistic people. That’s you. And that’s why you’re a good driver.’
Is she right? She might be. I’ve never really bothered with astrology. But if I had to describe myself, I guess practical and realistic is probably close enough. It would be nice to be gifted and artistic, though.
‘What about you?’ I ask.
‘I’m Pisces,’ she says. ‘A dreamer. Great for acting but not so hot behind the wheel.’
I laugh.
‘Anyhow.’ She pulls the light cashmere shawl she’s wearing more tightly around her shoulders. ‘I’d better go in and put my game face on. Can’t show the nerves.’
‘You don’t look nervous,’ I tell her.
‘That’s because I’m a good actress.’ She winks at me and then walks confidently into the building.
I bet she’d have reduced Julie Halpin to absolute ribbons.
The next couple of weeks are brilliant and scary at the same time.
I buy a new dress for Alison’s Start-Up for Success course, which takes place over two days at the Convention Centre on the quays. I asked her advice on what I should wear and she told me my navy suit and blouse would be perfectly fine, but that I could certainly bling it up a bit if I wanted so that I stood out a little more. She suggested going into Arnotts, where they’re in mid-sale and where, she told me, I could find some really nice alternatives to the Claire Danes/Carrie Mathison look.
And I do. After trying on dozens of different things, I come home with a better than half-price polka-dot dress by someone called Joseph Ribkoff, which fits me perfectly. The black dots are scattered and clustered across the cream and faded-pink background, and it looks really good on me. Because it’s sleeveless I had to buy a jacket too. In fact I bought a couple, one in black and the other in a dusty pink that goes brilliantly with it. The jackets were also better than half-price and great value because of course I’ll be able to wear them with jeans and trousers as well. I also bought a pair of Nine West courts embellished with black bows, which look great – they were new-season stock but worth every penny. And as I put my PIN into the machine, I felt proud that it was all my own hard work that meant I could afford it.
I model my new outfit for Mum and the children when I get home, and they tell me I look awesome.
‘Totally gorgeous,’ Mica informs me. ‘Not like my mum at all.’
‘I hope that’s a good thing,’ I say.
‘You need to Instagram it for your business,’ she says, and immediately takes a photo which she shares with me. Maybe her new way of earning pocket money can be as my social media guru!
‘You’ve got your mojo back,’ says Mum. ‘You look great.’
‘I feel great,’ I say, and upload the photo with the caption ‘Driver Does Dressing Up’, which Leona both likes and comments on with a ‘Wow!!!!!’
On the morning of the course, I accessorise my new outfit with my favourite dangly earrings (though I leave out my extra piercings) and a silver chain bracelet. I also layer on a little more of my pearl-grey eyeshadow than usual. I look at myself in the mirror and think that I’m definitely a go-getting entrepreneurial woman. But even though I’m confident leaving the house, I can’t help feeling nervous as I walk for the first time into the futuristic glass building where I’ve dropped so many business people off in the past. It’s hard to believe that I’m the one going to a meeting here now. I check the screens in the big foyer to see where I should be and then take an escalator to the designated room. It’s flooded with light from the almost-full-length windows that look out onto the Liffey, and is set out like a boardroom. There’s water on the tables and notebooks and pens placed in front of each person’s place. It feels serious and important and so do I. My heart is hammering with anticipation.
There are two other women at the workshop. Harriet is developing low-tech gadgets for older people; Miriam’s business is involved in some kind of leasing. Miriam is by far the most assertive of us and her all-red outfit seems to give her extra authority. I’m glad I took Alison’s advice and bought myself some empowering clothes. It’s important to look the part. The twenty or so men on the course, naturally enough, are in suits.
I don’t know what to expect from the day, but after a brief introduction by the coordinator (a woman from Alison’s company), we’re broken up into groups and given different scenarios and projects to work on. At first I’m reluctant to say anything, but then I find my voice, and even though the leader of my group is a man named Brian who never shuts up, I eventually manage to make some points that everyone else agrees on. I feel quite proud of myself.
I get to talk to lots of people at lunch and am astounded by how many different business ideas people come up with. I guess I’ve always felt that there are only a few good ideas and most of them have already been thought of. But Harriet’s gadgets are really clever, and lots of the others have good products too. I should tell Natalie about this course, I think. She might get more ideas on how to expand her candle-making empire. I realise that I’m thinking of all our businesses as empires now, and not ironically!
By the time the sessions are over, I feel totally confident in myself and my ability to bring Christy’s Chauffeurs – or StyleDrive as it now is – in a whole new direction. Obviously driving people is what I do, that doesn’t change, but I’ve got ideas about marketing (our coordinator loved my Instagram posts) and promotions and customer feedback – everything!
I exchange contact details with everyone on the course and some of them say that they will definitely use my cars in the future. I’ve already given them promo codes for special discounts on their first trips. I’ve also arranged to meet with both Harriet and Miriam for coffee, so that we can share our experiences together.
I go home on a cloud of anticipation and excitement.
Dave, when he gets back from Wexford, is tight-lipped about my plans.
‘Don’t throw good money after bad,’ he says, and I’m not sure if he’s talking about the discounts I plan to offer or the polka-dot dress, which I don’t think he likes. I haven’t told him that I had to pay for the course in the first place. ‘Anything you need to know about running a business, you can ask me.’
‘If it doesn’t work out, I’ll be the first to admit it,’ I say. ‘I promise you. Our family won’t suffer because of it. And look.’ I open my laptop and show him the profit-and-loss account. ‘I’m making good money. Gross, though,’ I add. ‘I have to account for petrol
and depreciation and—’
‘I know how it works,’ he interrupts me. ‘I have a business too, Roxy.’
‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘It’s exciting for me.’
‘It’s driving a car, that’s all.’
I look around for my phone so that I can sync the info on the app to the laptop and get an accurate figure for the week. I can’t see it anywhere, so I ask Dave to ring it for me, which he does. But I can’t hear it ringing either and I start to panic. The phone is an important part of what I do. It has to be around somewhere.
Mica and Tom help me search the house, but none of us can find it.
‘Maybe it’s in the car,’ says Mica. I’m about to say that it can’t be because one of my routines is taking it from the wireless charger as soon as I get out. But then I remember that a client needed to charge his phone and I told him to take mine out. He’s either kept it – disaster! – or, hopefully, left it in the side pocket of the passenger seat. He was sitting beside me in the car because I had three passengers on that trip.
‘I’ll look,’ says Dave, which makes me feel good because it’s as though he’s taking a bit of ownership of StyleDrive and being less negative about everything. I realise it’s a big change for him too, and I want him to see it can be a positive thing for both of us.
He’s outside for quite a while, and I’m getting anxious. Losing the phone is a nightmare on a whole heap of levels. Then he walks back into the living room and lobs the phone in my direction.
‘Oh, thanks,’ I say. ‘That’s a relief.’
‘What’s this?’ he asks, and I see he’s holding the box containing the perfume that Ivo Lehane gifted me.
I’ve meant to take it out a number of times, but as I usually store things in the space under the armrest or in my own door pocket and don’t need to open the glove compartment very often, I keep forgetting about it. In the back of my mind I’ve not been sure about it anyway, because even though Ivo gave it to me it still doesn’t feel right to keep it. Perhaps I’ve been expecting him to ring up wanting me to collect him and asking for the perfume back, though I haven’t heard from him since his aborted visit to Kildare.
I explain this to Dave and his eyes narrow.
‘This guy gave you – a woman he doesn’t know – a bottle of expensive perfume?’
‘I told you. He bought it for his girlfriend but the bottle was too big for carry-on liquids,’ I say again.
‘He could’ve checked it in.’
I tell him about Ivo’s computer and why he didn’t check in his bag, and Dave looks at me with a sceptical expression.
‘He gave you perfume,’ he repeats. ‘That’s . . . that’s—’
‘What else was he going to do with it?’ I interrupt him. ‘He wasn’t coming back and . . . well . . . what should he have done?’
‘Not give it to someone else’s wife!’
‘Oh for heaven’s sake.’ I throw him an exasperated look. ‘It was just a matter of convenience. I’m never going to see the man again.’
‘Good,’ says Dave. ‘Because I forbid you to.’
I laugh. I can’t help it. ‘You can’t forbid me to do anything. This isn’t the nineteenth century.’
‘I always thought there was something dodgy about him,’ Dave says. ‘And now I’m certain.’
‘You thought he was a drug smuggler,’ I remind him. ‘Which he isn’t. And nor is he trying to get into my . . .’ I’m about to say ‘knickers’ when I realise that Mica, who went upstairs after Dave found the phone, is standing in the doorway. ‘He’s not trying to do anything,’ I amend. ‘And, like I said, he’s unlikely to need me to drive him again.’
Dave picks up the remote and changes channel.
He doesn’t say a word.
Chapter 19
Dave is home for good the following weekend. I hoped we might be able to spend a weekend with him in Wexford when the job ended, but Jimmy’s family decamped to the house near the sea and, with a sudden spurt of glorious weather, there wasn’t another place to be had. So any holiday plans will have to wait until mid-term, because the children will be back to school as soon as the summer camps end.
We all go to the local Chinese to celebrate his homecoming, which is fun in the way that our nights out used to be. I needed that time on my own, but it will be easier to cope with all the different things we want to do now that Dave’s back. We’ve been in a sort of holding pattern, but now we’re about to get on with our lives.
I’ve carefully arranged my driving schedule so that I’ll always be home before him, which means he’ll hardly even notice that I’m working. I’ve also plans to be a proper domestic goddess in the kitchen whenever I have the time. I’ll still use the Gina Hayes cookbook, but I’ll be substituting chips for the quinoa that seems to be an integral part of so many of her meal choices, and I’ll ease up on the chopped salads too. Given that Dave has called it the Punishment Book, I think introducing some carbs will keep him happy. It seems to work, as in his first week home neither he nor the children kick up a fuss about the subtle shift from heavier meals to lighter ones, and the almost complete disappearance of pizza from the menu. (The other advantage of the Gina Hayes regime is that – while not having made it to the Slim to Win sessions for ages – I’ve lost three kilos! I haven’t lost my coffee habit, but I’ve stopped having muffins and croissants with them. All in all, I think, I’m doing well.)
In fact, I tell myself as I stack the dishwasher, Dave and I are both doing well. Sure, there are little niggles to be sorted, but we’ve gone through our worst time and come out the other side.
My phone buzzes and I pick it up.
Hi , says the text message. I’m hoping you can drive me again. A somewhat different trip this time and I understand if it’s not possible for you to do it so there’s absolutely no pressure if it doesn’t suit. I’m visiting some pharma companies in Ireland and need a pickup from the airport to Arklow next Wednesday. Then to be collected from there the following day and driven to Tipperary, and after that on to Cork. I’d like you to overnight in Cork, then bring me to Shannon for a flight to the States the following day. Obviously I’ll cover your overnight costs. If it’s all too awkward for you, perhaps you could recommend someone else.
Ivo Lehane then suggests a price for the trip that’s way more than I would have charged.
I stare at the message. There are, of course, a million different reasons why I shouldn’t take this job, the main one being that Dave, like some kind of feudal overlord, forbade me from ever seeing Ivo Lehane again. But that was just him being all macho and alpha male. Surely when he hears how much I’m going to make, he’ll change his mind. All the same, I can understand why he might freak out at me taking a job where I have to stay away overnight. Not that he has anything to worry about, but it would certainly be a novel experience. As for Tom and Mica, I don’t think I’ve ever been away from them for a night before. I’m not sure that I want to be.
And yet. And yet. The money is great, the trip sounds interesting and I want to drive Ivo again. Of all my clients he’s my favourite, and not simply because he opened up about his father and his family and made me feel almost like a friend. He’s not my friend, I know that. But driving him is as easy as driving a friend. While saying no would be like letting a friend down. I never let my friends down.
It’s taken me thirty seconds to persuade myself that I’m going to do this job. But I won’t text back straight away. I don’t want to appear as though I’m not having to consider it very carefully.
I wait for almost ten minutes before I type: Of course. Delighted to. Text me your flight details when you have them.
I press send, and then I go out to work.
As it’s a day when I’m not home until mid-afternoon, Mum is in the house when I return. There’s no sign of Tom or Mica – they’ve headed to Andrew’s and Emma’s respectively. I feel guilty about having missed them, though I know that their friends spend a lot of time in my house too. I’ve alread
y started to worry about how they’ll feel about me staying away for a whole night. Ivo has sent me his flight info, which I’ve saved. I couldn’t help feeling a little thrill as I did so. But still, my family should really come first.
The coordinator at the business start-up workshop talked about work–life balance. She also said there were times when we’d have to choose and that sometimes that choice might be difficult. What she should have said was that the choice was easy, but that living with it afterwards might be hard.
I text Mica to let her know I’m home again, and then Andrew’s mum so that she can tell Tom. Fortunately, both of their friends live around the corner on Beechgrove Green, so they’re not far away. Mica replies to me almost immediately saying that she, Emma and Oladele are watching a movie and that she’ll be home when it’s finished. Andrew’s mum says that she’ll send Tom home in half an hour.
‘You look tired,’ says Mum when I’ve finished texting and have shaken my hair out of its ponytail.
‘Two complete circuits of the M50 will do that to you,’ I tell her as I put the kettle on. ‘Would you like a cuppa?’
She nods, and resumes her crocheting. There are three octopussies on the table, but the rest have finally been brought to the hospital.
‘I’m getting faster,’ she says when I comment on them. ‘And it’s nice to think that I’m doing some good.’
‘It’s fabulous.’ There was a piece about the women who crochet them on TV the other week, as well as an article in the weekend paper. June appeared in both of them, but there was no sign of Mum.
‘I prefer to keep a low profile,’ she said. ‘I don’t want publicity.’
I laughed and told her it might be good for her internet dating site, and she (rather sniffly) retorted that it wasn’t a dating site. And then she laughed too and said that maybe the old men might select her ahead of the forty-five-year-olds, based on her new celebrity status.
I suddenly think of Leona Lynch and wonder if she’d do a vlog about the octopussies. I don’t imagine many of her followers would crochet them, but their mums or grans might. I suggest this to Mum, who says she’ll talk to the group about it, and agrees that it would be nice to think that someone as young and well-known as Leona might get involved.
Mistake Page 21
