by Maeve Binchy
'You've got such a lovely dress,' he said. 'Is it from Haywards designer room?'
'Yes, it is.' She was stupidly flattered.
'Come here to the mirror, you've got some kind of mark on your face.' He offered her a tissue, and she looked at herself. Then, appalled at the reflection, she wiped the smears away hastily.
'That was nice of you to do that,' Cathy said.
'Come on, Cathy, it's only those clowns giving the party who are the villains here. I wish I knew where I saw that guy before, he really annoys me. The poor eejit with the Walt Disney designs on her face isn't doing anyone any harm.'
'No, you're right. God Almighty, there's more of them arriving at the hall door. They'll be eating the wallpaper.'
'What does he do for a living? I've met him somewhere, I know I have.'
'Probably some bar we worked in once. Listen, give June a hand over there. I'll ring my father and get him to provide taxis.'
'Muttie? Taxis?'
'Have we time to start looking up taxis at this stage? Half the people my father bets with drive taxis.'
'You're brilliant, Cathy! Maybe there's something we can salvage from this after all. Listen, am I going mad or something, or is that man Riordan looking at me as if he's fallen in love with me or something?'
'Well you don't realise it, but you are quite good-looking. Why shouldn't Mr Riordan try his chances like everyone else?' 'Excuse me?' 'Yes, Mr Riordan?' 'Don't we know each other?' 'Well, Mr Riordan, I'm the caterer…'
'Stop pissing about, we met at a party a couple of months ago, New Year's Eve…'
'Oh, yes?' Tom wasn't really listening, he was watching the room, seeing where he was needed.
'I remember now. I just wanted to say that this sort of thing rarely happens, it was the drink, I felt very odd after it. I think they deliberately mixed the drinks there. Some photographer fellow, very irresponsible of him.'
Then Tom remembered him. He was the man who had been pawing Marcella at Ricky's party.
'Oh, yes, yes indeed, Mr Riordan, of course I remember you.' 'You did from the beginning,' Larry Riordan said. 'No, not until this minute.'
'Come on, you've had a load of attitude since you came in the door, you knew you had one over me.'
'I knew you had made a mistake about the number of guests you had invited. I didn't realise until now you were the happily married man I met on New Year's Eve,' Tom said. He seemed to grow taller and broader as he spoke. Larry Riordan shrank in front of him. 'The whole thing was a total misunderstanding, of course… due entirely…'
'We know what it was due to, Mr Riordan.' 'What I wanted to say was that if there was any offence 'Oh, there was great offence at the time.' 'But not now, I hope.'
'Now I shall continue to do this job professionally for you and your wife, with whom I have no quarrel. Despite the fact that you told us there would be fifty people and there are over seventy in the house.'
'That was also a misunderstanding.'
'There have been a lot of them… I was going to ask your wife…'
'No need to ask her anything. Just ask me.'
'Relax, Mr Riordan, I was only going to ask her did she think we should arrange some taxis for later; many of your guests will have to leave their cars behind.'
'Do whatever you like,' said the host, loosening his collar. 'But believe me, that was all totally out of order, that incident, and I hope it had no repercussions. I mean, that everything is all right in so far as…'
'Everything is fine, Mr Riordan.'
'Very fine, beautiful young lady… I apologise again.'
'Thank you, now if you'll excuse me there are quite a lot of people need attention.' Tom moved away. This man would never know that Marcella had left him.
Cathy had busily recycled the kedgeree, adding mushrooms and chopped potatoes. She told Tom that she knew all that crowd would need it later as blotting paper, and they certainly did. They gave everyone in sight their business card, and tidied the house to within an inch of its life. When those people woke up next morning, they would find their place looking immaculate. They would find one cold bottle of champagne and a carton of orange juice in their fridge. They lined the bottles up in the back garden in ranks like soldiers, so that there would be no dispute about the number ordered and drunk, and said they would collect them the following day when they called in the afternoon to present the account. Muttie had sent five taxi-driver friends to the scene. They did a shuttle service all evening, and were well rewarded for their efforts. Tom and Cathy paid June an extra three hours, and her taxi home, before they got back to number seven Waterview.
'Come in,' Cathy said.
'No, it's late, Neil will be…'
'Neil'll be one of three things: out, asleep or happy to pour us a drink,' Cathy said, and they went up the stairs.
Neil was sitting at his big table with papers all around. 'Oh, good, Cathy I…' Then he saw Tom, and momentarily his guard fell.
'Oh, Tom,' he said, disappointed and then recovered quickly. 'How was the function? Come and tell me.'
'No, honestly Neil, it's late.'
'Come in now that you're here.'
He got three beers and they sat down.
'Tell me all about it,' Neil asked politely. His heart wasn't in it; Tom gave the briefest of descriptions and drained his beer. Before he could leave there was a tap on the door.
'Are you drunk?' Simon asked with interest.
'Not yet,' Tom said.
'Where's Marcella?' Maud wanted to know.
'Not here,' said Cathy.'
'Should I not have asked? I was just being interested, as you said I should.' Maud was confused.
'No problems.' Cathy was tight-lipped.
There was a silence.
'Would you prefer us to go back to bed now?' Simon enquired.
'Yes. It is the middle of the night, actually,' Cathy said.
Maud and Simon departed swiftly, detecting a hint of steel somewhere.
Tom let himself into the van and drove home through the dark, empty streets. Those two really worked hard—few other couples were still earning a living at this time of the morning. And it couldn't be easy for Neil having those odd, awkward children there half the time. And your wife out all hours working as well. Cathy had been wonderful. She had asked everything about his father and nothing at all about Marcella, who had left him, had refused to accept his calls into Haywards and had not even come back to collect her clothes.
'Is there anything wrong, Neil?' Cathy said. 'Your mind was a million miles away when we were telling you about the party.'
'Sorry,' he said, 'but honestly, those children, I couldn't do a thing all night. They kept coming in, asking about this and that. Homework, and where they should do their washing.'
'Well that's an advance, when they first came they just threw it on the floor.'
'They can't keep coming here. We'll have to increase what Muttie and Lizzie get.'
'They don't do it for the money, we agreed to give them a bit of a break.' '
'But who is giving us a break? There's so much to do and discuss, and we haven't one minute to talk.'
'Okay, we have a minute now.'
'No real time.'
'Well, okay, I'm happy to talk now, it's kind of unwinding, but if you're tired...'
'There's this job…'
'The big case next week… ?'
'No, not a case. A job. I could… Now, it's not definite but I hear that I could be offered this amazing position…'
She looked at him open-mouthed as he told her about a committee that worked in connection with the UN Commission for Refugees.
'Now it's not an actual UN appointment, it's part of a group under the umbrella...'
She interrupted him. 'Sorry, I don't understand. Are you trying to tell me that you would consider taking a job abroad now?'
'Not immediately.'
'When then?'
'In about five or six months, I imagine. That's if it comes to
anything, but it's only fair to tell you about it now.'
'Is this a joke?'
'No, I was amazed when I heard it myself. Usually you'd have to have much more experience, but they think that—'
'You're not asking me to throw up everything and follow you out to Africa because you got a job out of the blue?'
'It's not necessarily Africa. It could be Geneva, Strasbourg, Brussels.'
'You have a job. You're a barrister, that's your job. Defending people, rescuing them, representing them. That's your job.'
'But this is something—'
'That was never on the cards, Neil, never part of any plan.'
'You don't know anything about it yet. And you'd love it, you've never had a chance to travel.'
'Oh, but I have travelled. To Greece, didn't I, where I met you.'
'But that was only a holiday.'
'It may have been a holiday for you. It was a job for me. I was cooking in that villa.'
'Oh, but honey, that was only a Mickey Mouse summer job as a chalet girl,' he said.
Her face hardened. 'But I don't have a Mickey Mouse job now, I have a company,' she said.
'Yes, but you can't expect to think—'
'Think what?' she asked.
'It's not the right time to talk now, it's too late.' He stood up.
'One sentence isn't finished. You said I can't expect to think…' She looked up at him.
'Please, this is how fights start.'
'No, leaving sentences unfinished is how they start.'
'I didn't know how it was going to end,' he said, anxious to be out of it all.
'Well, will I finish it for you?' She sounded calm, too calm.
'No fights, Cathy.'
'Absolutely not. I think we'll end it like this: we can't expect to think that you'd ask me to give up my whole life's work and dream any more than I would ever expect you to. Was it something like that?'
'It needs a lot more thought and discussion,' he said.
'You're right,' she said, and they went to bed, where they slept so far from each other that not even a toe touched, and Cathy pretended to be asleep when he left Waterview early next morning having totally ignored his promise to take the twins to school.
At the premises Tom was in better humour—his father was definitely on the mend. His mother had apologised for her somewhat hasty words; it had been the shock. The Riordans sent a message that the account was all in order and the bill for the christening would be paid in full this afternoon. There had been a note from Marcella saying that Shona had told her of Mr Feather's heart attack, and she sent her sympathy and hoped that he was getting on well. All that news was good. The bad news was that Marcella had asked him please not to get in touch for the time being. There had been no word of response from Joe Feather, whose father could well have died and been buried. And when Tom told James Byrne that Mr Riordan, the baby's father, wanted to pay for the christening in cash, the accountant was not happy.
'Not good to hear,' James Byrne said crisply.
'I know this, James, but what do we do?'
'We present an invoice for our records, and receipt it when we get the money.'
'But suppose…'
'You're paying for my advice, so don't suppose,' James said.
'Mr and Mrs Riordan, I hope it was all to your satisfaction.' 'They loved it,' said the wife. 'Full of praise,' echoed her husband. Tom didn't milk it, he did not want to make the man squirm any more.
'Our accountant actually prefers us to be paid by cheque.'
'Sure, it's sometimes that people like cash to avoid the tax,' said Larry Riordan.
'Which we wouldn't want to do.' Tom never lowered his gaze.
'No, of course.'
'Will we all go into the other room while I get my chequebook,' Larry Riordan suggested. He was obviously terrified to leave Tom alone for a moment, in case he began to tell tales.
Tom took out his calculator and his invoice book. 'The wine is all accounted for, the taxis and extras paid. It's just a small matter of… Are you sure you had the numbers right? You see, our waitress kept counting the plates and—'
'My wife says there was a mistake. She thinks we were well over fifty, actually.'
'How well over?' Tom's eyes were cold.
'Nearer to eighty, she thought.'
'Perfect,' said Tom, and signed a receipt for them.
Back in Stoneyfield he put on the Lou Reed record he loved because it showed other people had lives as confused as his own. There was a ring at the door. He answered it, and it was Marcella.
'You have a key,' he said quietly through the intercom.
'I wouldn't use it unless…' Her voice faltered.
'Unless what, Marcella?' He was still very quiet.
'Unless you wanted me to come in and talk.' He pressed the buzzer. But she didn't come in. I mean, really talk,' she insisted.
'Well, I've been just waiting for you all those days, hours, minutes, seconds, however long it's been,' he said.
'You know I know, come on, we both know how very, very long it's been,' she said simply.
'So, Marcella, are you going to come up here to me, or what?' He hardly dared to hope.
'Tom, I wanted to know how the christening went, and to tell you that I do know you love me, and that we both made silly mistakes along the way.' There was a silence. 'Would that let me come home, do you think?' He knew she was crying, and he didn't care if she knew that he was crying too as he ran down the stairs to bring her back home.
Next morning there was a call from the woman at the party whose face Tom had rescued. She said that she wanted to thank them for their courtesy and splendid food, and to book them for a silver wedding party weeks ahead. Geraldine booked them a lunch for a group of estate agents who wanted to get into the villa market, and would like a buffet with a Spanish theme. The hospital called to say that Tom's father was now well on the mend, and that Mr JT Feather would be going home today. There was a message from Joe in Manila saying that somebody had eventually caught up with him with the news about their father, and could someone now fax him back since he had to be in the Philippines for another two weeks. James Byrne left in a note confirming the date of his cookery lesson, and saying that he always paid in advance and always by cheque, being someone who disapproved strongly of the black economy. Cathy got an e-mail from her sister Marian in Chicago, asking Scarlet Feather to cater for a lavish Dublin wedding in August. The theatre wrote to say that there just might be another gig. Apparently everyone had been very pleased with the last one, they said with some surprise. They were sure Tom could oblige again. Cathy had received a letter from Hannah Mitchell marked 'personal', in which her mother-in-law had suggested a little lunch in Quentin's to clear up any outstanding difficulties. And when Cathy rang Tom to tell him this last and most amazing of all the amazing pieces of information that day, the phone was answered by Marcella.
'Oh, Tom, you were so right to be optimistic. You just kept us all afloat. I'm so happy for you, so very happy,' Cathy said with a lump in her throat when Marcella passed the phone to him.
'I know you are,' he said, and he smiled at Marcella as he said it.
Chapter Three
MARCH
Cathy was early at Quentin's. 'Coming to steal our ideas?' Brenda Brennan asked. Both Cathy and Tom had worked as waiters and in the kitchen here, in what was often described as Dublin's best restaurant.
'Oh, we've stolen all those already,' Cathy admitted cheerfully. 'Those little tomato and basil tarts go down a treat.'
Brenda smiled, she had little to worry about in the way of competition from home caterers. People came to Quentin's for the atmosphere as well as the food.
'Where will J put you, Cathy?' she asked.
'Where does my mother-in-law like to sit?'
'Nowhere very much, hard lady to please.' Brenda Brennan knew the score.
'Don't start me off, I'm trying to be nice today,' Cathy pleaded.
They chose the
table least likely to annoy Hannah, and Cathy sat down to wait. She had told nobody about the meeting, not even Neil. They had an armed truce at home now, where normal conversation was carried on and meals were eaten, but the great thing that hung between them was only skirted around. They had agreed to give it a cooling-off period and then they would approach it in a saner way than at two-thirty a.m. in a small town house that was also home to Simon and Maud. Perhaps Hannah knew all about the job. But that was unlikely. She would wait until her mother-in-law showed her hand, and after all, the woman had put 'personal' on the envelope. Possibly Cathy's outburst had hit home, and Hannah really did want to apologise. If so then she should have the dignity to do so without thinking that there was an audience out there waiting to know the details. Perhaps it was about Maud and Simon? Apparently there had been some form of contact made with their father. Perhaps one of Hannah's friends might need a caterer? There had been some talk of Amanda coming back for a visit from Canada. Hannah might need a reconciliation just for apperiances' sake? No point in speculation, Cathy told herself. She would know in just over an hour when the main-course dishes were cleared away, when they would both refuse dessert and ask for coffee.
In the private booth of Quentin's James Byrne sat with his guest, Martin Maguire. The great thing about this particular table was that you could see out while others found it difficult to peer in.
'Lean forward just a little, Martin, and you'll see her. That's Cathy Scarlet on her own over there.'
The other man looked in the direction he had been shown, and saw the fair-haired girl reading the Irish Times.
'She's very young,' he said in a low voice.
'They all are these days, Martin.'
'No, she's never able to run a business, too much stress and strain.'
'She's about twenty-six, that's not young by today's standards.'
'That's almost the same age as Frankie.'
James Byrne looked at the tablecloth, searching desperately for words. Eventually he just said, 'Frankie's at peace.'
