by Maggie Finn
Marcus gave her a sad smile.
‘Where did it all go wrong, Mol?’ he asked.
Molly almost laughed out loud. That one was easy. It had all gone wrong the night the TV crew had turned up at the restaurant. RTE, the biggest television station in Ireland was doing a news piece on restaurants and had come into the kitchens at Biblio to film them. They had interviewed everyone, including Molly, but when the segment had aired, Marcus Colfer was the only face on camera. Marcus was the genius in the kitchen, said the reporter, Marcus was an artist, a solo performer. Molly’s part in it was forgotten.
Of course, Marcus had protested that they’d misquoted him, that the producers had edited the footage – and there was probably some truth in that. Chefs were supposed to be maverick geniuses, weren’t they? That was the story they wanted, so that’s the story Marcus gave them.
And it was the story that had stuck.
In hindsight, it was shocking how quickly their relationship had unraveled. Marcus was invited onto TV shows, profiled in magazines and, before long, was offered a new restaurant with his name on it. And there wasn’t room for Molly any more, either in the news story or the relationship; she had become an inconvenient truth. So she did the only thing she could: she packed up her things and left.
‘I suppose we just wanted different things,’ said Molly carefully. ‘And I suppose you’re right, at the café I can do things the way I want.’ She looked at him and added meaningfully. ‘The way we wanted to do things.’
He looked at her nodding.
‘Which is why I was so glad you called, Molly.’
She frowned.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean why don’t you come back?’
This time, Molly did laugh. He had been talking to Mr Bower.
‘You want me here? In the kitchen?’
‘Look, I know you have your own place and all, but you could do all the same things here, just on a much bigger scale.’
‘Why me?’
‘Are you kidding? Molly – come on. You’re the best.’
You didn’t say that three years ago, she thought. But for a moment, Molly gave herself over to the fantasy. A shiny, state of the art kitchen, filled with eager staff who’d jump to her tune. The best ingredients, the best wines and people queueing around the block just to taste her food. Her food. But then it wouldn’t be her food the customers came for, would it? They would be coming to taste Marcus Colfer’s food, they would queue up because of Marcus, because of the fairy dust floating around him.
Reluctantly, Molly shook her head. ‘I don’t think…’ she began, but Marcus sat forward, his face serious.
‘Look, I know it’s not ideal. And I know you might find it hard to trust me, but we really do need someone of your caliber running the kitchen here.’
Molly had of course, dreamt of a moment like this. Through all those tears, all the heartache, there had of course been times when Molly had wanted Marcus to beg her to come back, to tell her he couldn’t go on without her. But now it was here, Molly knew for certain that it wasn’t what she wanted, not anymore.
‘Sorry Marcus, I really wish I could do it, but it’s just not for me.’
‘You’re serious?’
‘I am,’ said Molly, feeling lighter than she had for a long time.
‘But you’d be chef patron, Molly. And yes, it’d be my name on the door, but look at Clare Smyth – she ran the kitchen for Gordon Ramsey, then moved onto her own place and got two Michelin stars, Mol.’
He sighed.
‘And I still feel bad about how… well, how it ended.’
‘Well, all you have to do is say “sorry”.’
He looked at her.
‘Sorry Molly. I really am.’
‘Fine, then we’re grand.’
And Molly was surprised to find that she was. All that pain and resentment, all those wasted hours of ‘what if’s, it was as if they were all floating away like the seeds from a dandelion clock.
‘Please Molly,’ said Marcus.
‘Please?’
Molly narrowed her eyes, suspicious now. She couldn’t remember Marcus ever saying ‘please’. ‘What’s this really about?’
Marcus glanced across at the waitress who was clicking on a computer screen, but close enough to eavesdrop.
He lowered his voice. ‘We’ve had some bad reviews,’ he said.
Ah.
‘So what you’re really saying is that you need my help again?’ she asked, a slight smile on her mouth. ‘You need me to come in and add some of my genius?’
He nodded dumbly.
‘Yes Molly, I need you.’
Molly took a breath savoring the moment. She knew that if this was a Hollywood movie, she would stand up and, with a sassy exit line, turn on her heel and walk out. But right now she couldn’t do that. Mr Bower was a stick-in-the-mud, but he was right. If she couldn’t find the money for the café, she couldn’t carry on. And without the café, she needed a job. Coming back to work for Marcus might not be ideal – it would be humiliating and awkward at the very least – but she needed a wage packet and she wasn’t good at anything else.
‘Say you’ll think about it at least,’ said Marcus and his face was so sad, she almost cracked. Things must be bad behind all this slick façade. Molly stood up, smoothing her skirt down.
‘Sure,’ she said, ‘I’ll think about it.’
It wasn’t the best exit line, but it was something. And it was better than ‘yes please, can I start on Monday?’
And with that, she walked past the waitress and out of the door.
Chapter Eight
Sean sat up and looked around, his head thick from sleep.
Brrrriiing!
The doorbell? What? He blinked, scooped up his watch. Who was ringing his doorbell at eight in the morning?
‘Wait, eight o’clock?’
He threw off his covers and ran for the door. He’d slept in for the first time in years. Usually, his body clock had him up and out just after dawn, pulling on that wetsuit and paddling out to sea. ‘This never happens,’ he muttered, grabbing a T-shirt from the back of a chair.
Briiing!
‘Alright, alright,’ he called, trying not to trip on the stairs. ‘I’m coming.’
Even as he stumbled along the hall, Sean felt strangely sluggish, like he was walking around wrapped in a thick quilt. He jangled the locks, then pulled open his front door – to find his sister standing there.
‘Lino?’ he croaked, squinting at the light. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘We have a meeting,’ she said, holding up a hairbrush and a takeaway coffee cup. She pushed past him and, utterly confused, Sean followed her back up to his bedroom where he found Caroline rummaging in his closet.
‘What are you doing?’
Instead of answering, Caroline pushed a shirt and a pair of trousers at him. ‘Put those on and find some shoes,’ she said, ‘I’ll wait outside.’
Too bemused to argue, Sean did as he was told, using Caroline’s hairbrush to pull his blonde locks into some sort of order.
‘What meeting?’ he asked, stepping back into the hallway, sipping his coffee. Black and strong: at least that might help clear his head.
Caroline gave him a once-over glance and nodded with satisfaction, then looped a tie around his neck, knotting it with an expert flourish. ‘At least you don’t smell of seaweed for once,’ she said, handing him a folder, then heading for the door. ‘Come on, the car’s waiting.’
‘What car?’ he called, ‘What meeting?’
‘We have a meeting with Ross Oil.’
That woke Sean up.
‘The Ross Oil?’ he said. ‘The one trying to build a refinery in Clover Cove?’
Caroline rolled her eyes. ‘Yes, that Ross Oil. The one worth three hundred billion dollars. Some of which they might send our way, so don’t muck it up, okay?’
She turned and walked back down the stairs, leaving Sean open-mouthed.
The seats of the towncar were so soft and the ride so smooth, Sean almost dozed off again on the journey south. He had quickly grasped that Caroline knew almost nothing about their meeting, so his hissed questions – the car’s driver wore sunglasses, but he could presumably hear what his passengers were saying – were only making his sister more tense, and she was clearly already pretty anxious. This much he knew: Caroline had received an early call from an American named Kevin Judd who said he’d send the car. He worked for Ross Oil, was interested in WestTec and… well, that was about it.
Adding to the mystery was the route the towncar was taking: Sean knew the roads around the Kiln county coast better than most people and they weren’t heading toward anywhere that Ross Oil might have an office. In fact, they seemed to be heading toward the sea.
‘Why are we going this way?’ whispered Sean, ‘We’re already past Port Quinn. The only thing down here is Dragon Point.’
‘Stop asking questions,’ muttered Caroline, cutting her eyes meaningfully toward the driver. ‘I’m sure Mr. Judd knows what he’s doing.’
Dragon Point was a headland, so called because of the jagged black rocks that thrust at angles from the sea at high tide. It formed one side of Battleship Bay, the little cove below Sleagh Castle – and the next one along from Clover Cove. Which made Sean think of the café up on the cliffs and of its owner with her long black hair and her sunny smile and…
‘This is it,’ said the driver, pulling off the coast road and crunching down onto an unfinished lane. Ahead of them, Sean could see a little parking lot with an identical black towncar already there. They parked and the driver opened the door on Caroline’s side. ‘Mr. Judd would be pleased if you’d join him just ahead.’
Sean and Caroline exchanged glances and clambered out.
‘Over here!’ cried a voice. A thick-set man in a tweed jacket and rimless glasses was waving from a little flat area overlooking the beach. He strode over, thrusting his hand out.
‘Kevin Judd, Ross Oil,’ he grinned with perfect teeth. ‘Sorry for the cloak and dagger stuff, but – well, isn’t it impressive?’
He swept a hand out toward the sea.
‘It certainly is,’ said Sean, clicking into charm-mode, ‘Unusual place for a meeting, but…’ he flashed the American a smile.
‘Sure,’ he said, gesturing toward a wooden picnic table and waiting as they all sat down. ‘I thought it would make more sense to come here and actually see what we’re talking about.’
‘And that would be the wave barrage eco project?’ said Caroline, opening her folder. ‘I have been looking at the opportunities for cross-optimisation.’ She slid over one of her incomprehensible line graphs. ‘WestTec can deliver in every area you might be considering.’
Sean tried not to grimace. Their Dad was right: you couldn’t throw Caroline into a meeting alone: she wasn’t exactly a people person.
‘Hey, you see down there?’ said Sean, pointing toward a granite stack thrusting up from the sea like a giant’s finger. ‘Right at the base?’
Judd followed Sean’s gaze.
‘Say, are those seals? What about that!’
‘They’re grey seals. We also get sea lions and otters, but you don’t see many of them until sunset.’
The American looked at him.
‘I can see you know this place.’
‘Of course. I…’ he glanced at Caroline, ‘I often visit those bays – I’m something of a nature buff. Bird-watching and so on.’
‘Great, then we’re on the same page. We want this project to emphasize the beauty of the place.’
Sean frowned.
‘So you want us to work on some creative about the eco project? But I didn’t think it was happening. I read in the paper that Bishop Ray had found some ancient document that stopped Ross moving forward…’
Judd held up a hand.
‘Don’t believe all you read, Sean.’ He winked. ‘Between you and I, the Bishop’s on sick leave, so who knows? But either way, we want to be ready when it gets the go-ahead.’
‘Well we’re ready when you are,’ said Caroline, ‘But what do you want to achieve? What story do you want to communicate?’
Judd nodded down toward the family of seals.
‘All that – that’s what we want the world to see. Eco is the future, guys. We can’t keep using cheap oil. Yeah, I know that sounds a little back-to-front, given we’re an oil company, but fossil fuels are finite and we need to be thinking long-term.’
Sean sat back and listened as the oil man spoke. Judd was smart and impressive. He knew his industry inside out and understood the importance of social media and its role in swaying opinion. At the same time, he didn’t try to sugar-coat his position: he knew the public were suspicious of energy companies like Ross Oil and they weren’t going to be easily fooled by the wave energy project. As he spoke, Sean opened his folder and began jotting down ideas, bouncing them off Judd, sketching out a plan. Finally, he looked up.
‘Can I just ask; why do you need us?’
He ignored Caroline’s glare and carried on: ‘I mean, you presumably have access to the top advertising firms in Manhattan. WestTec are the best of course, but…’
Judd laughed.
‘It’s a good question and I’m glad you asked. Sure, Ross Oil have deep pockets, we could run TV ads before the Super Bowl if we wanted. We’re a global company with a global reach. But we came to you because we want this to come from a local level. That’s why I asked to meet you here’ – he rapped his knuckles on the wooden tabletop – ‘Because this is where it all begins, starting at the grassroots, right from the source and spreading out into the whole of Europe.’
‘Europe?’ asked Caroline.
‘Sure, we heard WestTec are opening offices in London, maybe Paris after that. You’re small, but you’re good. And you’re going places.’
Judd sat back and, taking Sean’s pencil, scribbled in his notebook.
‘Here’s our budget for this. Maybe you could do a costing, see what you can deliver for us.’
He tore out the page and slid it across to Caroline. Sean watched his sister’s face as she read the note. Nothing: not a flicker. She had her faults, but Sean wouldn’t want to play poker against her.
‘I’m sure we can do something, Mr. Judd,’ she said.
‘Great,’ he grinned, standing and clasping their hands. ‘The car will take you back. You know, I’ve got a good feeling about this.’
When Judd had gone, Sean raised his eyebrows at Caroline.
‘Paris?’ he said. His sister gave a rare smile.
‘I may have exaggerated a little. Looks like it worked though, doesn’t it?’
‘Yes, it does,’ said Sean, making a grab for Judd’s note, but Caroline jerked it out of his reach.
‘Come on, Lino,’ he said. ‘How much?’
With a rare smile, Caroline turned the paper over for Sean to read.
‘Wow,’ he said, sitting down again. ‘That’s… wow.’
It was a huge amount of money, far more than was necessary to get the job done.
‘But it’s not just the money, is it Sean?’ said Caroline eagerly. ‘I mean, yes, our accountants will be happy, but the important thing here is that Kevin Judd and Ross Oil chose us. This is huge, Sean.’
Sean nodded numbly. He was still trying to process it all. He’d barely got used to the idea of moving to London, let alone landing a major-league client like Ross Oil. It was all moving so fast.
‘If we pull this off, we can expect a lot more work of this calibre,’ said Caroline. ‘Big names, big accounts. We’re made, Sean.’
But Sean wasn’t listening. He was watching the sea. Or rather, he was watching a small black bird swooping down toward the water, its wings pinned back, disappearing beneath the waves with barely a ripple.
‘Are we doing the right thing, sis?’
‘What? Of course! What do you mean “right thing”?’
‘Don’t get me
wrong, it’s exciting and all, but…’
‘But what?’
He gestured toward the sea.’
‘But this,’ he said. ‘We’d be helping Ross Oil destroy all of this.’
Caroline looked at him with disbelief. ‘You are kidding me, aren’t you?’
‘No, I’m not. Remember how you said the other day that Dad’s business stood for something? That it stood for integrity, that people could rely on WestTec to do the right thing for the community? Well, isn’t this a great example?’
Caroline’s eyes flashed and Sean braced himself for one of his sister’s tirades questioning his work ethic and his commitment to the company. But instead, she just sighed and sat down next to him.
‘Look Sean, I get it,’ she said, putting her hand over his. ‘You love the sea and the seals and the solitude – and you want to keep it that way. Well, good for you Sean.’
He raised an eyebrow and she laughed.
‘Seriously, it is beautiful. But what do you think will happen if we turn around to Kevin Judd and say, “ah, thanks for the opportunity, but we’re turning you down because we don’t approve of your plans”?’
Sean let out a long breath. ‘He’ll hire someone else,’ he said.
‘Exactly. We can disagree with Ross Oil, but it’s not going to change the outcome, is it? Someone else will take the contract, Ross Oil will build their wave generators and we’re left in exactly the same place.’
Sean watched the black bird suddenly break free of the water, waterlogged wings beating hard to get airborne, a silver fish grasped in its claws.
‘So what do you suggest?’
‘I suggest we take the job. I suggest we do our best to make it work and hope it leads to more commissions. Because that’s the only part we have any control over.’
Sean nodded. She was right, of course. After all, the Clover Cove energy project was – as far as they knew – a dead duck. It had been blocked by the church and in Ireland, the church tended to get what it wanted. So where was the harm in doing some media work for Ross Oil? It wouldn’t change the outcome, as Caroline said, but it would certainly help WestTec’s prospects. And this magnificent view? Well it would most likely stay this way for another few hundred years. And even if Ross did build their wave project here, that little black bird would keep on diving for fish.
