by Sarah Webb
This book is dedicated to my dear friend and fellow writer, Martina Devlin
The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.
The Man in the Arena, from a speech by
Theodore Roosevelt, 23 April 1910
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Epilogue
Prologue
In June I screamed for two days solid.
It all started on a quiet Sunday morning. I was standing behind the till at Shoestring, my sister Pandora’s designer swap shop, flicking through a copy of i-D magazine and minding my own business, when Pandora handed me a cream envelope.
‘This was in the postbox outside,’ she said. ‘Must have been delivered last night.’
I looked at the envelope suspiciously. Plush, expensive looking, my name – Julia Schuster – carefully handwritten in sky-blue ink across the middle.
I relaxed a little. A final warning from my credit card company was unlikely to come in such smart packaging. Then I peered at it closely. The script looked familiar but I couldn’t quite place it. Wish I had. I would have thrown the whole wretched thing in the bin unopened. Or burned it.
‘Take it.’ Pandora thrust the envelope into my hands. ‘Some of us have work to do,’ she added with a sniff and then walked off. I rolled my eyes behind her back. Pandora was in one of her moods and I’d spent most of the morning trying to avoid her.
Curious, I ripped open the envelope and pulled out the letter which had been wrapped around an invitation card. I unfolded it and read the Dear Jules at the top. Only then did it come to me – of course – it was Lainey’s neat, prissy handwriting. Bloody nerve. My stomach clenched at the mere thought of Lainey Anderson. But being terminally nosey, I had to read on.
Dear Jules,
I know we haven’t spoken since the morning after the party and I’m still SO sorry about all that. I hope your head is OK. Those stitches must have hurt.
You’re totally right, I should have told you about me and Ed beforehand. The night of his birthday do was a rubbish time to announce it. But when you got back from New Zealand, Ed made me promise to keep quiet for a few weeks, said you needed time to process everything. I guess after that the right opportunity never came along and, to be honest, I was a bit scared of what you’d say. And the longer I left it, the harder it got.
I hated sneaking around behind your back, Jules, believe me. And I feel even worse now that you’re so upset. But at least there was no one in the toilet to hear you screaming at me that night. I genuinely had no idea you’d take it so badly. You told me you were completely over Ed, that you had no idea what you’d ever seen in him.
OK, I understand how you must have felt, being the last person to know, and I swear the proposal came as a complete shock to me too – I genuinely had no idea he was going to fall on his knee like that, in front of everyone! But you know Ed, he loves a bit of drama. At least Kia was there to catch you when you fainted and take you to the hospital.
Please answer your mobile, Jules, I really need to talk to you. I rang the shop but Bird went all funny and refused to put you on the line, said you were distraught and that she’d shoot me with her air rifle if I went near the shop or ever tried contacting you again. (Does she actually own one by the way? Or any sort of gun? I wouldn’t put it past her!)
I rang back loads of times and eventually managed to get Pandora who said you were shaken but as well as could be expected in the circumstances; that the scar on your head would heal even if the scar on your heart would be there for all eternity. (Everyone in your family’s so melodramatic, Jules, but I do love them for it!)
Look, I know you and Ed have oceans of history – I was the one who picked up the pieces every time you guys argued. But that was a long time ago, things change, people move on.
Anyway, I guess you need some space right now, but we’ve been best friends for ever and I really want you there at the wedding. And Ed feels the same way too. I know you’re unlikely to want to be a bridesmaid after everything that’s happened, but if you change your mind the offer’s still there.
Please, please, please say you’ll come! It won’t be the same without you. I’ll try calling in to the shop again. I’m not giving up, we’ve been friends for too long and I don’t want to lose you. Besides, who’s going to help me find the perfect wedding dress? My sisters will probably put me in some sort of hideous meringue.
Please forgive me! I miss you, Jules.
Love always,
Lainey XXX
There was a smiley face over the ‘i’ of her name and I stared at it, practically growling. I pulled the thick cream invitation and RSVP card out of the envelope and ran my fingers over the embossed gold writing. Classy.
My eyes started to well up and I blinked the tears back furiously, grabbed a pen and scribbled across the RSVP card:
Never! I’d rather die. You have got to be kidding me, Lainey!
Then I ripped the invitation in half, which wasn’t easy as the card was ultra thick, threw it on the floor and stamped on it. Lainey and Ed. My best friend and the love of my life – together, for ever. It was really happening.
And that’s when I started screaming.
Chapter 1
By August, Lainey had eventually stopped ringing my mobile several times a day, leaving contrite messages. So I was caught out on Saturday evening when I snatched up my iPhone and gave a cheery ‘Yello?’ before checking the number first.
‘Jules!’ she said. ‘Finally. Please don’t hang up.’
‘Too late,’ I yelled, my hands shaking so much it took me a second to click the end call button.
I sat on the edge of my bed, quivering with rage. My phone rang again but I let it go straight to messages. Then . . . silence. I picked it up, willing myself to delete the message without listening, but it was no use. I had to torture myself.
‘Hi, Jules.’ Lainey gave a nervous laugh. ‘Look, you have every right to put the phone down on me. But I just wanted to tell you that I’m seeing my sisters tonight, to talk about my hen night. Karen and Kia are organizing it. Maybe you’ll think about coming – the date hasn’t been set yet, but it won’t be for a while. I know I’m not your favourite person right now, but I hope you’ll get in touch soon. Um, well, I guess that’s it then. I miss you, Jules. Bye, love you . . .’
Hen party. If things were different, I’d be the one organizing Lainey’s hen for her. I knew I had no right to feel annoyed, I was the one not speaking to her, but it still hurt. I erased the message, stood up and checked myself out in the mirror, determ
ined to block Lainey from my mind. I stared at my reflection. Vintage black, blue and green 70s Missoni minidress I’d found in Pandora’s shop, teamed with a pair of pale blue Meadham Kirchhoff beaded platforms. I threw my favourite black biker jacket over the dress and smiled. Perfect. I grabbed my bag and went downstairs for a swift glass or two of wine before Rowie collected me in a taxi. My nerves were still jangling from Lainey’s call but I wasn’t going to let it spoil my night.
Rowie is actually one of Pandora’s friends from fashion college. Now she owns her own boutique in Sandycove, Baroque, where I also work. She used to be a real party girl, but now only goes on the razz when her Danish boyfriend, Olaf, is at some car rally or other in the bog lands. He’s decent enough and I guess attractive in that clean, blond Nordic way that does nothing for me, but very intense and rather boring.
But even after many, many drinks I still couldn’t get Lainey’s niggling voice out of my head.
‘I miss you, Jules.’ ‘Love you.’
Really, Lainey? If you love me, why did you betray me? Answer that.
Now it’s Sunday and I’m standing behind the till at Shoestring again, head dipped, elbows resting on the wood, trying not to think about my raging hangover or Lainey Anderson.
‘Julia, what are you doing? If you’re reading magazines on my time again, I’m docking your wages, understand?’
I look up and groan. Pandora is striding towards me, a stark white dress-carrier the size of a body bag clutched against her chest.
‘I was massaging my temples. I have a headache.’
She scowls at me. ‘Shouldn’t have drunk so much last night then, should you?’
‘I forgot I was working today, OK?’
‘You always forget, Jules, that’s your problem. You should keep a diary. What happened to that Filofax I gave you last Christmas? The pink leather one.’
I rack my brains and stare at her blankly. I have no idea. To be honest, I was a bit of a mess on Christmas Day. Ed and I had done our usual Christmas Eve thing – Finnegan’s pub in Dalkey to catch up with all our ex-pat friends who were home for Christmas. It was a tradition.
We’d officially broken up in early December, just after I’d returned to Dublin after six months working and travelling in New Zealand, but Ed and I were always breaking up and making up, so I figured that after a bit of Christmas cheer everything would be back to normal.
Over the past five years I’d lived in Paris, Rome, Budapest, Wellington, Christchurch and Auckland, travelling until I ran out of money, then working in bars and shops until I got homesick for Ireland and, pining for Ed, flew back to Dublin. It had become a bit of a pattern – I spent spring working at whatever temporary jobs I could find at home, saving and organizing myself to go away; summer in another country; and autumn, and most especially Christmas, back home again. And then I’d get bored of Ireland and its parochialism, my itchy feet would kick in and the cycle would start all over again.
But last Christmas Eve, something had changed. I’d spent all night willing Ed to make a move, hoping that he’d had time to come to his senses, every molecule of my being begging him to want me again. But when our usual snog under the mistletoe morphed into an awkward hug and cheek kiss, followed by a firm goodbye and I staggered home from the pub alone, I slowly came to the crushing realization that the clock was not going to turn back in a magical Dr Who manner, and that Ed Powers no longer loved me.
‘I’m sure it’s around somewhere,’ I mumble. I think I gave it to my niece, Iris, and God knows what she’s done with it.
Thankfully Pandora lets it go. ‘Guess where I’ve just been?’ she asks, her voice uncharacteristically upbeat.
I study her face with interest. Yep, she’s actually smiling. Pandora is the biggest grump in the universe and it takes a lot to animate her, especially on a Sunday afternoon. She hates opening Shoestring on Sundays, but with all the competition from Dundrum Shopping Centre, which is pretty much open 24/7, she feels she has to. The shop’s not exactly setting the fashion world on fire, and even with Pandora working flat-out, and Bird, our sprightley but slightly barking seventy-nine-year-old granny, helping out when she can, the takings are pretty abysmal at the moment.
The only thing that’s keeping the place open is the café, run by two Slovakian sisters, Klaudia and Lenka Ková, and their mum, Draza – who doesn’t have a word of English but is an amazing cook. Klaudia’s built like a navvy and works incredibly hard. Even Bird’s a bit frightened of Klaudia, and that’s saying a lot. Lenka’s completely different: elfin, with white-blonde hair to her bum, and an easy, laid-back manner. She helps out on the shop floor when the café’s quiet.
Pandora’s still standing in front of me, clearly expecting an actual answer. I look at her in surprise. Largely, she pretty much ignores me at work due to:
a.) my general lack of interest in most of the clothes she peddles. I just don’t understand why so many women want to look like identikit Barbies. The rails are bulging with nondescript, overpriced ‘designer’ jeans and boring black tops. Unlike Pandora, I have no real interest in what’s fashionable or ‘in’; for me true style has nothing to do with how much money you’ve dropped on the latest it bag, and all to do with imagination and flair. Which is why many of Shoestring’s customers, who can’t see past the Gucci double Gs, drive me to distraction.
And b.) the fact that I spend most of my time checking out my favourite fashion and art blogs on the shop’s computer, or flicking through back editions of Paris and Italian Vogue, Pop, Wallpaper and i-D under the desk. I buy them for next to nothing at a secondhand bookshop in Sandycove and I adore their sumptuous fashion spreads, even if I can’t understand a word of some of them. Good design makes me happy – clothes, jewellery, furniture, anything really. Bad design simply irritates me.
I’m Pandora’s occasional Sunday girl, employed purely to allow her to visit some of her well-heeled clients – high-powered career women who work all week, and play golf or sail yachts all day Saturday, and are only available to flog their cast-offs to Pandora on certain Sundays.
I told her I’d only work for the pittance she offered if I could drink coffee at the till and didn’t have to tidy the rails or clear out the changing rooms, which I hate since I always end up walking in on someone in their knickers and bra. The worst offenders are the thong women who try and engage me in conversation whilst bending over to hand me shoes or a top they’ve thrown on the floor – Pandora’s pet hate – she reckons most people must have maids at home to pick up for them. Not normal behaviour, people! I do not want to see anyone’s bum crack on a Sunday, or any other day for that matter, thanks very much.
A lot of our sell-in clients – people who bring us their designer clothes to flog on their behalf – are D4s, named after the postcode of a posh area of Dublin. They’re wives of barristers, CEOs, accountants. The developers’ wives tend to keep a low profile these days and most have sold their Dublin trophy houses and have slunk back into their more modest country piles. They’re all desperately trying to hide their well-honed retail habit from their hubbies. Compared to the rest of the country, they’re well off but still seem to get a kick out of haggling with Pandora to try and increase their cut of the sale, even though the shop’s terms are set in stone. We offer our sell-ins 50 per cent net. So if we sell a dress for a hundred euro, they get fifty. It’s all pretty simple, but the D4s aren’t the sharpest knives in the drawer and it takes them a while to take it all in. Plus some of them have no idea how much they paid for particular items and claim their simple Issa wrap dress cost thousands, when Pandora knows every item Issa have ever produced, in every season, including each piece’s list price. Her mind is like an elaborate fashion spreadsheet. For a country in the middle of a recession, there are a lot of expensive frocks out there, all just waiting for Pandora to whisk them away after their solo charity lunch outing, so they don’t linger incriminatingly in already bulging wardrobes.
‘Go on, guess,’ Pandora says agai
n.
‘Not Sissy Arbuckle’s place?’ I ask. Pandora’s been itching to visit her house for weeks on account of our bet. Sissy is one of RTÉ’s Red Carpet girls, a telly programme dedicated to the lives of the rich and famous, but for all the glossy front Pandora is convinced she’s living way above her means, her expensive designer frock fetish funded largely by her dentist boyfriend. Nice guy called Ian, small, with strangely wonky teeth for a dentist, who drops clothes into the shop for her sometimes, but I’m still not convinced. Surely telly presenters get paid a fortune? Pandora is so confident that she’s right she has ten euro on Chez Arbuckle being a semi-d in a pretty average estate; I’m banking on it being Bling Castle, mock Georgian, with lots of white pillars and sweeping silk curtains.
Pandora shakes her head. ‘Nope. Try again.’
I’m already tiring of this game but I humour her. Otherwise she might ask me to take the out-of-date stock off the rails and mark it down – yikes! We only keep items for three weeks, after that the pieces get reduced by 25 per cent. If they still don’t sell, we give customers three weeks to collect their items or they get donated to charity. You’d be amazed how lazy some people are – our local Oxfam loves us! Or even worse, Pandora might make me iron fresh stock. A lot of the clothes come in clean but wrinkled and we charge the clients a ‘pressing’ fee. We also have a deal with the local dry cleaners and also Mrs Snips, the local repair and alteration shop, run by a friend of Klaudia and Lenka’s. Both give Shoestring a small commission for any work we pass on to them. Pandora has it all sorted, she’s like a mini Mafia don.
