“Mum?”
“Hello.”
Leah’s heart sank at the cool tone. “I’m just ringing to see how you are,” she said, as brightly as she could manage.
“He’s moved in, has he?”
Leah could picture her face, pinched with disapproval. “Yes, he’s moved in—and his name is Patrick,” she added before she could stop herself. “Mum,” she went on quickly, “please don’t be like this.”
“Easy for you to say,” her mother answered, “when you don’t have to face Geraldine Robinson at bridge every Friday night.”
“She can’t possibly blame you.”
“And who else would she blame, when it’s my daughter who stole her daughter’s boyfriend? You should have seen how upset she looked last Friday—I dread to think what she’ll say when she finds out who’s responsible for all this.”
Leah closed her eyes and took a breath. “Mum, let’s not get into this. Just please try to understand, nobody planned it. I didn’t set out to—”
“You knew he was involved with someone else. You should have had some self-restraint.”
“It wasn’t like that. It’s not something—”
“Imagine what that poor girl is going through right now, and just about to open up a shop. Geraldine was telling us all only a couple of weeks ago how nervous she was about it. Remember how tough it was for you when you opened the salon? How would you have liked to be landed with something like that on top of it?”
With an effort, Leah held her tongue. No point in arguing: Nothing she could possibly say would make a difference. Not when her mother had been in Hannah’s very situation thirty years earlier—only worse, because Leah’s father had walked out on his wife and small daughter. At least Patrick hadn’t been married to Hannah, and no children were involved—not that there was anything to be gained by pointing that out, of course.
And it was definitely not the right moment to break her other news—although time was running out for keeping quiet about it.
“Can we meet for lunch?” she asked instead. “My treat. Maybe Wednesday?”
Her mother’s sniff was perfectly audible over the mobile network. “I might be busy. I’ll have to check my diary.”
Leah dug her nails into her palm. “Well, give me a ring,” she said lightly. “I’ll keep one o’clock free. Let me know, okay?”
Hanging up, she opened the appointments book, took a pencil from the jar, and wrote “Lunch with Mum” in the one-o’clock slot on Wednesday. She lifted the phone again and made a reservation at Giovanni’s; her mother liked it there.
Leah would wait until after the pasta to tell her what had to be told—and her mother would rant and rave all over again and probably not talk to her for another month.
Leah lowered her head into her hands and groaned quietly. It wasn’t as if she’d set out to lure any man away from another woman—that had never been her intention. Not that she hadn’t been attracted, right from the first time they’d met, when he’d walked into the salon to claim his massage. She remembered privately admiring the broad chest, the muscular arms. She remembered him flirting with her, warning her to leave his towel alone.
She’d been disappointed when he’d mentioned a girlfriend, but not surprised—the gift of a massage generally came from a woman. And that had been it as far as she was concerned. He was with someone else, no point in going there. Even after he’d made it plain that he was interested, she’d resisted him for as long as she could, insisting over and over that she didn’t want an affair—particularly when she discovered the identity of his girlfriend and realized that they’d known each other, albeit slightly, at school.
But in the end he’d charmed his way into her bed. He’d said the things she wanted to hear, convinced her that it was over between him and Hannah in all but name. She means nothing to me, he’d insisted. I just have to find the right time to leave her. I will leave her, I swear.
Was it so bad then, that Leah had finally given him the incentive he needed to do just that?
The doorbell rang. She raised her head, pasted on a smile, and crossed the room to let Martina Hennessy in for her Indian head massage.
Alice spooned more peas onto her husband’s plate as he lifted the wine bottle and refilled their glasses. She wouldn’t finish hers—one glass was all she could manage comfortably—but if it was in her glass, it meant he couldn’t drink it.
They never used to have wine with dinner; this was a new thing. Tom had received a case for Christmas from a patient who imported it, and they’d gotten into the habit of a glass or two in the evening. Alice could have lived without it quite happily—she’d never taken a drink until well into her thirties, apart from the odd brandy—but now it was a given. A bottle opened half an hour before dinnertime and, more often than not, gone by the end of the meal.
“There’s more potatoes,” she said.
“I’m all right, thanks.”
He was well able to drink; he’d always been well able. There’d been times, mercifully few, when she’d had to put him to bed. But up till now he’d drunk only when they were out, and most of the time he managed to stop before it went too far, when he was still the life and soul of the party.
And it wasn’t much, she supposed, a bottle of wine between two people. Where was the harm in his relaxing after a day’s work? Except that he drank at least two-thirds of the bottle each night, and sometimes she noticed a slur in his words and worried about his condition the following morning—because who wanted a dentist with unsteady hands, or who smelled of alcohol as he bent over you?
“You heard about Hannah,” she said. “I presume Stephen mentioned it.”
Tom cut into his steak. “Mentioned what?”
“Her boyfriend left her.”
“No, I didn’t hear that.”
Of course Stephen wouldn’t have told Tom. Men didn’t talk about those things the way women did. They probably discussed the latest soccer results or political shenanigans when they had a break at the clinic.
“Just walked out on her,” Alice said. “About a week ago now.”
“That’s too bad.” Tom chewed his meat and lifted his glass. “They were together a good while, weren’t they?”
“Over a year. Geraldine was convinced he’d propose at Christmas.”
“So where’s he gone?”
Alice made a face. “Some other woman, apparently.”
“Mmm.”
His wineglass was almost empty, hers practically untouched. In a minute or two he’d raise the bottle and hold it out to her, and she’d shake her head and he’d empty it into his glass.
Six whites and six reds they’d gotten, all French. She wouldn’t know one wine from another, they all tasted the same to her. By the time the case was gone, it had become a habit. Now he brought home two or three bottles every few days. “Six ninety-nine,” he’d tell her. “Couldn’t leave them behind at that price.”
“Are you busy tomorrow?” she asked.
“Kept going. The usual.”
“Will you have time to stop into the cupcake shop?” she asked. “I thought it would be nice to show our support on the first day, and I won’t get a chance, with Geraldine gone.”
“Right.”
“Get half a dozen of whatever she has, a mixture. And don’t let her give them to you for nothing.”
“Okay.”
He reached for the wine bottle. She put a hand over the top of her glass, and he emptied what was left into his own.
He was only relaxing. There was no harm in it.
A hundred and forty-four, twelve trays of twelve. Were 144 cupcakes enough for one day? There was no way of knowing. What if she’d made too many chocolate-orange and not enough lemon-lime? What if everyone wanted vanilla- coconut and nobody looked at the mocha? What if people hated the cream-cheese icing and only went for the ones topped with buttercream? Was Clongarvin ready for mascarpone frosting?
“Stop.”
Hannah looked at her mother. “Stop
what? I’m not doing anything.”
“You’re worrying. It’s as plain as the nose on your face.”
“I can’t help it; my stomach’s in a knot. I think I might get sick. I feel like I’ve been up for hours.”
“That’s because you have. Did you get any sleep last night?”
“Not much. And the kitchen looks like a bomb hit it.”
“Don’t mind the kitchen—I’ll give you a hand to tidy up this evening. I hope you had some breakfast.”
She shook her head. “Couldn’t—I’d definitely have thrown up.”
Geraldine regarded her daughter with concern. “I should have brought sandwiches. I’ll run out for some in a while. You have to eat, whether you feel like it or not.”
“I know…maybe later.” Hannah tweaked one of the cupcakes on the display stand. “Does this look okay?”
They sat in individual wire circles that curled upward from the central branch. Each cupcake was skewered with a wooden cocktail stick to which a brightly colored tag was attached.
“They look great, like a bouquet of flowers. All those lovely colors.”
“I was sure I’d never get them all iced; it took much longer than I thought. Just as well I gave myself plenty of time.” She darted a glance at the clock on the wall. “God, it’s five to nine already.”
“Which means we have five minutes.” Geraldine disappeared through the door that led to the back. “I’m putting on the kettle,” she called.
Hannah stared after her. “It’s five to nine.”
“And the place looks great, and it smells wonderful, and we’re all set.” After some splashing and clattering, Geraldine reappeared. “And you need a cup of tea, whether you want it or not. And so do I.”
Hannah looked out through the plate-glass window. “There’s nobody waiting outside,” she said.
“Why would there be? You’re open all day, aren’t you? People don’t normally have cupcakes for breakfast.”
Hannah pushed a cocktail stick a fraction farther into the top cupcake on the stand. “These labels are too small. I told Adam they were too small.”
“They are not too small. I can read them fine without my glasses. And I love that writing—it’s so cheery-looking.”
“Font.”
“Pardon?”
“It’s not called writing on a computer, it’s called a font. That one is called Mufferaw. We couldn’t decide for ages between that and Sybil Green. I wanted Sybil Green, but Adam persuaded me that this one is easier to read—” She broke off. “What? What are you smiling at?”
Geraldine stepped closer and put her arms around her daughter. “Relax, my darling—it’ll be great. Your cupcakes will be famous in no time. You’ll have such fun with this, wait and see.”
Hannah nodded against her shoulder. “I know I will.”
But she knew she wouldn’t. She knew she’d made the biggest mistake of her life, taking her grandfather’s money and throwing it into this liability, this tiny little cubbyhole on a corner that nobody else had been interested in renting. Why hadn’t somebody stopped her? Why were they all letting her make this colossal, expensive mistake?
Geraldine moved toward the back again. “There’s the kettle now. Are you tea or coffee?”
“Tea.”
She didn’t want tea, she wanted to go home. She glanced up again at the big orange wall clock in the shape of a sun that Alice and Tom had given her as an opening present. “It’s two minutes to nine,” she called.
“Deep breaths,” Geraldine called back, and Hannah inhaled shakily. She must be the only idiot opening a shop in the middle of a recession, signing a twelve-month lease when she could be out of business in a week. It wasn’t as if cupcakes were basic foodstuffs that people would keep on buying no matter how tough times got. They were one of the luxuries everyone was cutting back on. She shouldn’t have set the prices so high—who on earth was going to pay €1.75 for a bun, no matter how fancy it looked?
“They’re too dear,” she called.
“Nonsense—they’re worth every cent.” Geraldine reappeared with two steaming mugs. “I think we’re all set.” She placed the mugs on the counter and smiled. “Now darling, why don’t you open your shop for the very first time?”
Hannah walked to the door. She stopped, her hand on the key, and looked back at her mother. “Mam, what if nobody comes in?”
“And what if you open the door,” her mother replied, “so at least they have a choice?”
Hannah smiled and turned the key. “There.” She switched the sign that Adam had printed from SORRY, FRESH OUT OF CUPCAKES to COME IN—YOU KNOW YOU WANT TO. “We’re officially open,” she said. “I’m officially running my own business.” She paused. “For however long it lasts.”
“You’ll be here for years. You’ll become an institution.” Geraldine blew on her tea. “People will travel from all over for Hannah Robinson’s cupcakes.”
“I don’t know about that, but I’m here for seven months anyway—Adam made me promise to stick it out till his birthday in August.”
“August? Didn’t you sign a lease for a year?”
“Mm-hmm—don’t remind me.”
They watched the steady stream of pedestrians passing the window.
“Drink your tea,” Geraldine ordered, and Hannah lifted her mug obediently. A minute went by. Geraldine rubbed with her sleeve at a smudge on the glass-topped counter. Hannah tweaked another label on the cupcake stand, then undid and retied her apron strings.
“I don’t know about that chair on the wall,” she said. “I’m not sure about it.”
“Just you wait,” Geraldine said. “It’ll be a real talking point.”
It was Granddad’s rocking chair. They’d painted it bright blue to match the sign above the shop, and they’d gotten a man to hang it on the yellow wall to the left of the counter, since there was no room for it on the floor.
“What if it falls off and kills someone?” Hannah asked.
“Don’t be silly, dear,” her mother answered placidly. “The man said a hurricane wouldn’t knock it off that wall.”
Another minute went by, and another. The orange clock ticked steadily.
“I should have gotten a computerized cash register,” Hannah said. “Nobody uses a drawer for money anymore. It’s ridiculous.”
“It’s quaint, and people will be charmed by it. And the bell over the door, too, lovely and old-fashioned, really characterful.”
“Mmm.” Hannah wondered if there was such a word as “characterful” and decided that she didn’t care.
At eight minutes past nine, a man’s head appeared around the door. “You open?”
“Yes.” A twin chorus.
“Nice bell. Blast from the past.” He spotted the rocking chair on the wall. “Now, that makes a change from a picture.”
Geraldine laughed, catching Hannah’s eye triumphantly. “We wanted to be original.”
“Well, you’re certainly that.” He approached the counter. “I believe it’s your first day.”
“It is—and you’re our very first customer,” Geraldine told him.
“Am I really?” He peered at the cupcakes on the stand. “In that case I’d better buy something. What’s good?”
“Everything,” Geraldine told him, resting her mug on the shelf behind her. “And I’m sure you saw our sign telling you about our opening offer of a free cupcake with every order, but since you’re the first customer, we’ll give you two free.” She turned to Hannah. “That okay, love?”
Hannah smiled and nodded, because what on earth else could she do? “That’s fine.”
Two free cupcakes, and he might buy only one. She willed herself to relax. Who cared if he bought only one? It was still her first sale, wasn’t it? And if he liked the one he bought, not to mention the other two, he’d surely be back for more. And it wasn’t even ten past nine.
So what if she was so tired she could sleep standing up? So what if she still felt miserable w
henever she found the time to feel anything? She’d just opened her own shop. People didn’t stop eating cupcakes simply because there was a recession. They still needed treats—in fact, maybe they needed them now more than ever.
The man was studying the samples on the stand. “I’ll take two chocolate, or my wife will never forgive me, and two of those coconut ones.”
“Good choice—the coconut are my favorite,” Geraldine said, reaching for a yellow box and almost knocking her tea off the shelf. “My daughter made them all, you know, earlier today. They’re as fresh as they could possibly be.”
“Excellent,” the man replied, pulling a wallet from his jacket. “Tell you what, why don’t you throw in a couple of those lemon-lime, too? Since it’s your first day. And I’ll leave the free ones up to you.”
Six. He was buying six. Hannah watched as Geraldine arranged his purchases carefully in the box. Maybe it wouldn’t be a complete disaster. Maybe she’d actually make a small amount of money before her mother bankrupted her.
The horror bloomed on Fiona’s face. “Tell me you’re not serious.”
Leah tightened her grip on her water glass. “Mum, I’d hardly joke about something like that.”
“When?”
“June.”
Her mother closed her eyes briefly. “You’re four months gone.”
“Thereabouts, yes.”
“And…you’re obviously keeping it.”
Leah looked sharply across the table. “Obviously.”
“I assume,” her mother said, “that it’s the newspaperman’s child.”
Leah’s knuckles were white around the glass. “Of course it is.”
Their plates sat between them, the remaining pasta cooling, the sauces just beginning to congeal. Leah’s two twenty-euro notes were tucked into the bill wallet, waiting to be collected.
“And I suppose he’s delighted,” Fiona said.
Leah met her mother’s eyes steadily. “Yes, of course he is. We both are.”
Fiona’s smile was bitter. “Well, isn’t that nice? A happy couple, and a baby on the way. Just what I always hoped for my only daughter.”
Leah stood up abruptly, almost knocking over her chair. Forget the fifteen euro in change: nothing was worth this. She grabbed her bag and pulled her jacket from the chair back. “I have to go now. I hope you enjoyed your lunch.”
Semi-Sweet Page 4
