Semi-Sweet

by Roisin Meaney

  Vintage was Clongarvin’s first wine bar. It was all dark wood, subdued lighting, and low couches arranged around candlelit tables. Not exactly what Adam was used to when he went out for a drink.

  He sat alone on a barstool by the counter—at least they had a few barstools—having failed to persuade Hannah to accompany him. He hadn’t pressed her too hard: maybe a night of doing nothing more strenuous than lying in warm, sudsy water was what she needed this weekend. And going out on his own had never bothered him. Clongarvin being the size it was, and this being Saturday night, he was reasonably sure of bumping into someone he knew before too long.

  In the meantime he was content to drink his Guinness—thankfully, the stock wasn’t limited to wine—and watch the woman who’d caught his attention pretty much as soon as he’d walked in.

  She was the only female member of the group of four musicians performing on the small, slightly raised area—you could hardly call it a stage—in a corner of the room, diagonally across from where he sat.

  It wasn’t that she was beautiful—no, he really couldn’t call her that. There was certainly something striking about the neat, pointed features, but she wasn’t beautiful. Her hair, some pale color he couldn’t determine, was pulled off her face by a wide black hair band and captured into some kind of low ponytail. No tendril escaped, so there was nothing to suggest the length or the texture of it.

  Her eyes were hidden behind a pair of small, round, dark-rimmed glasses. From this distance he couldn’t be sure, but he thought her hands were broad, the knuckles jutting sharply from her splayed fingers as they traveled over the keys of her instrument, which, from Adam’s very limited knowledge of musical instruments, appeared to be a clarinet.

  She was dressed entirely in black. A high-necked blouse fell in sharp pleats to her waist, where it was gathered into a wide belt made of some shiny material. A long, loose skirt stopped just short of her ankles, meeting a pair of black boots with pointed toes. The whole of her body was covered, apart from her hands and face. There was no clue to the shape that lay beneath the stiff folds of her top or the drapes below.

  Not beautiful, no. Not in the least pretty. Unsmiling, wholly focused on the music they played. She sat hunched in her seat, her chair set back a fraction from her companions’, giving the suggestion that she was trying to distance herself from the whole affair.

  And yet Adam watched her. What drew him to examine that frowning face, to wonder what color the eyes were behind their glass barriers, to imagine undoing the ponytail, peeling off the black hair band, and watching the pale hair tumble downward?

  The other three musicians were male, and casually dressed in white shirts and chinos. One played a keyboard, another an enormous version of a violin that could equally have been a cello or a double bass, and the third had what Adam was reasonably sure was a saxophone.

  He enjoyed the sound they produced. They played old favorites—“You Go to My Head” and “Blue Moon” and “These Foolish Things”—and show tunes like “On the Street Where You Live” and “I Feel Pretty,” and a few Beatles hits, and a couple of movie themes—and the treatment they gave each tune, the subtle rhythms they introduced, made the songs fresh and lively and interesting. It was music you couldn’t help tapping a foot along to.

  The female musician seemed unaware of her surroundings. The buzz of chatter in the wine bar didn’t appear to bother her; she didn’t react to the smattering of applause at the end of each piece. She flicked the pages on the stand in front of her and glanced now and again at one or another of her fellow musicians as they moved on to another tune, but she was distanced somehow from the warm, busy room.

  “Adam, over here.” A couple he knew were gesturing to him from the far end of the counter. He took his drink and joined them, and the next time he looked toward the musicians’ platform, half an hour later, all that remained were two music stands and three chairs, on one of which was perched an empty half-pint glass.

  “Leah Bradshaw,” Geraldine said. “She opened a beauty salon on Russell Street a few years back. Not much of a place, if you ask me.”

  “I know it,” Hannah said bleakly. “I was there.”

  “Small, skinny thing,” Geraldine said. “Her figure isn’t half as nice as yours.” She stopped. “You were there? When?”

  “Oh…months ago, I don’t remember exactly.”

  She remembered exactly. Eight months ago, early summer, when Patrick’s back had been stiff after he’d dug up the hedge.

  “Do you know her?” Geraldine asked. “Did you get something done there?”

  “No…I bought a gift certificate for a massage. A present for someone.”

  A back massage, Hannah had said. A gift. She remembered Leah Bradshaw, remembered recognizing her vaguely from school, but they’d have been in different years.

  “How did you hear?” she asked her mother. “Who told you?”

  “Oh, just some old gossip at bridge with nothing better to do,” Geraldine said. “I can’t for the life of me see why he’d prefer her. Even if you are my daughter, there’s no comparison. Some men need their heads examined.”

  Some men obviously preferred their women blond and petite, with the kind of boyish figure—small breasts, slim hips—that Hannah had always envied. Nails short and beautifully shaped, painted pale pink. Hannah had noticed the nails as Leah took her sixty euro and wrote “back massage” on the gift voucher, which was colored lavender like the walls of the reception area.

  “Her mother plays bridge with me,” Geraldine said. “Fiona Bradshaw. I don’t think you know her. Not someone you’d warm to, bit of a cold fish.”

  I like the color of your hair, Leah had said to Hannah. Very rich…and a lovely shine to it.

  “You’re better off without him,” her mother said, “although I know that’s not much comfort now, love.”

  See you again, she’d said as Hannah had turned to leave the salon. Thanks a lot, take care.

  “I felt I should tell you,” Geraldine said. “I didn’t want you hearing it from someone else. You didn’t mind me saying it?”

  Had Patrick known her already? Had Hannah innocently bought him forty-five minutes alone with his other woman? Had they laughed about that as Leah massaged his naked, oiled skin, her slender body leaning over his? Or had they bothered with the massage at all? Maybe they’d found something more interesting to do with each other.

  Or—worse, much worse—had Hannah introduced them? Had she been the one who’d brought them together? The thought stopped her in her tracks, the awfulness of it.

  “Are you still there?” her mother asked.

  “Yes,” Hannah answered. “Still here.”

  Confidence shattered, heart in bits, utterly miserable, but still there.

  “You don’t mind that I told you? You’re not cross with me?”

  “No, of course not…Look,” she said, “I have to go. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

  Leah Bradshaw. Was it better to have a name and a face? Did that make it any easier? Or was it worse to know exactly who had stolen Patrick from her? She flipped her phone closed and slid it into her pocket before grabbing the shopping cart again and pushing it toward the yellow van. What did any of it matter, when he was still gone and she was still alone?

  As she unloaded the cart, piling bags into the back of the van, a man passed her wearing a navy jacket and a dark green woolly hat. A rucksack that looked heavy was hanging off one shoulder. “Hello,” he said. “Nice evening.”

  “Hi,” she answered, unsmiling because a smile was out of the question.

  He seemed vaguely familiar. He unlocked a nearby taxi and slung his rucksack onto the backseat before getting in himself. He must have driven her somewhere, not that she took taxis too often.

  As she negotiated the little van out of the car park a few minutes later, she turned abruptly back in the direction of the town and drove through emptying early-evening streets until she came to Indulgence. She pulled in to a space
across the road and sat, engine idling.

  She studied the prettily painted frontage. The downstairs windows were dark, the salon closed at this hour. On the first floor, a light shone faintly from one of the two tall, narrow windows.

  Were they inside now? Was she cooking dinner for him—or were they sprawled in front of a television, the way she and Patrick used to do? Was she telling him about her day while he poured her a glass of wine?

  If he looked out he’d see the van, with the shop name written clearly on the side. He’d know she was there, he’d realize she must have discovered Leah Bradshaw’s identity.

  The street was quiet, most workers gone home and cozying up for the night. Hannah glanced around, saw a few scattered pedestrians, a man dismounting from a bicycle, a dog sniffing at a lamppost.

  She’d never had a massage. The idea of a stranger’s hands moving over her naked skin, however competently, had never appealed to her. The subject had never come up between her and Patrick; neither had ever looked for one, none had ever been offered. Wasn’t it odd, then, that she’d thought of getting him a massage when his back had been bothering him? Had she seen an ad?

  Or maybe Patrick had suggested it. The idea jumped suddenly and unpleasantly into her head. No, surely he wouldn’t have done that. But she couldn’t remember exactly what had prompted her visit to Indulgence.

  She regarded the salon again. She could come back when it was dark, lob a rock through the window, and drive off quickly. The notion came out of nowhere, filling her with a shocked thrill. She could get a can of black paint and fling it at the pretty lavender walls. Nobody would know. She could wear gloves so there was no evidence to point to her. She could—

  A nearby door opened. A man and a boy appeared on the path and walked in the direction of the van. The man smiled briefly at Hannah as they passed.

  What was she doing? What was she thinking? Was she completely mad? She put the van into gear and drove badly, her blood racing, all the way home.

  February

  I really want to pamper her this year.”

  Geraldine’s hand hovered over the plate of assorted biscuits. She shouldn’t—a biscuit was the last thing her midsection needed—but Lent wasn’t far away, and she’d have to do without them then. “God knows the poor thing could use a treat.”

  “What about a gift certificate? You can’t go wrong.”

  “Ah, no, not a gift certificate.” Geraldine selected a pink wafer—not her favorite, but practically no calories, apparently. “Stephen thinks we should pay for someone to paint the outside of her house. I know it could badly do with it, but where’s the pampering in that?”

  “Mmm—and anyway, who would you get to do outdoor painting in February?” Alice watched a woman wheel a baby buggy along the rows of shoes and boots. “How old is she going to be?”

  “Thirty-three, can you believe it?” Geraldine finished the wafer and took a shortbread finger. A finger couldn’t hurt, even if it was loaded with butter. “I never thought she’d get to that age and still be single. How old was Ellen when she got married?”

  “Twenty-eight.”

  “There you go. And she has three now.”

  “That’s right.” Ellen was Tom and Alice’s only child, living for the past decade in Australia. “Wish we saw more of them.”

  The customer picked up a black patent boot, and Alice put down her cup. “I’ll go.”

  The shop was quiet in February, the winter buying mostly over, too early for anyone to want sandals, no big occasions coming up that would call for new shoes.

  Except Valentine’s Day, a week from Sunday. A couple of men had bought gift certificates in the past few days, and some women had come in looking at heels. Geraldine would get her usual card and box of Thornton’s chocolates, provided she made some reference to the fourteenth at least twice over the coming week.

  “Are you doing anything for Valentine’s Day?” she asked when Alice returned, having sold the boots and a pair of half-price slippers.

  Alice considered. “Cooking pork chops, probably. You?”

  “Roast beef, more than likely.” Geraldine gathered up the plate of biscuits and the two empty cups. “And maybe apple crumble for afters.”

  “Very romantic.”

  In the small kitchen, she rinsed the cups and left them on the drainboard, and slid the biscuits back into their tin as her thoughts returned to her daughter. Hannah had been flown to Paris for her birthday last year, didn’t know a thing about it until they’d arrived at the airport. Patrick had pretended he was picking someone up—his brother, was it? Some relation anyway.

  Geraldine had been charmed when she’d heard; it had sounded so romantic. By then, of course, she and Stephen had had several weeks to get used to the fact that their daughter was living with a man who wasn’t her husband. It had been a different story when Hannah had told them that Patrick was moving in.

  You haven’t known him a wet week, Geraldine had protested.

  Three months, Hannah had said. I know it seems soon, but it’s what we both want. And with Annie being transferred to Cork, the timing is perfect.

  Annie had moved into Hannah’s spare room three weeks after Hannah had bought the house, and she’d been with her ever since. She was the perfect housemate, paying her rent on time each month and going home to her family in Sligo every weekend. And now she was being transferred, and Patrick, whom Geraldine still regarded as Hannah’s new boyfriend, was to be her replacement.

  It’s still so soon, though, Geraldine had said. Couldn’t you get another housemate, just for a few more months, even?

  But Hannah had been determined, and Patrick had moved in. And despite her parents’ misgivings, it had seemed to be working out. Geraldine remembered the phone call from Charles de Gaulle Airport, how happy Hannah had sounded. She’d been convinced they’d come back engaged, but that hadn’t happened. And look at them now.

  She sighed as she replaced the lid on the biscuit tin. Just as well Hannah was worn out these days, with no time to brood. Up in the middle of the night to bake, bake, bake, and then standing behind that counter all day long. Thankfully, things seemed to be working out nicely in the shop so far. The cupcakes were selling reasonably steadily, and Hannah seemed to be enjoying it—at least that’s what she told them. But she looked so tired and lost whenever Geraldine met her. Of course her heart was still broken.

  Geraldine knew what her daughter needed for her birthday—she’d known as soon as Hannah had signed her name on the lease, as soon as she’d finally committed to opening her own business. And much as Geraldine hated presenting her only child with a check on her birthday, that was what she and Stephen had to do.

  She washed her hands and walked back out to the shop. She’d talk to Stephen this evening, decide how much they’d give. He’d be happy with her choice, always the practical one.

  And tomorrow she’d parcel up the nice pink sling-backs that Alice would let her have for forty euro. Whatever else, a girl needed shoes on her birthday.

  “I have a proposition for you.”

  Hannah eyed him warily. “Go on.”

  “Don’t look so suspicious. This could be mutually beneficial.”

  “Go on.”

  “Well, you know that Nora’s coming home next week, for a while anyway.”

  “Yes?” Hannah’s guarded expression slid up a notch.

  “And you still haven’t gotten around to advertising for a housemate, although you’re probably living off beans on—”

  “No,” Hannah said quickly. “No. I’m sorry, Adam, but it wouldn’t work. We…might fall out over something, and things could get messy, and…look, she’s your sister and all, but I really don’t know Nora that well. I mean, we’re very different, and you’d be caught in the middle, and…” She trailed off, looking trapped.

  “Hang on a sec,” Adam said. “What do you think I’m suggesting?”

  “That Nora move in with me. And while in theory the idea is fine, I j
ust think—”

  “Stop talking,” he said. “Stop now.”

  Hannah stopped.

  “I’m suggesting,” he said, “that I let Nora have my place and I move in with you. Me. Adam.”

  “Oh.” She sipped her red wine. “Right. You and me. Sharing my house.”

  “Just for a while, obviously,” he said, his eyes on her face, “until you get your head together and see where you’re going with the business.”

  “Right. Uh-huh.”

  “You know you need someone to share the bills, even though you keep putting it off.”

  She made a face. “I’m hardly likely to forget, with you going on about it all the—”

  “And I just thought you might rather have someone you know.”

  “I would,” she agreed.

  “And if Nora decides to stay in Ireland, she’ll find a place of her own—this would just be a stopgap for her—a few weeks, maybe. Couple of months at the most, probably.”

  “Right.” Hannah nodded. “Uh-huh. Yes.”

  Adam lifted his drink. “You look like a rat caught in the headlights.”

  She smiled. “Don’t you mean a rabbit?”

  “Whatever it is, you look like it. You don’t have to decide right now, obviously—and we won’t fall out if you don’t fancy the idea, although I might sulk for a few days. But while you’re mulling it over, consider this: I never leave the toilet seat up, I always squeeze the toothpaste from the bottom, and I only drink from the carton when nobody’s watching.”

  “Actually, I’m sure I’ve seen you do that.”

  “Never—and as you know, I’m a happy drunk.”

  “That’s true. You go all mushy and tell me how great I am.”

  “And I can fix your computer when it breaks down.”

  “You do that already.”

  “Yes, but now I’d be on the spot. Instant repairs.”