Semi-Sweet

by Roisin Meaney

  A champagne reception—and no doubt plenty of sponsored wine with the dinner, and more alcohol available at the bar afterward. Alice heard Tom’s footsteps on the stairs and pushed letter and envelope under the others.

  “Morning, love,” she said. He’d never been at his best in the first few hours of the day—that was nothing new.

  “Morning.” He sat and topped his egg. He didn’t normally shave till after breakfast. She hated the stubble: it made his face look dirty.

  “It’s nice out today,” she said. They had to chat a bit at the table; she couldn’t sit there in silence, even if Tom’s end of the conversation was mostly grunts. “The forecast says no rain, so I’m going to chance putting out the clothes before we head off.”

  She wouldn’t say anything about the dinner-dance. She’d have to support it—she’d buy two tickets and ask Geraldine if she and Stephen would go instead. She’d say Tom wasn’t feeling his best, a bit run-down at the moment. She’d be quite happy to pay: She’d call it an early Easter present.

  He eyed the saltcellar on her side of the table, and she passed it over to him. A bottle of wine every night, par for the course now. And more often than not, a gin and tonic before dinner for him too. The other evening when he’d gone to answer the phone, she’d taken a sip of the gin and tonic. It had been hard to taste the tonic.

  And he snored every night—when had that started? He snored, and his breath was sour in the morning.

  “You’re not eating,” he said, and she picked up her knife and began to butter her toast.

  “Miles away,” she said, smiling at him.

  You wouldn’t call the trip a disaster, exactly, but it hadn’t gone quite as Patrick had hoped. It had begun on the flight to Paris, when Leah’s asthma had acted up slightly.

  “Did you pack an inhaler?” she’d asked him, and of course he hadn’t. It hadn’t occurred to him, because she hadn’t had an attack in months, not since shortly after they’d met. So their first hour in Paris had been spent finding an all-night pharmacy and trying to explain about the pregnancy and about the medication her doctor had recommended in the event of an attack. Hardly the most romantic of starts.

  The hotel was a disappointment too. Farther from the city center than Patrick had understood and distinctly lacking in friendliness. They’d made the best of it, of course. They’d taken advantage of the large Jacuzzi bath, and they’d ordered breakfast in bed from the unsmiling concierge, and Leah had bought horrendously overpriced but wonderfully saucy underwear in the small, dangerous gift shop.

  The weather was very cold, which he’d been expecting from the previous year. He’d packed plenty of woolens, and they made frequent stops for chocolat chaud during the day, but Leah still shivered violently after just a few minutes outdoors. Patrick made a mental note to go south for any future winter breaks.

  The restaurant they picked for dinner on Valentine’s night was unremarkable. Leah’s pot-au-feu was fatty and Patrick counted three mussels in his bouillabaisse. The violinist who wandered among the tables stared openly at Leah’s breasts as he played, making her uncomfortable. Patrick consoled himself with the thought that only he was aware of the silk-and-lace confections that lay underneath the black wool dress, and only he would have the pleasure of removing them later.

  In the plane on the way home, her hand stole under his blanket, but for once her touch had no effect. “Never mind,” she said, taking out her magazine, but Patrick did mind. He minded that he’d spent far too much on a mediocre few days. He minded that her mother despised him. He minded how terrifying he found the notion that in four months or so he’d be a father.

  “I’m just tired,” he told her, and closed his eyes.

  “Hello again.”

  He wore a pale blue denim shirt under a rust-colored V-necked sweater. Hannah decided that the almost-shaved head suited him. His eyes were halfway between blue and green. She was glad her mother wasn’t there to see him turn up again, to put two and two together and come up with eighteen.

  “I called to say thank you,” he said. “I got a phone call yesterday from someone who’d picked up one of my leaflets here.”

  “That’s good. I’ve seen a few people taking them. Well, I’m glad to have been of assistance.” She still thought she’d seen him somewhere else, and she still couldn’t remember where.

  “You certainly were of assistance. And while I’m here,” he said, scanning the samples on the stand, “let me take some more of these delicious cupcakes off your hands.”

  “You mustn’t feel obliged to keep buying them,” she said. “Really, you don’t have to.” If her mother could hear her.

  “Not at all. They’re a lot cheaper than taking out an ad.”

  “I suppose they are.” She liked the dimple in his left cheek when he smiled. “In that case, what can I get you?”

  He selected three and watched as she arranged them in a box. “Do you really make them all yourself?”

  “I certainly do, in the small hours. I have it down to a fine art.”

  “I’ll say—you must have tons of energy.”

  She laughed. “More like gallons of coffee—and the knowledge that if I don’t bake them, I’ll have nothing to sell.”

  “Aye, that would do it.” He took his wallet from his jeans pocket. “I see you don’t have your trusty assistant with you today.”

  Hannah made a wry face. “My mother—sorry about that. You were lucky to escape alive.”

  He grinned. “Ah, no, she was fine.”

  “She doesn’t work here. She has her own job. She just happened to drop in that day. But I am going to take on someone part-time, when I can get around to it.” She handed him the box and took the bill he held out. “Whereabouts in Scotland are you from?”

  “A wee island called Bute, off the west coast,” he told her. “I daresay you’ll not have heard of it.”

  “No.”

  She wondered what had brought him to Ireland. He’d mentioned that his mother was Irish—maybe he was simply exploring his roots. Or maybe he’d met an Irish girl in Scotland and followed her back here. She counted out his change. “Thanks a lot. Enjoy them, now.”

  “I will.” He tucked his wallet away and put out his hand. “We’ve not been properly introduced. You know I’m John Wyatt, and I think your mum mentioned your name, but I’m afraid I’ve forgotten it.”

  “Hannah Robinson,” she said. His hand was warm. “Nice to meet you.”

  When he’d gone, she checked the time. Ten past four—still most of an hour to go. She must get some music for the shop. Even a little radio would do to kill the awful silence between customers.

  And she must definitely take on a part-timer. Now that Adam was sharing the house and helping out financially, she could manage to pay someone for a couple of hours, two or three mornings a week. The bliss of being able to walk out at ten and just sit somewhere with a coffee, or wander through the shops or down by the river. A chance to do nothing—that was all she wanted. And she thought she had found someone who might make a good assistant.

  The shop door opened.

  “I don’t believe it,” Hannah said. “I was just thinking about you.”

  Una Connolly smiled. “Were you really?”

  “Good news,” Geraldine said. “We’re going to a dinner-dance.”

  “A dinner-dance?” Stephen eyed her over his glasses. “How exactly is that good news?”

  “Well, for one thing it’s to benefit a very worthy cause—a dialysis machine for the hospital.”

  “Which is good news for dialysis patients.” He poured sauce over his chicken breast. “I’m waiting to hear how it’s good for me.”

  Geraldine spooned cabbage onto their plates. “It’s good because we got the tickets for free.”

  “I see. So we personally are not, in fact, helping to provide the hospital with a dialysis machine.”

  “Well, no—but that’s beside the point. Have you enough mash?”

  �
�Yes, thanks. So who’s giving us this wonderful treat?”

  “Don’t be sarcastic. Alice bought the tickets. She got a letter about it and felt obliged to buy some, but apparently Tom isn’t feeling up to it, so she asked if we’d go instead.”

  Stephen frowned. “Tom isn’t feeling up to it? Since when?” He reached for the butter dish.

  “I’ve already added butter to those potatoes. Well, that’s what Alice told me. Apparently he’s run-down. She’s going to put him on a tonic.”

  “He didn’t look run-down to me today. He hasn’t been off sick for as long as I can remember. He’s as healthy as I am.”

  “Well, that’s what I thought too, but I didn’t like to contradict her. Maybe he’s just putting on a brave front.” She sprinkled black pepper on her chicken.

  “Maybe he just doesn’t want to go, more like it. When’s it on?”

  “Not for ages, the end of March. The last Thursday, I think.” She refilled their water glasses. “I’ll drop your dinner jacket into the cleaner’s tomorrow.” She set down the jug. “Stephen, don’t say anything to Tom—there might be another reason that Alice isn’t telling me.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know—maybe they’re going through a bad patch or something. I just think it might be better if you said nothing.”

  Stephen sighed heavily and added a wedge of butter to his mash, and Geraldine decided that it might be wise to let it pass.

  “PA required,” Nora read. “Experienced, flexible, highly organized & efficient individual with an excellent attitude toward work and the ability to adapt and function under pressure.”

  Nothing about qualifications. Nora read on.

  “Responsibilities will include diary management, compiling PowerPoint presentations, organizing travel, accommodation, and meetings, and providing PA support at senior management level.”

  Piece of cake—apart from the PowerPoint presentations, which Adam could coach her in. She skimmed down to “Professional Qualifications” and read “Leaving Cert” and “Secretarial Qualification.” Was that it? She had the Leaving Cert, and the secretarial qualification could be arranged with a phone call to Sonia at one of the fashion magazines. A letter on headed paper from New York would surely do the trick with the hicks of Clongarvin.

  No mention of what kind of company it was, not that it bothered her. Not when she was doing this purely for laughs, when she could leave anytime she felt like it. She’d apply to the box number, see what happened.

  “Here we go.”

  The taxi driver pulled up to the curb. Nora folded the newspaper and looked in amusement at the lavender walls, the pink window boxes filled with the little vividly colored flowers—something beginning with c, she thought—that everyone seemed to grow in Ireland in February. “Indulgence,” the ornate gold letters over the window spelled. Pure Leah Bradshaw, as girly as ever.

  “How much?” He mightn’t be bad without that horrendous woolly hat. Probably hiding a bald patch. Sexy green eyes, though, and decent-enough teeth.

  “Four-thirty, thanks.”

  Nora pulled out a note and checked that it was a fiver. “Keep the change.”

  “Thanks a lot.”

  Nice music too—she was partial to a bit of Miles Davis. But of course a taxi driver didn’t interest her. She stood on the path and rang the bell outside the salon, smoothing her leather jacket as she waited.

  “Surprise,” she said when the door was opened.

  Leah’s eyes widened. “Nora O’Connor? Is that you?” She stepped forward and put her cheek against Nora’s. “Bloody hell, you look fantastic. It’s been years.”

  “I’m here for a massage,” Nora told her. “I booked under the name Jackie Collins.”

  Leah laughed. “That was you? I should have known.” She stepped back into the hallway and held the door open. “Come in. How did you find me?”

  Nora walked past her, taking in the deep blue carpet, the white reception desk, the framed certificate on the wall behind. “You’re kidding, aren’t you? This is Clongarvin.”

  Leah Bradshaw had put on weight. Her face was heavier. Hard to see her figure with the loose, flowery thing she wore, but her ankles had thickened too. Maybe she had kids now. No ring on the wedding finger though.

  “Come on.” Leah walked ahead of Nora down the narrow corridor that led off the hall. “We have lots to catch up on.”

  “We certainly do.”

  Nora was led into a small treatment room that contained a massage table, a cart piled with various bottles and pots, a sound system on a shelf, and a single chair. “You can strip down to panties and lie under the towel,” Leah said. “I’ll be right back.”

  “Hey, no need to disappear—I’m not shy.” Nora unbuttoned her jacket and slipped out of it. The room was warm and scented. Some elevator music wafted softly through the speakers. “Nothing under here that you haven’t seen plenty of times.”

  She was aware of her still-youthful body as she undressed—and well aware, as she listened to Leah’s voice, while she laid her clothes on the spindly-legged turquoise chair and unhooked her Agent Provocateur bra, that her school friend was checking out the full breasts, the flat stomach, the firm thighs.

  Jackson Paluzzi’s obsession with his wife’s figure—he’d happily paid for the personal trainer, the yoga and Pilates classes, the regular spa treatments—had served some purpose. And his first-anniversary present of a boob job hadn’t hurt either.

  “Right, let me have it.” She swung her legs onto the massage table and rolled onto her stomach, knowing that her thong made it quite clear that Nora Paluzzi didn’t have an ounce of cellulite. “I like it good and deep—as the actress said to the bishop.”

  She closed her eyes and prepared for an hour of gossip and pampering.

  “What’s today’s special offer?”

  “Red velvet—it’s a basic chocolate mix with red coloring and a classic cream-cheese topping. It’s one of our most popular varieties.”

  In between customers she found her thoughts straying to John Wyatt. His accent was very attractive; all those soft, rolling r’s made the Clongarvin dialect sound very flat in comparison.

  “Have you any chocolate-coconut today?”

  “Sorry—they’re all gone. What about orange-coconut?”

  She refilled the shelf and rubbed at a mark on the glass counter. She’d never been to Scotland. Her parents had honeymooned there, and Geraldine’s abiding memory was that it had rained solidly for five out of the seven days.

  “I’ll take two of the strawberry and one peanut butter, please.”

  She stirred her lunchtime soup, minestrone today. She didn’t think he had a wife. It felt like he had an interest in her—you always knew when someone had. She wondered if he was planning to ask her out and hoped he wouldn’t. It was much too soon, after Patrick.

  “My husband goes mad for your ginger-sesame—he kills me if I bring home anything else.”

  She switched channels on the little radio she’d bought and found something that wasn’t sports. Yes, definitely much too soon.

  “A chocolate-vanilla, please—oh, and a double chocolate, too.”

  “Any lemon left?”

  At ten to five, she began to mop the floor. Pity, though. It would have been nice.

  John Wyatt took his saxophone from its case and thought about the treacle-haired woman behind the counter of the shop that sold nothing but cupcakes. “Hannah.” He said the name out loud, liking the soft roundness of it. It suited her.

  The lie about his sweet tooth was forgivable. How else was he going to get to know her? She was never at Vintage on Saturday nights, or anywhere else he’d been to. And Patsy at the woodworking store was delighted to take the cupcakes off his hands, so he was making someone happy, which surely canceled out the lie.

  He was lonely, and it had been quite a while. The only ring Hannah Robinson wore was on the middle finger of her right hand. Enough grounds for asking her out? Ma
ybe he should bide his time, get to know her a bit more.

  Or maybe he should go for it, take a chance. Not much to lose if she turned him down. A minor embarrassment, a small disappointment. Easy enough not to put himself in the way of meeting her again.

  He opened the sheet music and began to play around with “Penny Lane” for Saturday night.

  Hannah turned the key again and pumped the accelerator. The little yellow van shuddered, coughed, and went silent. She groaned and leaned her head against the steering wheel. This was all she needed after a slow day, with a thumping headache and a big wash on the line that Adam had probably forgotten to take in when the rain that had been threatening since noon had finally arrived at four o’clock, the only time she’d been too busy with customers to phone him.

  It was still lashing now, but at least the thunder and lightning had stopped. She’d always been terrified of lightning; it had taken all her resolve not to put the Closed sign on the shop door and hide in the back until it passed. And now the van had broken down, and who knew how much it would cost to get fixed?

  She pulled out the keys and grabbed her satchel and umbrella and stepped into the rain. She’d hail a taxi and go home. In this rain, and with her busy schedule, waiting for a bus wasn’t an option—and anyway, the trays were too awkward to manage on the bus. Her shoes were completely sodden by the time a taxi pulled up. She closed her umbrella and opened the door.