Semi-Sweet

by Roisin Meaney

  The heady smell of the coffee wafted toward Leah. She resisted an impulse to fan it away as she searched for the least incendiary answer. “We’re taking things slowly,” she said eventually. “One step at a time.” Under the table she crossed her swollen ankles.

  “Slowly?” Fiona’s eyebrows raised. “You weren’t with him a wet week when you got pregnant.”

  “You know very well,” Leah said tightly, “that we didn’t mean it to happen.” She pressed her feet together. “And I’d hardly call ten months a wet week,” she added—and immediately realized her mistake.

  Fiona frowned. “Ten months? You told me you met him in October.”

  Leah forced herself not to look away. “We met last May, actually. I didn’t feel it was something you needed to know.”

  “So you lied to me. I see.” Her mother sipped coffee. “Your little affair was going on for—what?—eight months or thereabouts. You were the mistress all that time, with him going home to Hannah Robinson every night.” She dabbed her mouth. “No wonder you were so evasive anytime I asked if you’d met anyone new.”

  “I couldn’t say anything. How could I?” Leah asked angrily. “It’s not exactly something you share with your mother.”

  She wished she’d ordered green tea—the pasta was sitting uncomfortably in her stomach—but it was too late now. All she wanted was to leave.

  “I wonder how long it would have taken him to finish with her if you hadn’t got pregnant,” Fiona said then in the same bland voice, her eyes on Leah’s swollen, blotchy face.

  Leah scanned the room for their waiter and of course didn’t find him. “I need to get back,” she said, her voice quivering. She rummaged in her bag.

  “There’s no need for you to be like that,” Fiona said. “I know I sound unsympathetic—”

  “You sound bitchy.” Leah found her purse and pulled it out. She’d just called her mother a bitch. Her fingers shook as they fumbled with the clasp.

  “I’m only telling it like it is.” Fiona reached across the table and grasped Leah’s hand. “How do you know he’d ever have left her? How do you know he wasn’t just stringing you along, saying what you wanted to hear?”

  “He loves me,” Leah said angrily. A couple of heads at the nearest table swung in their direction. “We love each other,” she said more quietly, pulling her hand from her mother’s grip. “He left Hannah, he’s with me now, and we’re having your first grandchild, whether you like it or not. Nothing you can say will change that.”

  She pulled a twenty-euro note from her purse, but Fiona waved it away impatiently. “I’ll pay—you paid last time. I’m only looking out for you. I’m only trying to make you see—”

  But Leah was gone, hurrying past the tables toward the door, the money fluttering onto the white tablecloth.

  Fiona watched her only child rushing away from her. Then she lifted her cup and calmly finished her espresso, oblivious to the furtive glances from adjoining tables.

  “Remember to take off the gloves when you’re handling money. Maybe I mentioned that already…Did I show you where the spares are in the back?”

  Una nodded. “You did, yeah.”

  “Not that you’ll need them, but just for future reference. Oh, and if anyone looks for the apple-cinnamon, make sure you tell them that they’re made with organic apples.”

  “Okay.”

  “And don’t forget to mention the nuts if anyone goes for the chocolate–peanut butter or the coffee-pecan. I know it’s on the sign, but I always say it, too, just to be on the safe side.”

  “Yes.”

  “And will you make a note if anyone looks for a variety that’s not here? Tell them we rotate the stock but that you’ll let the baker know what they were asking for.”

  “Okay.” Una smiled.

  Hannah stopped. “Am I fussing too much?”

  “No, you’re just making sure I get it right—but you’ve already used up ten minutes out of your two hours.”

  “Right, I’m off.” Hannah walked toward the door. “You have my mobile number.”

  “I have.”

  “Don’t be afraid to use it for any reason—I won’t be far.”

  “Okay. See you later.”

  Ridiculous how reluctant she was to leave Cupcakes on the Corner in anyone else’s hands. Una was well able, and she had a lovely manner with the customers—after just a few days she was as confident as Hannah behind the counter. What was the worst that could happen?

  And as if waiting for its cue, her imagination instantly supplied all the options. An armed robbery, someone who’d taken note of the cash drawer and come back to help himself. Someone who might be watching the shop right now and seeing a young girl left in charge.

  Or a fire in the launderette next door—how ancient were those machines? Imagine the state of the wiring, a disaster waiting to happen, if ever there was one.

  Or a burst pipe, water cascading down the walls, ceiling collapsing—

  With a major effort of will, she kept walking in the direction of the coffee shop where she’d arranged to meet Adam. She pushed the door open, and there he was.

  “Welcome to the world.” His cup was half empty.

  “Sorry, I know I’m late.” Hannah perched on a chair opposite him. “I shouldn’t be here.”

  He laughed. “Let me guess. You’re feeling guilty for deserting your ship. For leaving your baby with a stranger.”

  “Don’t make fun—what if something goes wrong? What if there’s a…a burst pipe or something?”

  “A burst pipe—Jesus wept. You should bottle your imagination and sell it along with the cupcakes.”

  “Well, a robbery, then.”

  “A robbery is always possible, I suppose. But let’s assume, just for fun, that it’s not going to happen today.” He turned to the waitress who had appeared. “A large brandy for my friend here please, and a couple of horse tranquilizers.”

  “Very funny. This is my livelihood I’ve just left a twenty-year-old in charge of. Just a pot of tea, please,” she added to the waitress.

  “You said Una was well able,” Adam pointed out. “You were singing her praises the other night.”

  “She is well able—when I’m standing beside her.”

  “And how will she be less able when you’re not there? She can still put cupcakes in a box and tote up the bill, can’t she?”

  “Yeah, I know…” Hannah unbuttoned her jacket slowly.

  “She can still take money and make change.”

  “I know, I know. You’re right.”

  “And I assume she has your number in case anything does come up.”

  “Yes, of course she has. Everything’s under control.” She took off the jacket and laid it on the chair beside her. “Any chance of a packet of Kettle Chips with that tea?” Since she’d become the proprietor of a shop that sold nothing but confectionery, Hannah had developed a craving for all things savory.

  As Adam walked toward the counter, she took her phone out of her bag, checked again that it was on and charged up, and set it beside her on the table.

  Just in case.

  “Now, Geraldine,” Maureen Hardiman said, lowering her voice and leaning in, “there’s something I think you should know, and I’d rather you heard it from me.”

  Geraldine’s heart sank. Bridge was over for the night, and they’d been shepherded into Aoife’s kitchen for tea and nibbles—Aoife didn’t like getting crumbs on the Axminister. Maureen had made a beeline for Geraldine as soon as she’d walked in, which was never good. Geraldine armed herself with a chocolate macaroon from a nearby plate, stifling the inner voice that reminded her of the navy dress. “What is it?”

  No point in saying she’d rather not know—with Maureen that was never an option. And anyway, she did want to know, whatever it was.

  “Well, of course,” Maureen went on, brushing imaginary flecks from her green cardigan, “it shouldn’t make much difference really. I mean, things have moved on, haven’
t they?”

  Geraldine noted with satisfaction that the broken veins scattered across Maureen’s cheeks were especially vivid in the fluorescent light of Aoife’s kitchen. “What is it?” she asked again, staring pointedly at Maureen’s roots, which were overdue for a touch-up by at least a fortnight.

  “It’s just,” Maureen said, patting her hair and glancing around at the little knots of women, “I saw Leah Bradshaw this afternoon.”

  Geraldine bit into the macaroon and chewed. Fiona Bradshaw was safely across the room.

  “And I’d swear,” Maureen said, lowering her voice a notch further, almost mouthing silently now, “that that girl is expecting. She has all the signs of it. Her face is swelled up, and she was wearing—”

  “You don’t say,” said Geraldine briskly. “Isn’t that lovely? Fiona must be thrilled.” She put down the macaroon that had suddenly begun to taste of cardboard.

  Maureen’s eager face fell slightly. “Yes, I’m sure she is,” she said, “but poor Hannah will be very upset, I’d say.”

  “Oh no, not at all,” Geraldine said. “Didn’t I mention? She has a lovely new man, a master carpenter from Scotland. He’s totally smitten—and he’s loaded, from what Hannah tells me.” She lowered her voice to match Maureen’s. “Now, say nothing to anyone—Hannah would kill me—but he owns an island. Quite a substantial one, apparently.”

  It was worth the risk of the story’s getting back to Hannah to see the look of pure deflation that spread across Maureen’s powdered features.

  “Oh.” She took a second slice of Aoife’s Victoria sponge from a nearby plate. “Oh, isn’t that great. Oh, I’m delighted to hear that.”

  She could easily be mistaken—what had she to go on but a puffy face and some baggy clothes? Didn’t all the young ones wear baggy clothes these days? And, anyway, what difference could it make to Hannah now? Geraldine would say nothing. Maureen probably had it all wrong.

  She picked up her macaroon again. “You have jam on your chin, dear,” she told Maureen, a little too loudly.

  She was in black again. The same long skirt, he thought, that she’d been wearing the first time he’d seen her. A long-sleeved black top that showed a couple of inches, no more, of her throat. Flat black shoes, black tights. Her pale hair gathered up and caught high on the back of her head.

  She played with the same ferocious concentration, barely looking up from the music on the stand in front of her, not acknowledging in any way the scattering of applause between numbers. He wondered what her smile looked like, what it might do to her face.

  Small Change they were called, according to the barman. Know anything about them? Adam had asked, but the barman didn’t. And here came Nora, threading through the knots of drinkers toward him, wearing a tight-fitting green top he hadn’t seen before and a pair of loose, faded jeans.

  “Hi there,” she said, kissing his cheek. “Oh, nice aftershave; who are you trying to impress?” She turned to the barman as he placed Adam’s pint in front of him. “Martini, very dry.” She perched on a stool beside Adam. “I have news,” she said. “I got that job.”

  “The one with the paper?”

  “Yeah, the one with the paper.”

  Her eyes were dramatic, all dark-ringed and long-lashed. Her curly hair was loose and smelled of coconut. She grinned. “You should see your face.”

  He was better-looking than she’d been expecting. She’d assumed that any man who’d go for nice-but-boring Hannah Robinson couldn’t be up to much, so Patrick Dunne had come as a pleasant surprise.

  Lovely to meet you, she’d said, when they were introduced. Gripping his hand firmly, meeting the dark brown eyes. Reacting to a handsome man the way she always reacted, with undiluted charm. So you’re looking for a new PA.

  She’d BS’d her way through the interview. She’d skirted her lack of qualifications, she’d deflected questions with more questions, she’d made him laugh more than once. She’d pulled out all the stops to make him feel that she was the PA he wanted, that what she lacked in credentials would be more than made up for with enthusiasm and initiative, and it had worked.

  But of course she’d known that it would work. Nora O’Connor had always known what men wanted.

  “Leah wasn’t exactly over the moon when I told her,” Nora said. “Probably thinks I’ll seduce Patrick—as if.” She flashed a smile at the barman as he brought her drink. “Did I mention that she’s pregnant, by the way?”

  Adam stared at her. “What?”

  “She told me the other day, when she was giving me the massage. Don’t know if you want to say anything to Hannah.”

  “She told you she’s pregnant?”

  “Yeah—she’s due in June.” She sipped her drink. “You know, the martini in here isn’t half bad.”

  Adam watched as she pulled the olive from its cocktail stick. “Say nothing to Hannah when you meet her.”

  Nora looked at him in amusement. “Wouldn’t dream of it, bro. Not that me and Hannah have any plans to—”

  “Back in a sec,” he said then, slipping abruptly off his stool and making his way across the room. The music had finished, the musicians packing up. The woman was turning away as he approached.

  “Excuse me,” Adam said, but she didn’t seem to hear above the chatter. She moved off and began threading her way rapidly around the low tables, toward the back of the pub. Adam hurried after her.

  “Excuse me,” he said again, more loudly, but she didn’t react, seemingly unaware that she was being followed. Just before she reached a blue door that led, he presumed, to some kind of rear exit, he caught up with her.

  “Excuse me.”

  Finally she stopped and turned, a quick swing of her head—and even in the dim lighting, Adam could see the dark flush that spread rapidly upward and covered the pointed, elfin face. She was almost exactly his height. She clutched her clarinet to her chest.

  “Yes?” Her voice was breathy, hardly more than a whisper. She regarded him as if he were about to attack her.

  He had absolutely no idea what to say; the impulse that had pulled him toward her hadn’t supplied him with words. He hunted for something, anything, to break the silence between them. “Sorry to bother you,” he began, and then he stopped again, with no clue as to what should follow. He tried to make eye contact, but her gaze seemed to be fixed on the lower half of his face.

  The flush deepened on her cheeks. Tiny, dark freckles were scattered across her nose. She blinked rapidly behind her little round glasses as she waited for him to continue.

  And finally, when she must surely have been on the point of turning away, Adam thought of something. “Er…I just wondered what the title of that last piece was.”

  “‘I’ve Got a Crush on You,’” she said all in a rush, in the same breathy, whispery voice that he almost didn’t hear.

  “I really like your music,” Adam said, but she was gone, vanished abruptly through the blue door, leaving behind a faint powdery, flowery scent. Adam stood there for a second or two, and then he walked back slowly to where Nora sat.

  She eyed him curiously. “What was that all about? What did you want with that woman?”

  Adam leaned against the counter and picked up his drink. “I thought I knew her,” he said. “I thought she was somebody’s sister, but I was wrong.”

  “I’ve Got a Crush on You.” He wasn’t superstitious, and he didn’t believe in signs. There was no significance to be attached to the title of a song; it had no bearing on anything.

  The way she’d blushed when he’d spoken to her. The frightened look she’d given him, the tense set of her body, as if she expected him to pounce at any minute.

  Her hair was paler in color than straw. Her lips were too thin, and her nose was too pointed, and she never smiled, and the glasses hid what might be her best feature. She had large hands and feet.

  But she lost herself in the music when she played. And the thought of unpinning her hair, of taking off her glasses and looking in
to her eyes, of putting his palm against her pale face—the thought of all that was inexplicably tempting.

  I’ve got a crush on you.

  “I have a new PA,” Patrick announced, undoing his tie.

  “I heard,” Leah answered. “I know her. We were at school together.”

  “You were?” He looked at her in surprise. “She never mentioned that.”

  Sorry to drop by unannounced, but I had to tell you, Nora had said, dressed in her yellow wrap top that was probably cashmere, her black skirt, and her oh-so-soft black boots. You’ll never guess, she’d said, standing in the doorway of Indulgence, and straightaway Leah had guessed.

  Haven’t a clue, she’d said, heart sinking.

  As he walked in, John Wyatt noted that the shop was empty of customers. So far so good. Hannah turned at the sound of the bell, and he saw that she held a mop.

  “Hello again.” He smiled.

  Her cheeks pinked charmingly. “Hi there, I was just—”

  “You’re cleaning up?” He glanced at the clock on the wall. “You finish at five?”

  “No, no—I mean yes, I do finish at five, but it’s not quite that yet.” She replaced the mop in its bucket and began to peel off her rubber gloves. “Actually, it’s part of my cunning plan: start to wash the floor and customers come in. Works every time.”

  She didn’t look unhappy to see him. He decided to take her slight loss of composure as a positive sign.

  “In that case,” he said, “I’d hate to disappoint you. I’ll take a couple of whatever’s good. You choose.”

  “No preferences?” Sliding a tray toward her, reaching for a chocolate-lime.

  “Not really.” It wasn’t a lie: He was immune to them all. “How do you resist them, surrounded all day?”

  She laughed. “Believe me, if you spent as long as I do baking them, you’d soon lose the taste.” She closed the lid of the little yellow box. “Sometimes I think if I never see another cupcake, it’ll be fine. In fact,” she continued, sliding the box toward him, “these days I’d much rather have a bag of Aged White Cheddar Kettle Chips.”