Semi-Sweet

by Roisin Meaney

  He’s gorgeous, Hannah had said, and Una had smiled.

  Isn’t he? He’s spoiled rotten, but he’s not a bit cheeky.

  And now he was dead, and his hair would never get darker. Hannah cradled her coffee mug and chased a crumb with her finger. “God, I can’t imagine what his mother is going through right now. Life’s so unfair, isn’t it?”

  “Sure is.”

  “Anything funny on the telly?”

  They moved into the sitting room and searched around and eventually found Curb Your Enthusiasm, and sat watching as Larry got into an argument in an ice-cream shop, but for once Hannah found it all terribly pointless.

  The church was packed. It might have been Christmas Day. Most of the pews were full, people shuffling along to make room for still more. The atmosphere was thick with the smell of damp clothes and waxy flowers and furniture polish.

  The little white coffin sat in front of the altar, a single wreath laid on top, spelling out JASON in red carnations. Someone was playing a tune on the organ that sounded familiar to Hannah.

  Cupcakes on the Corner was closed, the first time in its twelve weeks of existence that she’d closed it outside normal working hours. “Back at one,” she’d written on the sign she’d stuck to the door. Two hours off to mourn Una’s nephew, Claire’s son.

  “God, it’s warm.”

  Beside Hannah, Geraldine fanned herself with a hymn booklet. Glass Slipper was closed, too, had remained closed since Friday, three days before. “Closed until further notice” was what Geraldine had written on the sign that went up on that door, the day after the accident. God knows when we’ll reopen, Geraldine had told Hannah. Poor Alice is in an awful state. I’ve told her I can manage on my own, but she hardly hears what I’m saying, she’s so distracted.

  There was a rustle among the congregation, and Hannah looked up to see a priest walking onto the altar. She got to her feet with everyone else. The priest told them in a soft voice that they were about to take part in the Mass of the Angels. He said that he had baptized Jason, that he had met him often in the Junior Infant class when he visited the school. He remembered Jason’s cheerfulness and love of drawing pictures, and he said a terrible cross had been given to Jason’s loving family.

  Somewhere behind Hannah a woman began sobbing bitterly. Feet shuffled, people coughed and sneezed and blew noses and cleared throats, and a woman cried her way through the Mass of the Angels.

  A choir from Jason’s school sang “He’s Got the Whole World in His Hands” at the offertory. A teenage girl played Eric Clapton’s “Tears in Heaven” on the violin while everyone filed up to Communion. Jason’s Aunt Una walked onto the altar and struggled through a terribly maudlin poem about little angels that caused a renewed rustling and sniffling.

  And all through the ceremony, Hannah felt a desperate sadness that she knew to her shame was only partly in response to the little boy’s death. She mourned Jason, of course, she deeply regretted the shocking waste of his passing, but kneeling in the too-warm church, responding automatically to the familiar litanies, she realized that she was also mourning Patrick’s absence, and the children they might have had if things had gone differently. She wanted to howl at the tragedy of her ruined relationship, the death of the dreams that seemed so foolish now.

  She glanced at her mother, kneeling beside her, whispering prayers. Imagine if she knew what was going through her selfish daughter’s head.

  And then the Mass was over, and they all got to their feet again and shuffled toward the top of the church to pay their respects to the bereaved family. When she eventually reached the front pew, Hannah took Claire’s limp hand in hers and said, “Claire, it’s Hannah Robinson, I’m so sorry,” and the girl looked emptily back at her, and the man beside her, who Hannah assumed was Jason’s father, shook with sobs, head bowed, as she pressed his hand.

  She sympathized with Mrs. Connolly, dry-eyed and haggard, and shook hands with the next two people, whom she took to be Jason’s other grandparents, and a couple of distraught teenage girls who might have been aunts. She hugged Una, weeping at the end of the pew, and she shook hands with Claire and Una’s father in his wheelchair in the aisle.

  On her way back down the church, Hannah saw her mother with an arm around the shoulders of the woman who was still crying helplessly, and she realized it was Alice.

  Nora Paluzzi had been a PA for three hours and twenty-seven minutes. She’d made coffee for her new boss (strong, black, two sugars) and met some of the journalists and secretaries who worked for the newspaper, none of whose names she remembered now. She was given a desk in a kind of anteroom outside Patrick’s office and shown by one of the other females (Hilary? Andrea?) where Patrick’s filing cabinet was and how he liked his files to be organized.

  She’d been introduced to the diary in which she was to record Patrick’s schedule, and she’d been shown the database of contacts she’d need when arranging meetings, making hotel reservations, and the like.

  She’d been brought to the staff room where they could make coffee or tea and eat lunch; the toilets had been pointed out to her on the way, and the password to access the newspaper’s computers had been divulged.

  An e-mail address had been assigned to her. She’d had her photo taken for an identity card, and she’d been given forms to fill in, looking for tax numbers that meant nothing to her—Adam would help there.

  On her desk were a dark green phone, a computer, an intercom pod, a spiral-bound notebook, the hard-backed diary, and a selection of pens. In the top desk drawer, she found a stapler and a half-full packet of staples, a solar-powered calculator, a bottle of correction fluid, a box of paper clips, a pair of scissors, a roll of sticky tape, a safety pin, a box of rubber bands, a three-pack of highlighter markers—one missing—and two brand-new yellow pencils with pink rubber tips.

  Behind her desk there was a wooden cabinet on which sat a coffeemaker, coffee and filters, a bowl of sugar lumps, and six mugs, with a bundle of spoons poking from one. Presumably, if Nora wanted to make coffee for herself, she’d have to go hunting for milk.

  Nobody had complimented the black wraparound dress or the crimson jacket. Patrick’s eyes had flicked over her, but he’d made no comment. He’d disappeared at ten—“Off to meet a colleague, back later”—and she hadn’t seen him since. She hoped nobody would come looking for him, as she’d forgotten to ask him where he’d be or what “later” meant. She hadn’t thought to get his mobile number, which surely his PA should have.

  Nobody had rung. For three hours and twenty-seven minutes, the green phone had sat silently on her desk, except for when she’d phoned Adam.

  What’s happening? he’d asked, and she’d told him, Not much, and they’d arranged to go for a drink that evening.

  She debated ringing Leah and decided against it. Leah was being cool, no doubt about it. She needed to get used to the idea that Nora was working for her partner, that was all. Give her a week or two.

  She wondered if Leah’s pregnancy had been deliberate or accidental. Had Leah engineered it so Patrick would leave Hannah? And what would Hannah make of this news, coming so hot on the heels of his leaving her? She wondered without much interest if Adam had told Hannah about the baby yet.

  “I’m bored,” she said aloud, to the empty room. She leafed through the diary, reading past entries in some other woman’s handwriting. She got up and opened the door of Patrick’s office and wandered in. If he came back, she’d say she was looking for anything that needed filing.

  His office smelled of his aftershave, which she found a bit heady. An orange scarf dangled from a coat stand in one corner, and a black umbrella hung from a lower hook. A silver-framed photo of Leah and himself in what looked like a hotel lobby stood on his desk—she wondered if Hannah had occupied the silver frame originally. A jumble of papers was scattered across the walnut surface, but she had no notion of sorting them.

  His first-floor window overlooked the street. Not much doing out there, as
usual. She wondered if her impulse to leave the United States had been a bit premature. Of course, now that she had her green card, she could go back anytime. Maybe she’d try the West Coast next. L.A. might be interesting, or San Francisco.

  She checked her watch: a quarter to one. Nobody had mentioned lunchtime, so she assumed it was up to her when she took it. She wasn’t particularly hungry, but it would be something to do. She left Patrick’s office and ripped a page from the spiral-bound notebook. She wrote, “Gone to lunch—Nora,” and left it on his leather swivel chair. He might miss it on the desk, with all those papers.

  She took her bag and jacket from her desk drawer—no coat stand for the PA—and walked headlong into Patrick as she turned the corner for the elevators.

  “Oops—” He caught her arms to steady her. “Had enough already?”

  His aftershave swept over her. “I thought I’d go to lunch,” she said, “since there isn’t a lot to do right now.”

  “Good idea.” He turned toward his office. “Hang on a minute and I’ll join you—I was going to take you out anyway, for your first day.”

  “Lovely.”

  As she waited, she pulled out her lipstick and her handbag mirror. That was more like it, a decent lunch with a good-looking man across the table. She was glad now she’d chosen the wraparound. He’d enjoy a bit of cleavage when she leaned across to tell him what she and Leah had gotten up to as teenagers. He’d enjoy that too—she’d spice it up a bit for him. And if he told Leah afterward, what could she say? Wasn’t Nora only having a laugh, sharing a few harmless memories with him?

  She tucked her lipstick back as he reappeared. Yes, things were definitely looking up.

  “She’s riddled with guilt, poor thing,” Geraldine said. “She says she’ll be into work tomorrow, but I can’t see her being able. I told her I’d open up and she could play it by ear.”

  Hannah sipped her tea and made no reply.

  “And those poor parents,” Geraldine said. “Completely brokenhearted, the two of them. I don’t think they knew what was going on.” She shook her head. “It’s just terrible, the whole business, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “There was no sign of Tom when I dropped Alice home after the funeral. I haven’t seen him since it happened—he’s probably ashamed to face anyone. God, imagine being responsible for the death of a child. It doesn’t bear thinking about, does it?”

  Hannah shook her head.

  “Of course I knew he liked a drink—we all knew that. But I never would have taken him for a drinker—not a serious one, I mean. He was definitely a bit…the worse for wear at the dinner-dance, but you’d think by the next morning it would have worn off, wouldn’t you?”

  “Mmm.”

  “He’s taken leave from the dental clinic. They’re looking for someone to replace him for a few weeks. Alice says he’ll have to go to court. That’ll be awful, for both of them.”

  “It will, awful.”

  Geraldine paused and studied her daughter. “Are you all right, love? You seem a bit quiet. Are you upset about the funeral?”

  “Sorry,” Hannah said. “It’s not the funeral—I mean, of course that’s terrible, but that’s not what’s bothering me right now.” She lifted her cup and drank again.

  “What is it then?”

  “Ah, it’s nothing really…” She laid down her cup and laced her fingers together, and regarded them. “It seems so trivial, compared to…” She took a deep breath. “It’s just that I saw Leah Bradshaw today.”

  Geraldine made a dismissive gesture. “Oh, what do you care about—”

  “I think,” Hannah broke in, lifting her head to look at her mother, “at least I’m pretty sure, that she’s pregnant.”

  “Oh,” Geraldine repeated more softly, putting a hand on Hannah’s arm. “Oh, love, I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s okay,” Hannah said quickly. “I’m fine, really. I just got a bit of a shock, that’s all.”

  It had taken her a minute, on her way back to the shop from the funeral, to recognize the slight, blond-haired woman across the street. She’d glanced at her and then away—and something, some flash of memory, had made her look back. And there she was, the woman Patrick had left her for. Standing at the edge of the path, scanning the oncoming traffic.

  And as Hannah stared, the anger rose in her, so palpable she could taste it. She glared across the street, willing the other woman to see her, on the point of storming across the road and slapping her—and then Leah raised her arm to signal to an approaching taxi, and the movement stretched the fabric of her jacket against her body and clearly outlined the swelling underneath her bust.

  Hannah watched, incredulous, as Leah got into the taxi and disappeared. Pregnant, Hannah thought. She’s pregnant with his child. Trying to assimilate this startling new discovery as she made her way slowly back to the shop. Leah was pregnant; they were going to have a baby. Sometime in the next few months, Patrick was going to be a father. He might have known—he must have known?—before he’d left Hannah. Each fresh realization causing another shiver of disbelief.

  And as the clock on the wall crawled toward five, she remembered with mortification all the times she’d almost texted him, craving his return, ready to beg him to come back. Imagine if she’d done it, imagine that.

  “It’s just so soon,” she said to Geraldine now. “It seems so quick.” Reaching for a ginger nut, cracking it in two. “Doesn’t it?”

  It’s early days, Patrick had said every time the subject had come up. We’re in no hurry, are we? Plenty of time. And Hannah had accepted it: no point in arguing if it wasn’t what he wanted. So they’d taken precautions, and no babies had happened, and she’d waited for him to be ready.

  “She must have been pregnant when…he was still with me,” she said, tapping the half biscuit against the side of her cup. “She wouldn’t be showing yet if…” She searched her mother’s face. “Do you think it was an accident?” she asked, knowing as the words were uttered that it was wishful thinking, not wanting to accept that maybe Patrick had wanted children after all—just not with her.

  “Well—” began Geraldine.

  “Doesn’t matter,” Hannah broke in swiftly. “No point in ifs and buts. It was just a shock, that’s all.”

  “I know, love,” Geraldine said quietly. “Of course it was.” She took a ginger nut. “I’m supposed to be off these for Lent, but, really, what’s the point?” She dunked it in her tea. “Where did you say Adam was gone?”

  Hannah cradled her cup. “Out for a drink with Nora. It was her first day at work today.”

  “You never told me she got a job. Where’s she working?”

  And just like that, they were back to Patrick.

  Wally slapped John on the back. “Hey, Johnny. Fancy meeting you here. Can I get you another one?”

  John shook his head. “I’m okay, thanks. You working tonight?”

  Wally nodded. “Probably be quiet, but I’ll do a few hours.”

  Monday nights at Vintage were very different from Saturdays. At almost ten o’clock, barely a dozen drinkers were about, soft piped music replacing the band.

  The barman set a small bottle of water in front of Wally. “Thanks, Neil.” He touched it against John’s glass. “Sláinte.”

  They sometimes ran into each other on Mondays. John had developed the habit of dropping in for a pint on his way home from the rented workshop, just down the road. He liked the quietness of Monday nights, liked the chance to kick back and do nothing for an hour or so. And Wally, whose work brought him all over Clongarvin, sometimes found his way to Vintage on Mondays, too.

  We could use a saxophonist, Wally had said when he’d rung John, his cousin Patsy having passed on the number of the carpenter-musician from Scotland. That’s if you’re any good, of course.

  No sign of a smile in his voice, so John couldn’t tell if he was joking. I’m not bad, he’d replied. No complaints so far.

  Why don’t you com
e round when we’re rehearsing, Wally had suggested. Try out a few pieces with us, see how it goes.

  So he’d gone to Wally’s house and met the three of them, and they’d played together for an hour or so. The pieces were popular ones that John knew well, and he soon adapted his playing to suit their quirky style. He knew he fitted in well so he wasn’t surprised when Wally, the unspoken leader of the outfit, invited him to join them.

  We play here and there, wherever we can pick up a gig, he told John. As it stands, we’ve got no regular slot, but there’s a wine bar just about to open down by the river, and I’ve heard that the owner wants some live jazz, so I’m going to have a word with him.

  Carlos, the Portuguese double bassist, had heavily accented and quite broken English, and Wally’s sister Vivienne, who played the clarinet, was so shy she barely spoke, so it was Wally whom John felt he knew best after almost four months of playing with them.

  Wally finished his water. “Better get going. That taxi won’t drive itself. See you Wednesday.” Wednesday was rehearsal night, usually in Wally’s house.

  “Good luck, now.” John raised his pint and drank, and wondered, as he often did, what his daughter was doing right then in Edinburgh. For some reason, since Hannah Robinson’s rejection, he was missing Danielle more.

  “Hannah saw that Leah Bradshaw today,” Geraldine said.

  Stephen tried in vain to remember who Leah Bradshaw was. “Really?”

  Geraldine stirred her tea. “It appears,” she said, “that Maureen Hardiman was right.”

  “About what?”

  Geraldine threw him an exasperated look. “You never listen to me. I told you she told me Leah Bradshaw was pregnant. I distinctly remember telling you when I got home from bridge.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Poor Hannah got the shock of her life today. She knew the minute she saw her.” When he made no response, Geraldine looked at him sharply. “Which means, of course, that she was already expecting by the time Patrick broke up with Hannah.” She shook her head. “And to think that trollop did my nails.”