Life's What You Make It

by Sian O'Gorman

  Me: Glad you are keeping busy.

  Roberto: Am practising eyeliner like Priscilla’s and might even try some baking.

  Me: Can’t wait to try it when I get home.

  Roberto: It all looks quite difficult. WTF is cream of tartar? Am going to see if our oven works.

  Me: Of course it works!

  Roberto: But I wouldn’t know would I?!

  Roberto: Just checked. It seems to work! I am already thinking I am going to be good at this. Maybe this is a new career? A little bakery of my own. Roberto’s!

  On Saturday morning, I woke early, my mind rolling through everything Mum had told me. The locket was on my bedside table and I opened the clasp and stared at the photographs. My poor mother. Whatever I’d been through in my life was nothing compared to her trauma.

  I’d spent most of the hours I couldn’t sleep googling Joseph Delaneys in Boston and obviously it was the proverbial long-lost father in a haystack. There possibly couldn’t be a more popular name in Boston. I’d spent the rest of the night staring at the photograph of my grandmother. I couldn’t quite believe that so much of my family had been revealed. But I didn’t know how I felt about Joseph. He had abandoned my mother and he’d abandoned me. What kind of man does that? And yet…

  I had to get out of the house, into the fresh air. I had to move.

  I’d never run before. Well, never intentionally. But I wanted to now. I pulled on my trainers, leggings and a T-shirt, tied my hair up and set off, down our road and towards the village. There was a freshness to the day, a lightness and a brightness to the world, a cool in the breeze and blue of the sky that meant you knew it was going to be one of those golden days, the sun rising in the east, over Dublin Bay.

  A man in a baseball cap overtook me, gliding past, his legs and arms pumping easily. I wished I could be that fast, I thought, looking at his legs in his shorts, long and muscular. There was a Yorkshire terrier running beside him. Dr Butler? But he was soon long gone, yards ahead of me, away into the distance.

  I kept going. Down by the harbour, people were already swimming. I looked out for Bronagh as I ran past the Forty Foot, the sea shimmering and gleaming as the human heads bobbed in the water like seals.

  My legs were starting to get tired, my whole body prickled with sweat, my clothes not remotely suitable to actual exercise… and yet I kept going. Back to the village, where things were slightly busier now. Anthony in the newsagents was opening up, hunks of newsprint being dropped off, the smells from Janet’s bakery wafted into the air, and there was Mrs O’Keefe in the grocer’s sweeping the floor. For a moment, I wasn’t sure if my legs were going to manage to get me home, and slower now, I turned into our road, looking out increasingly desperately for the monkey tree. And there it was. Home. Thank God. I staggered home feeling brilliantly alive.

  In the evening, it was Bronagh’s parents’ anniversary party. Her family home was at the top of Killiney Hill, a mile or so from the village, where the houses became increasingly bigger, the gardens more spacious, until it was mainly trees and driveways and too-big cars. The Kellys’ was set in an exclusive estate of fifteen houses, centred around a green area with old street lamps and signs staked into the grass saying:

  No Football. No Playing. No Dogs.

  These days, Bronagh lived in her lovely cottage down by the harbour – beautifully extended and utterly tasteful, like something out of a magazine – but her formative years had been spent in this modern double-fronted white monstrosity, a little bit Georgian and a little bit Tara from Gone With the Wind.

  Bronagh’s parents, Audrey and Brian, were both vain, self-absorbed, small-minded and their only interests beyond their noses were their three sons and the latest gossip from the golf club. When Bronagh announced she was going to study architecture at college, Audrey had sighed. ‘Why can’t you do something normal, like everyone else’s children?’

  Brian, her father, rarely looked up from his newspaper. All anyone ever saw of him was the top of his head, which, over the years, went from brown to grey to receding to shiny. He was a man of so few words, you wondered if he could actually talk.

  I rang the doorbell, clutching my bottle of champagne, happy to be able to give Bronagh some moral support while I was home.

  A waitress dressed in a black dress, white apron and frilly cap, like something from a low-budget period drama, appeared. ‘Good evening,’ she said robotically, ‘welcome to the Kelly residence.’

  ‘Cara?’ I peered at her. ‘Is that you?’

  ‘Oh God, Olivia,’ she said, stepping to one side and allowing me to pass. ‘Sorry I didn’t recognise you. I’m half-asleep, and I’ve still got four hours to go.’

  We stood in the hall, beside the teak bureau with multiple family photographs, mainly of Mark, Chris and Alan and only a few featuring Bronagh, and even in those she was invariably hidden by one of the boys’ elbows.

  ‘What about your revising? Why are you working?’

  ‘I haven’t done Posh Plates for a few months and I needed a night away from the desk,’ she said. ‘I’ve left Nan at home watching an old film and I’ll be home by midnight. But I wouldn’t have done it if I’d known they’d make me wear this ridiculous costume. It’s all part of the longing of the middle classes to re-enact some kind of feudal fantasy. I have to play the poor girl, so they can feel like lords of the manor. Or dacha. Read Tolstoy. It’s all in there.’

  ‘I will when I retire.’

  It was the first time I’d seen Cara smile. ‘Why are you here?’ she asked. ‘Do you know these people?’

  Now I laughed. ‘Bronagh Kelly’s my best friend, but I can’t imagine she ordered the costumes. She doesn’t go in for feudal role playing.’

  ‘She didn’t, and I heard her have a word with Simon who runs Posh Plates saying it was unnecessary, but people love it, according to him. Anyway…’ She lowered her voice. ‘I think Bronagh’s on the verge of a nervous breakdown.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Her mother wasn’t very nice to her, something about Bronagh’s hair making her look like Angela Merkel. And something else about never wearing anything nice.’

  ‘I’d better go in,’ I said. ‘And see if I can help.’

  The living room, stretching the full length of the house, was full of the monied of Killiney Hill – the golfers and estate agents, the bankers and large-business owners – and Audrey Kelly was standing holding a glass of champagne, dressed in something frou-frou I’d seen in the window of Nouveau You.

  ‘Happy anniversary,’ I said, going over. ‘Forty years! Congratulations.’

  Audrey never smiled as she was convinced it gave you wrinkles and kept her face rigid and smooth and instead gave me a vague wave. She also hated touching other people, visibly cringing if anyone got too close. I made sure to keep a distance. ‘Ah! Olivia,’ she said. ‘Bronagh did say you were coming.’

  ‘I hope you don’t mind,’ I said, having forgotten just how miserable she was and how she made you feel as though everything was all wrong and it was your fault.

  ‘We have enough food to feed the whole of South County Dublin,’ she said. ‘I told Bronagh she’d ordered too much. People will be sick, I said. We are a nation teetering on the precipice of dangerous obesity. But did she listen? Of course not. I mean, I don’t eat a thing. I can’t, not at my age. The boys will eat it, though, thankfully they have the metabolism of teenagers and Mark was thirty-nine last week! You must go and talk to them. Mark’s hurt his back from his delivery business.’

  Mark, according to Bronagh, had already been cautioned about using his rickshaw to deliver cannabis to parties.

  ‘I will,’ I promised. ‘I’ll go and say hello in a moment.’

  ‘They are all doing so well. Of course, Chris has his music; tribute bands are so popular these days. And, apparently, they are in communiqué with various record companies, but none of them are quite right, according to Chris. Master of the fine detail. Always was. And Alan is perfecting his rec
ipes at The Prickly Cactus. Who knew that he would become such a culinary success? Brian?’ She called out to her husband who was walking past. ‘We didn’t, did we, Brian?’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ he said, irritated.

  Audrey ignored his rudeness. ‘We didn’t think Alan would become such a culinary success, did we? Say hello to Olivia, Brian,’ she commanded, as he squinted, as though trying to place me.

  ‘Olivia?’ I prompted. ‘Friend of Bronagh’s.’

  ‘Yes, yes…’ And he mumbled something as he disappeared back into the crowd, dodging out of the way, obviously wishing the party was over and he could return to his life behind a newspaper.

  I spied Bronagh coming into the room from the kitchen.

  ‘There’s Bronagh!’ I said to Audrey. ‘Better see if she needs any help.’

  Audrey waved me away, her face pained, her nose wrinkled, to go and find something else that was wrong.

  ‘Thank God!’ Bronagh said when she saw me. ‘Someone normal!’

  I laughed, as she took two glasses of wine from a crowd of them and handed one to me.

  ‘Mum is worse than I thought she would be. She’s spectacularly tense. So, to get myself through this family shitshow, I am drinking alcohol and eating crisps, hoping both will have a tranquillising effect.’ She held out a bowl of crisps. ‘Take one. Salt and vinegar. Your favourite.’

  Home, I thought, is a place where people know the flavour of your favourite crisp.

  ‘Mum told me this dress looked like something a pregnant Morticia Addams would wear to a funeral,’ went on Bronagh, ‘and that I should do something about my crooked tooth.’

  ‘Which crooked tooth?’ I asked.

  ‘This one.’ She pointed to her right canine.

  ‘In all the years I have known you, I have never noticed that tooth.’

  ‘It does stick out a little,’ she said. ‘I mean, Mum is technically right. I don’t have perfect teeth. Or a perfect life. Or the perfect husband and perfect children. And I am too tall, and my hair is too straight and I am not charming enough or nice enough. And yes, I like to wear black. I mean, God! What do I need to do?’ Bronagh glugged at her wine.

  ‘You need to take a deep breath and remember that you are charming and nice and good enough. And that your teeth are amazing and I have always been jealous of your hair.’

  ‘Oh God,’ she said, when she resurfaced from her glass. ‘I need alcohol so badly. She drives me to drink. I just wish I could stand up to her. In the rest of my life, I am perfectly confident. I give speeches, I lecture at the university, I deal with builders every day, which is frankly terrifying because every single time I speak they look through me and I have to just keep going. And I regularly chair meetings where I am the only woman. But here… in this house, I am fifteen again, and scared of my own mother. She has already asked me to make sure the boys have enough to eat this evening. Look at them…’ We had a clear view through the open doors leading to the garden. The boys were sitting on the swing seat just outside. Three huge men with scraggly, overgrown facial hair and undersized T-shirts were guffawing about something. ‘Do they look as though they need me to make sure they are eating well?’ she said.

  ‘They do look amply fed,’ I agreed. ‘No chance of wasting away.’

  Mark blew a smoke ring towards the sky. On closer examination, it was no ordinary cigarette being passed around between the three of them, which explained the guffawing.

  ‘I could kill them,’ said Bronagh, putting her empty glass on the table. ‘I really could. There was I thinking that they had made a real effort to do something nice. I actually thought that by coming they were supporting me, knowing how much bloody work I’ve put in. And then those three clowns smoke a spliff!’

  ‘Just ignore them,’ I said. ‘And if your mother makes any more comments about anything, you are going to smile sweetly and let it all wash over you, yes?’

  Grim-faced, she took another two wines from the table. ‘Come on, we’re going over.’ She began walking away, giving me no choice but to follow.

  ‘Yo, Olivia,’ said Mark, peering out from under his knitted beanie. ‘How’s it going?’

  The three of them sat in a row, like three overgrown children.

  ‘Great,’ I said. ‘How are you getting on?’

  ‘Still pulling rickshaws,’ he said. ‘Done my back in, so now I can only work if I’ve taken four Nurofen and a shot of whiskey.’ And then he let out a huge burp which set the three of them off, whereupon Alan made a funny high-pitched sound, which made them laugh even harder.

  Bronagh and I stood watching as the giggling got out of hand, tears rolling down their faces, forcing Chris to slip out of the seat, as though he was boneless, and dropping to the ground.

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ hissed Bronagh. ‘I can’t believe you have got yourselves stoned at Mum and Dad’s bloody wedding anniversary!’

  ‘It is pretty good stuff,’ said Mark. ‘Took delivery of it today. Delivered to myself on my rickshaw…’ He giggled again. ‘Would you two like some?’

  ‘No, we would not!’ Bronagh rolled her eyes, looking ready to punch one of them or all of them, and the boys, realising they had gone too far, immediately softened.

  ‘Sorry, Bronagh,’ Alan said.

  ‘Cool party,’ said Chris. But then he let out another giggle, which set them all off again.

  ‘It’s time for speeches,’ said Bronagh. ‘I thought we’d all say something.’

  Alan then burped loudly, making some people standing close to us turn around. ‘Apologies,’ he said, in a loud voice, his hands up. ‘Massive apologies to all concerned. I have a terrible problem with trapped wind.’

  The other two could barely contain themselves.

  ‘So, it’s just me, is it?’ said Bronagh. ‘Yet fucking again?’ She glared at them as they looked for a moment genuinely sorry, and she and I walked back into the house and over to where her parents were standing.

  ‘Attention, please!’ Her smile was plastered on. ‘Just a few words about my wonderful parents, Audrey and Brian, on their fortieth wedding anniversary…’ She stared expressionlessly at me for a moment. ‘Thank you everyone for coming,’ she carried on. ‘Tonight is a moment where we celebrate forty years of married life. They met – so the legend goes…’ She laughed weakly. ‘On a train to Galway. St Patrick’s weekend and they began talking to each other in Kildare and by the time they were passing through Ballinasloe, they knew they were right for each other…’ She paused while there were ‘ah’s from the crowd. ‘They were married twelve weeks later.’ She turned around to her parents. ‘I think that’s right, isn’t it, Mum?’

  ‘Most of it,’ said Audrey, elbowing Bronagh out of the way. ‘Of course, we had a little resistance from our parents,’ she said, addressing the audience. ‘Brian’s mother wanted him to marry someone else and I think after forty years, your mother has been proved wrong. As she was on so many things… too many to mention. Details in my autobiography…’ She paused for laughter. ‘But, of course, we went on to have our three wonderful boys, who have taken time out of their busy lives to raise a glass to their parents.’

  The boys had shuffled into the room and seemed oblivious to the homily their mother was spouting at the expense of their sister.

  ‘Thank you, boys,’ Audrey continued. ‘And thank you all for coming and, most of all, thank you to Brian for making the right choice!’

  We all raised our glasses. ‘To Audrey and Brian.’

  Bronagh stood to one side, forgotten about and alone, and I slipped my arm through hers. ‘Come on,’ I said. ‘Let’s have more crisps and a glass of champagne.’

  ‘It’s the best offer I have had for a while,’ she said, giving me a smile. ‘Oh God. I don’t know why I bother. I mean, I do know why I bother, because if I don’t do it, then nothing will happen. The boys couldn’t organise a game of noughts and crosses, Dad just wants to nap all the time, and Mum sulks if she isn’t the centre of attention
.’

  Later, after we’d helped clean up and the waiting staff were finished and ready to go, their minibus outside, ready to drop them all home, I went to say goodbye to Cara, back in her jeans, the hat and pinny dispatched back into the dressing-up box.

  ‘Bronagh gave me a tip,’ she said. ‘Fifty euros! How nice is she?’

  ‘You deserve it,’ I said, knowing Bronagh was the nicest person I had ever met. And far too nice to her awful family.

  13

  Roberto: How do you make your soda bread? Mary Berry says you need bicarbonate of soda? WTF is it?

  Me: Go to supermarket and ask! They will assist!

  Roberto: Easier if you just come home…

  Me: I’ll be home in three weeks… Go to baking aisle, ask nice person to help.

  Roberto: There’s a baking aisle? Why did no one tell me of this wonder? Love you Princess Liv xxx

  Me: Love you Prince Roberto xxx

  I did really miss Roberto. He was my friend, brother, confidant, spiritual healer, court jester, therapist and wise old man in one perfect human. He was the one person who’d kept me going over the last decade I’d been in London. Initially, I’d gone for a year. A change of scene, I had told everyone – trying to ignore the cloud of failure which hung over me – while I planned my next move. In fact, I had gone because I didn’t know what else to do. After closing down Seasalt – and ignoring Mum’s pleas to keep it going – I was at a loss. But in my very first week, after walking into a coffee shop in Hackney, I ended up with a job, a best friend and somewhere to live that wasn’t the sofa of a friend’s ex-boyfriend’s sister. The job came about because of the handwritten sign on the door.

  Barista needed. Must be FABULOUS.

  Not, obviously, that I thought of myself as fabulous, but I liked its tone.

  The café was a small room with a long plywood counter and a giant poster of Kylie Minogue on the wall, framed by a string of fairy lights. There was also an old Sacred Heart lamp, but instead of Our Lady, the icon was Kylie. Whoever worked here, I thought, had to be Irish. And there he was. A man, about my height, with thick black eyebrows and stubble, eyes rimmed in turquoise and wearing a top four sizes too small paired with a tiny pair of silver hot pants.