‘Yes, I’d love to go,’ I said.
‘I was wondering,’ said Mum, looking at me sideways, ‘about Seasalt.’
‘What about it?’
‘Well… I was wondering if you missed it? And if you had given any thought to perhaps bringing it back. A resurrection of some kind.’
For a moment I thought I was going to cry. It must have been the emotion of the funeral or just general tiredness from all the running I was doing. I managed to swallow it back. I did miss Seasalt and the thought of returning to Maribelle was increasingly horrifying. ‘A bit,’ I admitted.
She nodded, as though she guessed as much. ‘We all get scared,’ she said. ‘All the time. The first five years of the shop, I don’t think there was a moment I didn’t feel sick with fear, with nerves, worrying about every bill that came in, or blouse we didn’t sell, or the jacket which I’d decided would fly out but no one even looked at. Or if we had too much stock or too little. When I think back, I can’t believe I kept going.’
‘But you did,’ I said.
‘I didn’t have a choice,’ she said. ‘I was in too deep. I think if I could have given it up, I would have done. But I’d signed a five-year lease on the building. And I had you to look after and I was too scared to change tack and do something else. I just kind of clung on.’
‘It was all too much… I panicked. I didn’t think I could do it. I couldn’t sleep…’
Mum nodded. ‘That’s what business is like. It’s part of you. I didn’t always believe in myself. Which may explain some of the life decisions I made.’ She pulled a face.
‘Jeremy said that the world is divided into leaders and followers and that I am a follower,’ I said. ‘Do you think that is the reason why my business failed and yours succeeded?’
‘What?’
‘That you can’t be a successful business owner if you are a follower.’
‘A follower? What on earth does that mean?’ Mum looked puzzled. ‘This is nonsense. Claptrap. You can’t define people like that. And, anyway, you do lead. And you also follow. And so do I, as does anyone who interacts on a normal level in society. Take Bronagh for example… she leads in her business, but what about your festival meeting… who was leading that?’
‘Me.’
‘Right. Exactly. And was she happy to be led?’
I nodded.
‘And the same with me,’ Mum went on. ‘You boss me around, don’t you? And then sometimes it’s me. It’s called normal human interaction. And the reason why your business “failed”, as you put it, was a series of unfortunate events leading to a catastrophic crisis of confidence. Exactly the kind of thing you can bounce back from, and which leads to greater resilience and greater business success. There! That’s my pitch for you! Now, would you like to share one of my mini bottles?’
‘Are you suggesting we go wild,’ I said, ‘and have a whole half of a tiny bottle of wine each? You’re the Keith Richards of Sandycove. I’ll go and get it. You stay there. Crisps?’
‘Go on so,’ she called back. ‘The nice ones!’
We sat side by side at the breakfast bar, our mini bottle in front of us and a bowl of posh crisps between us.
Mum smiled at me. ‘Not a bad life, is it?’
But she’d got me thinking. Yes, I wished I still had Seasalt, but it was far too late for me. And I was far too old to make any changes. I just had to keep going with this life I had made for myself in London. There was no going back.
16
Me: I’ve taken up running.
Roberto: Away from what?
Me: Just for pleasure.
Roberto: Pleasure? Sitting down is a pleasure. Running is a skill you employ when a monster is chasing you. I see people in films doing it all the time.
Me: I’m quite enjoying it though.
Roberto: Is this something you will require me to share with you?
Me: If you want to?
Roberto: Did you hear that? It was the sound of me shuddering and hell freezing over.
Me: It’s just so nice to be outside!
Roberto: Hmmm. I will allow it for now. But please stay away from big trucks and wear a high-viz vest. Not fetching but will keep you alive.
Me: How was the cake?
Roberto: A disaster. Thinking of writing to Mary B to tell her. Book is going back to charity shop.
Me: No. Try again. Go on.
Roberto: Maybe… Love you, Liv.
Me: Love you too.
On Wednesday morning, Jessica seemed slightly frazzled, her smile pasted on, her hair not quite its shiny, buoyant self. And she was drinking coffee. From a mug. Worse, a Kit Kat mug, the kind that comes free with an Easter egg. I’d noticed it before at the back of the cupboard in the small kitchen in the shop, dusty and unloved.
‘Where’s your lovely cup?’
‘I’m on instant coffee today,’ she said. ‘The cheap stuff. You can’t drink it from a china cup. It’s just one of those days,’ she said, putting the mug down, and reaching for the packet of own-brand custard creams. Her hand, I was sure of it, was trembling. But perhaps it was my eyesight. The kitchenette wasn’t exactly over-endowed with natural light.
‘Jess? Everything all right?’
‘Grand, yes… grand.’ Her smile again seemed overly stretched, as though she had coerced her muscles into movement. ‘Just need some of these biscuits.’ She wrestled them open with her teeth. ‘You know what it’s like when you need sugar.’
It probably was nothing, and here I was probing her and being intrusive. Except… except, I did have the distinct impression that something was wrong over the ordinary run-of-the-mill things that go wrong.
‘Jess, are you sure you’re all right?’ I asked. ‘You look really pale.’
‘My alarm didn’t go off,’ she admitted, ‘that’s all. And it’s just set me back a bit and explains why I need the coffee to wake me up. Normally I’m up at six, get myself a cup of tea, and then wake up Damien. And then the kids.’ For a moment, she looked ready to cry. ‘I have everything organised. The moment one thing goes wrong, so does everything else. I could kick myself. I mean, it’s the same alarm every day and for some reason I forgot to set it. I’m so stupid!’ She picked up a custard cream and pushed the whole thing in her mouth in one go.
‘It’s awful when you oversleep,’ I said. ‘In London, I start work at 7.30 a.m. and barely close my eyes at night because I’m so afraid of sleeping through the alarm, or not setting it.’
‘It’s such a little thing,’ she agreed, ‘but has huge consequences. Damien missed his session in the gym and it was all booked with this special boxing trainer and then Frankie decided to choose this morning to lose his tin whistle for school. And Ellie-Mae wouldn’t let me plait her hair and wanted to wear her wellies to school.’
‘Damien was probably glad not to have to go to the gym,’ I said. ‘He had the perfect excuse to stay in bed!’
‘Yeah…’ She gave a laugh, as she moved into the shop. ‘He was really pleased.’
It was a quiet morning in the shop and we tidied up, rehanging clothes, checking sizes and labels, replacing accessories and making sure all the displays looked perfect.
‘Jessica,’ I said, slipping on one of the scarves and feeling ridiculous. ‘How would you style me, if I was a customer?’
‘You don’t need my advice,’ she replied. ‘You look lovely.’
‘No, but really,’ I said. ‘Please? As I’m working here, I would love some impartial critiquing. No offence taken. I’m feeling a little on the frumpy side. I’ve forgotten how to dress myself.’
Jessica put down the cashmere jumper she was rehanging.
‘Well…’ She came towards me. ‘I would say that you dress like you are meant to dress for your job in London. You need to fit in, you’re not allowed to be too fashionable, you can’t stick out or be an individual and I think I am right in saying that there are very strict rules about heel height, make-up, tights and all that…’
&nb
sp; I groaned. ‘Yes, it’s like being back in school and after a while you just forget what you like and who you are. Roberto is always saying that I should wear more colour, but what’s the point when the weekend lasts about two seconds and my working week goes on forever.’
‘So what are you looking for?’
‘Just something that makes me feel like me.’ I paused. ‘The old me, the one I used to be before I was sucked into the corporate vortex.’
‘Wear what you like,’ she said. ‘By which I mean, wear what you like, what you really like. Wear things that make you feel joyous and happy. It’s actually much simpler than people think. Do you like it? Then wear it!’
I looked down at what I was wearing – a chambray shirt and dark denim jeans. ‘I don’t really like what I am wearing,’ I admitted. ‘I mean, it’s fine… but it’s not more than that.’
‘What do you like in the shop? What is your eye drawn to?’
‘That shirt, the one with the gold thread running through it,’ I said, immediately. I had spotted the shirt ages ago but had dismissed it as not being ‘me’.
‘Great,’ said Jessica, taking it out. ‘What else?’
‘The cashmere jumper, with the rainbow sequins on the wrists… the flowery blouse with the ruffles… the jeans… those trainers with the silver on the back…’ I continued.
Jessica was collecting them all and hanging them outside a changing room. ‘Try them on,’ she ordered. ‘The next stage is to see if the joy continues when you wear them.’
‘Okay…’
I did as I was told. The jeans were tighter than the ones I had been wearing and paired with the gold shirt, it felt good, like a newer, improved version of me. And the same with the cashmere jumper and the ruffly blouse.
‘What do you think?’ I stood outside the dressing room, waiting for Jessica’s verdict.
She shrugged. ‘It doesn’t matter what I think, what do you think?’
I looked at myself in the mirror. ‘I like it,’ I said. ‘I really like it.’
Jessica was smiling. ‘Well, there you go then, that’s all you need. And I’d say you get a twenty per cent discount on them if you buy them.’
‘Deal.’ I put them up on the counter. ‘I might buy some more things before I finish here.’
‘You should,’ she said. ‘Go back to London a different person. And maybe see how you can bring a little joy to your work clothes, earrings, or a nice shirt, or something colourful.’
Maribelle had a succession of wildly expensive, beautifully cut suits which she wore on rotation. Mine were less well-cut and much less expensive suits which I wore with navy ballet flats. Just the thought of having to go back to squeezing myself into that uniform seemed horrifying.
I began piling everything I wanted on the counter. ‘I’m buying them,’ I said. ‘I don’t know why, but I just don’t feel like I suit any of my old clothes.’ It was as though, after the last ten days, I was already different to the person who had arrived.
Jessica picked up a top from the rails and held it against her. ‘What do you think of this?’ It was one-shouldered, shimmery, black. ‘I think I might buy this for Barcelona,’ she said. ‘We’re going on Friday for the weekend, just Damien and me. He’s organised everything. Nice hotel, dinner, drinks… shopping. He wants to go to the Barça stadium tour, so we’ll do that in the afternoon and then somewhere glamorous for dinner and I can wear the top.’
‘Gorgeous,’ I said. ‘You’ll look amazing.’ I was swiping my debit card, after scanning my new clothes, excited to wear them.
‘Really?’ She looked worried for a moment and put the top back on the rail. ‘Damien likes me to look nice but… you know… I don’t want to be overdressed. Sometimes I get it wrong. Too sexy, too much, too low-cut… that kind of thing.’
‘But does it bring you joy, Jessica?’ I said.
She laughed. ‘Totally, I love it. I’ve had my eye on it for ages. Barcelona is the perfect place to wear it.’ But suddenly her face froze as a shadow fell on the room. I followed her gaze to see someone tall, extremely well built, a jaw like a JCB claw and a sprayed-on T-shirt revealing a chest like sand dunes.
‘Ready, Jess?’ he said, smiling. ‘I’ve been waiting in the car.’
Jessica glanced up at the clock. ‘I’m so sorry, Damien,’ she replied. ‘We were… just… I lost track of…’
‘Don’t worry, princess,’ he said, smiling, ‘you take your time. You’re obviously enjoying yourself.’ He turned to me and held out his hand. ‘Damien Ward. Jess’s other half. Now, you must be Olivia? Jess has told me so much about you.’ He grasped my hand with both of his. ‘Seriously, thanks for looking after her. You and your mam have been so good to her. Jess means the world to me and to find a workplace where she is valued and respected makes everything easier.’
‘Well, yes, of course… she’s wonderful.’
Jessica was standing to one side, her coat over her arm, her red Gucci bag across her body, smiling the same forced smile she’d worn this morning. My hand, when Damien released it, felt crushed like a bag of broken biscuits.
‘No matter how many times I tell Jess to take it easy, put her feet up at home,’ Damien went on, ‘she still wants to work. I tell her I can do all the breadwinning and salary-earning and all that. She can have an easy life. But she keeps insisting…’ He smiled over at her. ‘She’s too beautiful to be working, wouldn’t you say? Luckiest man in the world to have married my princess.’ He turned to her. ‘Right, Jess? Ready?’
‘See you tomorrow,’ she said, not looking at me. ‘See you…’
‘Take your time, sweetheart,’ said Damien. ‘We’re in no rush, are we?’ He walked slowly out as Jessica seemed desperate to be gone, straining like a stallion at the start line. She looked back at him, as he sauntered out. ‘Bye, Olivia,’ he said. ‘Good to meet you.’
‘See you in the morning, Jessica,’ I said, as the door closed and their two bodies faded from the glass in the door, disappearing to the giant Range Rover double-parked outside.
In the evening, Bronagh and I went for a walk along the seafront, past the Forty Foot swimming place, around the Martello Tower and back along the seafront. We headed towards Dún Laoghaire to the pier. We were discussing the midsummer festival.
‘I think all meetings should be walking meetings,’ said Bronagh. ‘Get your steps in and get things organised.’
‘We could eat our lunch as we walk and talk,’ I said. ‘Be even more productive. Or do our hair. I am sure you can buy solar-powered hairdryers. Or read a book…’
She laughed. ‘They’ve already invented that,’ she said. ‘It’s called the audiobook.’
‘You see? There is no such thing as just a walk these days. Anyway, just to let you know that trying to organise fireworks at short notice is impossible. I rang at least twenty-five places today. Every one saying it’s not going to happen.’
Bronagh looked disappointed. ‘But they are practically the only thing I’m looking forward to. Them and the alcohol, obviously.’
‘I’m going to keep trying. There’s a guy in Bray. He’s in his eighties and someone said today that he might have some.’
‘I’m going to say a prayer to the saint of fireworks…’
‘Saint Elmo?’
She laughed again. ‘We have to have them!’
‘I have everything crossed,’ I said. ‘Fingers, eyes… the lot.’
‘By the way,’ Bronagh said, ‘love the blouse. Do I suspect a little of Jessica’s influence?’
‘You might do,’ I said. ‘She’s brilliant. I feel like setting fire to everything I own and just asking her to tell me what to wear.’
‘She is fab,’ agreed Bronagh. ‘I mean, as an architect I am contractually not allowed to wear anything but black. Maybe dark grey if I am feeling outrageous. But even I can see how good she is. I saw her earlier walking through the village with a pink jacket and red shirt. She looked great.’
‘Black is cool, thoug
h,’ I said. ‘I love what you wear.’
‘I think I could be confused with a local parish priest,’ said Bronagh. ‘Either that or an undertaker. It’s part of the job description. Must dress in black.’
‘Well, I think you look gorgeous,’ I said. ‘This is my running route,’ I noted, as we headed around the Forty Foot. ‘Every morning at 6 a.m.’ I was actually quite proud of myself because it was a long time since I had stuck to a habit for longer than one session. Roberto wasn’t going to recognise me when I went back to London.
‘I still can’t believe you’ve taken up running,’ Bronagh replied. ‘Next, you’ll be entering a triathlon like most of my colleagues. They are all obsessed with PBs, protein bars and something called “moisture-wicking”. Which has to be the worst phrase ever invented.’
I laughed.
A man was walking towards us. ‘Hi, Bronagh!’ he called.
‘Hi… Ferg…’ She stopped. ‘Fergus… Fergal… Fergie…’
He was tall, with a bushy red beard and wild red hair. ‘Did you go in today?’
‘Yes, yes!’ she said, not stopping. ‘Keep walking!’ she hissed to me under her breath.
‘Not too cold for you?’ he said, eagerly.
‘No, not remotely!’ She didn’t break a stride. ‘Come on.’ She pulled me along.
‘Okay, then, see you in the sea soon!’ he said, giving her a wave.
‘Who was that gorgeous hunk?’
She rolled her eyes. ‘Fergus, I think. Or Fergal something. He’s on the lifeboat crew, so he’s a do-gooder. He’s always trying to talk to me,’ she said. ‘He’s one of those nice men, the kind who are nice to people, talk to all the older swimmers and the kids…’
Life's What You Make It Page 12
