“No,” said Nessa. “You’ve given me credibility. That’s worth a lot more.”
“Are horoscopes always right?” asked Jill. “Do they really tell you the future?”
Nessa shook her head. “Not always,” she told her. “But they can help you be prepared. So that nothing can take you by surprise.”
“Bullshit,” said Cate.
“Well, maybe,” admitted Nessa. “But it’s nice to have them on your side all the same.”
5
Moon in Aries
Quick to react, impulsive, sometimes selfish.
Miriam sent Nessa a bouquet of flowers with a note thanking her for the dinner, the company and especially for the winning scratch card. The bouquet arrived early on Monday morning, another morning of late rising in the Riley household, which meant rushing around in a flap again. Although this time Nessa told Adam to get breakfast at work. She wasn’t giving him the opportunity to ram another car while he was eating a croissant.
Nessa was disappointed to think that this might be another week of inconveniences and disruptions but, when surgery ran exceptionally late, she knew that it would be. Late surgery meant a problem in picking up Jill. Last year it had been less of a problem because Nessa had been able to phone Miriam who would happily drop anything to meet her granddaughter from school. Nessa had never felt that she was imposing on Miriam when she asked her to do things. But phoning Adam and asking him if he could help was a different proposition entirely.
It had been a vain hope that he’d be available to pick up his daughter anyway. He wasn’t even in the office when Nessa called his direct line and his mobile phone was switched off. He was probably at some other stupid meeting, she thought. For all that Adam talked about his importance in the management consultancy business, where he gave companies advice on how to run their own firms more efficiently, his time never seemed to be his own. Nessa couldn’t remember the last occasion he’d been able to nip out and deal with some domestic difficulty and, deep down, she understood it. But it would’ve been nice, she thought as she listened to his message telling her to leave a message, if he had the sort of job where he could walk out for an hour or two, no questions asked.
Adam expected her to be able to walk out of the surgery any time. As far as he was concerned, her job was trivial in the scheme of things, something to keep her occupied in the mornings when Jill was at school and a way for her to have money that she could spend on herself without talking to him about it.
Nessa also knew that her job wasn’t important and it didn’t bother her. At first she hadn’t expected to stay working because she’d assumed that there’d be more than one child. There was no biological reason why that hadn’t happened, as her gynecologist told her when she’d asked him why she hadn’t got pregnant again after Jill. If they were relaxed about it, it would happen of its own accord, he assured them. But it didn’t and now Nessa couldn’t imagine getting pregnant again. They’d stopped talking about a brother or sister for Jill a long time ago. It never cropped up in conversation and it was something that had been relegated to things that might have been. Only once did she think that it might be about to happen again, the day that her horoscope had told her that a new event would cause significant changes in her life. She didn’t know why she’d thought it would be a baby but she did. And, afterward, when she realized that the new event was merely Dr. Hogan setting up a once-a-week asthma care clinic and asking her if she’d be able to help out, she knew that she never would have another baby. And she stopped thinking about it. She stopped regretting it too. Life was perfect the way that it was, with her and Adam and Jill as a tightly knit unit where everyone slotted neatly into place together. Adam the car-crasher, Nessa the carer and Jill the daughter that they were both crazy about.
She scratched the top of her head with her pencil and sighed. Without Miriam to rely on, Nessa’s own life had become more difficult. And, unlike her friend Paula whose younger sister lived a stone’s throw away and had two kids of her own, neither Cate nor Bree were ever available for emergency pick-up duty. In fact, thought Nessa grimly, by the time either of her sisters got to the children stage themselves, Jill would probably be a teenager and they’d be looking for her to baby-sit for them.
She picked up the phone and rang Jean Slater, the mother of Jill’s current best friend, Nicolette. She hated having to ask Jean who, unlike Nessa, had produced a clatter of children as easily as dealing a deck of cards and who seemed to spend her days in a whirlwind of child-related activities. Nessa felt that Jean was far too busy to worry about Jill as well as her own brood. But she was stuck.
“No problem,” said Jean when she phoned her. “Jill would probably be here playing with Nicolette anyway. Don’t worry.”
Nessa, who could hear the wails of the latest Slater baby over the phone, promised Jean that she’d get there as soon as possible. She replaced the receiver and buzzed the next patient. Cate and Bree thought she had it easy. How little they knew.
Bree was standing in the service reception area when the owner of the bright yellow sports edition Punto arrived. She raised her eyebrows in surprise as she saw him because he was at least forty if not fifty, had dark hair grizzled with gray and carried a briefcase. In Bree’s experience men like that drove heavy saloon cars—Mercedes or BMW or Volvo if they were well-off enough, Toyotas or Fiats or Fords if they were in the second layer of management. This man looked wealthy enough to be a Mercedes man so his ownership of the Punto was even more of a surprise.
“What the hell is all this about?” He was scanning the itemized list of the service and repair works they’d carried out. The work that she’d carried out, actually, because she’d taken the Punto job card and spent more time than she’d expected working on it.
“All the work was authorized,” said Christy calmly.
“But—replacing the power-steering hose and fluid, and all of the brake pads—the car isn’t that old, surely you didn’t need to do that. And the clutch too?”
“That clutch wouldn’t have got you to the end of the road.” Bree walked over to him. “And if you didn’t drive the car like a seventeen-year-old boy racer then half of what we had to do wouldn’t have needed to be done at all.”
“Excuse me?” He turned to look at her while Christy shot her a warning glare.
“My name is Bree Driscoll,” she told him. “I’m the mechanic that worked on your car. And it was a long haul.” Her eyes glittered. “The engine is frequently revved at far too high a level. From the wear on the tires you’re clearly taking corners too quickly. And you’re driving it through fields at speed too, which is why we had to replace some additional hosing and why, eventually, you’ll have even more problems.”
He stared at her.
“It’s not my place to criticize the driving of our customers,” she continued, “but, honestly, what do you expect when you’re clearly pretending to be a rally driver?”
Christy groaned softly as the client continued to stare at Bree.
“Anyway,” she said as she dropped her empty Styrofoam coffee cup into the black refuse sack, “if you want to spend less on servicing and repairs I suggest you drive the car as though you were a middle-aged suburban man instead of David Coulthard.”
He started to laugh then and Christy sighed with relief.
“It’s not my car,” he told Bree.
“Pardon?”
“It’s not my car,” he repeated. “It’s my son’s.”
She made a face. “Makes more sense now,” she admitted. “I didn’t think you were the go-faster stripes type when I saw you.”
“Declan Morrissey.” He held out his hand. She shook her head and indicated her oil-smeared glove.
“Better not shake on it,” she told him. “But I’m glad you understand.”
“I’ll pass on your comments to my son,” said Declan. “I’m not sure how effective they’ll be.”
“They won’t be effective for as long as you foot the bill for t
he repairs,” said Bree.
“I promised,” said Declan bleakly.
“You’d want to start reneging on that promise fairly soon,” suggested Bree. “Otherwise he’ll bankrupt you! You’re going to be back with it again in a few months, you know, and all the problems will be the same.” She shrugged. “It’s up to you, though. How old is he?”
“Who?”
“Your son.”
“Michael’s twenty-one,” said Declan.
“I know it’s not for me to say,” Bree said while Christy winced at the thought of what she was going to tell one of their very best customers now. “But he needs driving lessons. I don’t want to cast aspersions on your entire sex, Mr. Morrissey, but most men are terrible drivers when they’re younger. It’s the penis thing, you see. So you all drive around the place like lunatics, terrified to be beaten away at the lights by anyone else but particularly a woman, feeling that driving slowly is something for old ladies in ten-year-old Fiestas and generally believing that everyone on the road is looking at you in whatever it is you’re driving.”
Declan chuckled and Christy looked relieved.
“It was a birthday present for Michael,” Declan said.
“Wow. Wish my parents could’ve bought me birthday presents like that,” she told him. “I think I got a pair of gloves for my twenty-first.” Actually, she remembered guiltily, Louis and Miriam had bought her a set of motorbike leathers including heavy gloves for her birthday and she’d felt absolutely great going out in all the gear.
“You’re right, though,” said Declan. “Maybe it was an over-indulgent gift.”
“I guess if you were getting him a car you might as well have bought him something that really does go fast,” said Bree. “Otherwise he’d be trashing Nissan Micra’s around town and probably doing even more damage. Try and get him to drive in the right gear, that’d help. And slowing down at corners would be good too.”
“I’ll tell him,” said Declan.
“Suggest to him that he should pay the bill if it’s over a couple of hundred,” added Bree.
Declan looked at the invoice in his hand again.
“Good idea,” he said.
“Anyway, I’d better get back to the workshop.” She glanced at Christy. “Otherwise my manager will fire me.”
“I’d hate to be responsible for that!” Declan smiled at her. “Thanks for the advice.”
“No problem.” She waved lightly and pushed open the door to the workshop.
“Sorry about that,” said Christy to Declan. “She’s a nice girl but her mouth does kind of run away with her sometimes.”
“I didn’t know that you had women mechanics.” Declan handed his Visa card to the service manager.
“She’s the only one,” said Christy.
“Is she any good?”
“She did that service in half the time it would’ve taken most mechanics,” said Christy. “And—though it pains me to say it—she probably did it better than most of them.”
“Really?”
“She’s got a way with cars,” said Christy. “She loves them. I’ve seen her do a complete service in two hours and then suggest we check out something else completely and she’s usually right. Very annoying.”
Declan grinned. “Has she been with you long? Only I haven’t seen her before.”
“A year, I think.” Christy furrowed his brow. “I can’t remember, to tell you the truth. Seems like she’s been here forever. Apparently she’s had two job offers since she joined so I’m not actually expecting her to stay.”
“That good?”
“Oh, there’s a shortage of qualified mechanics at the moment,” Christy told him. “It’s not entirely down to her, all of my guys have had offers. But she’s most likely to take one.”
“Why?” asked Declan.
“Because she’s flighty,” said Christy. “Can’t stay in the one place for too long. I don’t think she’s stayed anywhere else as long as this but she always has brilliant references. She spent a year traveling around the world too. Not the settling down sort.”
“Pretty,” said Declan noncommittally.
“Cleans up well.” Christy grinned at him. “But she also packs a mean punch. Did karate or something as a kid. Nobody messes with her.”
“I’ve certainly no intention of messing with her.” Declan laughed. “I’ve enough trouble at home already.” And more trouble, he said to himself as he took the Visa card, when I talk to Michael about what he’s doing to that car.
Cate stood in front of the wardrobe mirror and looked at her reflection. Her makeup was perfect—honey-beige foundation, natural glow blusher and smoke-gray eye shadow set off by her favorite extra-lash mascara. Her lips were cherry red and glossy. Her navy dress was almost perfect too, neatly cut, not too low yet showing enough cleavage to tell people that she wasn’t afraid to flaunt her best assets. It was Finn’s personal favorite of all her dresses and she wanted to wear something that Finn liked because she knew that he didn’t really want to come to the drinks party tonight. It wasn’t a media affair, just the sports company and some of its clients to celebrate five years’ successful business in Ireland. Maybe in a few months’ time, she thought, when the major awards dinner for the sports scheme they’d recently launched was under way and the kids from the KickStart Initiative won their awards, he might feel it worth his while to drop in. Because in a few months’ time there’d be a glitzy media night and, by then, she had no doubt that Finn Coolidge would be a big star and he’d want to be seen at an event organized for kids. But not tonight when it was just business and it wouldn’t do his career any good.
“Bitchy,” she said out loud as she turned to check how she looked from the back. He’s not really like that. He doesn’t weigh up things according to how helpful they’ll be to his career. And he’s coming tonight, isn’t he? So what’s the problem?
The problem was that she wished he wanted to come instead of knowing that he’d be turning up out of a sense of duty. But, she muttered to herself as she fastened her silver necklace, whoever wanted to go to a boring drinks reception anyway? Especially when it was for something as mundane as the sports company and not glitzy and important like one of his media events.
She went into the living room and poured herself a glass of wine. She’d only drink water at the reception but wine was a nice option now. Then she sat down on the ultra modern but surprisingly comfortable leather couch and waited for Finn to come home.
Why hadn’t he told her about the TV program sooner? she asked herself as she ran her finger around the rim of the glass. There had been a time when they talked about absolutely everything, a time when he wouldn’t have kept something so important a secret from her. He’d said it was because he was afraid to talk about it. That if he actually spoke the words it might not happen at all. That was the kind of woolly thinking that Nessa, with her horoscopes and predictions and “feelings” about things, would come up with. It wasn’t the way Finn and Cate had led their lives.
But she couldn’t fight with him about it. He was so thrilled and so absolutely sure that she was thrilled too that she didn’t have the heart to argue with him. Besides, she was thrilled. Even if it meant that Finn was so close to realizing all his dreams while she wasn’t even sure what hers were any more.
When she was twelve she’d wanted to be a model. She’d overheard two adults talking about her and had been pleased to hear them say that she was exceptionally attractive. Not pretty in a conventional way, one of the women had said, but an arresting face nonetheless. Cate had been proud to have an arresting face. She’d wondered then if she should send in photographs of herself to model agencies and see what they had to say but she wasn’t altogether convinced that Miriam would approve. And then a few days later—like a warning from God or something—she’d seen a program on TV about supermodels and diets and drugs and all sorts of things and Miriam had clucked and said that it was no life for a young girl and that it was the most sordid busine
ss she’d ever come across. In some ways, Cate had been relieved. She wasn’t sure she had the stamina to become a supermodel. Besides, she wasn’t tall enough yet. But the whole episode had sparked an interest in looking her best which had stayed with her ever since.
It was in secondary school that she’d discovered her aptitude for business. The teachers encouraged it. Looks may come and go, the careers guidance teacher had told them one day, but a good business head stays with you forever. And Cate had a good head for business. Most of the time.
She looked at her watch. Finn was late. That wasn’t exactly a surprise because, unless it had to do with his radio program where Finn was pathologically punctual, he was late for everything. Like she was, unless it was anything to do with work. We’re a sad pair, she murmured under her breath, when we can be on time for total strangers but late for each other.
She tapped her fingers on the side of her wineglass and frowned. Too much later and they’d be late arriving at the party which she couldn’t do. She was meant to be there before anyone else, smiling at their clients and welcoming them as they arrived. Not turning up half an hour after them, breathless and red-faced.
She reached for the phone and dialed his number.
“Finn here,” said the recorded message. “I can’t take your call right now but do leave a number and I’ll ring back as soon as I can.”
“Why haven’t you got the phone switched on?” she said. “Finn, we’ll be late for the reception. Ring me as soon as you listen to this.”
She walked around the living room impatiently, her heels tapping her annoyance on the wooden floors. If he didn’t ring in the next five minutes she’d have to leave without him and she knew that would lead to a row later. He’d turn up at the reception a couple of minutes behind her and he’d ask her if she didn’t trust him to be on time and she’d say but he hadn’t rung and he’d say that he didn’t need to ring, hadn’t he told her he’d be home on time?
He's Got to Go Page 5
