Angela looks over at her for a second, then nods firmly. ‘You bet I do – and I’m having lots of little nibbly posh things. And if that birthday cake has more than four candles, you’ll pay.’
Lizzie smiles and puts a hand on Angela’s arm. ‘I won’t say he’s not worth it, because that’s as useless as saying there are more fish in the sea. I will say that he must be crazy to have left you for anyone else.’
Angela’s eyes fill up again, and she dabs at them with the towel. ‘Thanks. Of course you’re right.’
‘I’ll come a bit early for today’s shift – I’m putting on a little extra dessert in honour of the day. Can you guess?’
Angela shakes her head. ‘Sorry – not in the mood for guessing.’
‘Well, I’ll tell you, then; it’s sticky toffee pudding. We’ll go on our after-Easter diet tomorrow.’
‘Definitely.’ Her smile is watery. ‘Thanks, Lizzie. See you later.’ As Lizzie goes out, Angela calls after her, ‘Think about who we should ask on Sunday – apart from the obvious.’
On her way back to the caravan, Lizzie sees Dumbledore under his usual bush, fast asleep. Ten feet away, under a neighbouring bush, Jones sits and watches him. Not spitting or hissing, like he used to do every time he laid eyes on the poor dog; not even waving his tail. Just watching.
She smiles. ‘Come on, puss.’ And she and Jones walk towards the caravan.
Chapter Thirteen
Lizzie unscrews the tub of hair wax and peers inside. It smells vaguely fruity. She looks at the side of the tub; the writing sounds loud. Get that just-out-of-bed look! Have fun with your hair! Mess it! Play with it! Scrunch it! Do whatever feels good! She’s wary of all the exclamation marks.
She pokes a finger into the tub – it feels like putty – pulls out a little blob and spreads it between her fingers. Now what exactly did they do at the salon? She wiggles her hands into her hair, scrunching it around a bit, squeezing handfuls of hair at random. Then she checks in the mirror, turning her head this way and that. Not too radical; good. She pulls a bit of hair down in the front, and pushes another bit back. Fine.
Now for the face. She runs her eye pencil along the bottoms of her eyes, then brushes on some blusher – her ten-year-old foundation has finally gone into the bin – and flicks a lipstick over her lips. That’s grand.
‘Lizzie? Are you decent?’
‘Come in.’
Angela walks in, followed by Deirdre, who’s holding her make-up box and looking embarrassed. Angela puts up a warning hand. ‘Now, Lizzie, don’t kill us – we thought you might like a bit of help with your dolling up.’
Deirdre chimes in, ‘She thought, Lizzie, not me,’ and clicks open the box. Bottles and tubes and sticks of every description are neatly arranged inside.
Lizzie looks at it, then up at Angela. ‘But I’ve just done my make-up – see?’ She points to her face. ‘And I’ve waxed my hair.’
‘Exactly.’ Angela nods, and turns to Deirdre. ‘See what I mean?’
Deirdre looks helplessly at Lizzie. ‘Sorry, Lizzie; I’m only following orders.’
Angela puts up a hand to shush her, and looks back at Lizzie. ‘Look, pet, I know you’d like to look your best tonight’ – she winks at Lizzie, back turned to Deirdre – ‘and you know our Dee is always dying to try out her bits and bobs on someone. So I just thought you might like her to give you a bit of a makeover. What do you say? Don’t be offended.’
Lizzie looks at them and laughs. ‘I’m not in the least offended, don’t worry – I know I haven’t a clue, really.’ She puts up her hands in surrender. ‘OK. Deirdre, I’m all yours.’
Angela looks satisfied; she turns to Deirdre. ‘Right, love, do your stuff. You’ve got ten minutes.’
When she’s gone, Deirdre looks shyly at Lizzie. ‘Are you sure you don’t mind? It really was all her idea.’
‘I have no doubt.’ It never ceases to amaze Lizzie that any child of Angela’s could be so quiet; Deirdre would never in a million years have suggested this. ‘And I absolutely don’t mind; I’m delighted.’ Deirdre actually shows a real flair for doing make-up; she’s done Angela’s a few times, and it always looks great. Lizzie is only too happy to put herself in her hands.
As Deirdre cleanses and moisturises and begins to apply foundation, they chat. Lizzie doesn’t see that much of Deirdre. She’s out at school all day, and in the evenings she’s busy in the restaurant, or studying for her Junior Cert. During the weekends she seems to disappear, with various pals, Lizzie presumes. Angela gives her a fair bit of freedom, not keeping too close an eye on her activities, as long as she’s home at a decent hour. But then, Deirdre seems amazingly level-headed for a fifteen-year-old. Lizzie thinks that maybe teenagers in broken homes have to grow up quicker.
‘You must be dying for the holidays.’ The exams are just a month away.
Deirdre nods, patting powder on Lizzie’s face. ‘I sure am – can’t wait.’
‘Have you plans for transition year?’ Lizzie only has a vague notion what that is; there was no such thing when she was at school. All she knows is that it’s a kind of step sideways from the usual curriculum, a year of doing things a bit differently.
Deirdre nods again. ‘Well . . . I’m hoping to do a beautician’s course – there’s talk of one being offered in the school for transition years; and then what I’d really like to do . . .’ She hesitates, concentrating on what she’s doing for a few seconds. ‘I haven’t talked about this to Mum yet, but I’d really love to get some work experience in England. The salons in London are supposed to be fantastic.’
Lizzie is surprised – she didn’t imagine that Deirdre would be interested in leaving Merway. She can’t see Angela turning somersaults at the thought.
‘How could you do that with school, though?’ She hopes she doesn’t sound too like Mammy.
Deirdre shrugs. ‘Well, you don’t need the Leaving to work as a beautician – and that’s what I really want to do.’
‘Oh, right.’ Lizzie digests this for a minute. She thinks back to her own great plans to travel the world, the disappointment she felt when Síle said she’d changed her mind. And she thinks of her own career dreams – all that time she wasted doing what others expected. Why shouldn’t Deirdre go for what she wants?
She meets the girl’s eye in the mirror. ‘That sounds like a good idea; I’m sure London would be very exciting. You’re still pretty young, though – I’d say you’ll have a job persuading your mother to let you go.’
Deirdre smiles, nods. ‘I’d say you’re right there.’ She strokes a liquid eyeliner carefully just above Lizzie’s eyelashes. ‘But there’s a pal who might be interested in going as well . . . We’ll see. I might manage to persuade her.’ She looks anxiously at Lizzie. ‘You won’t say anything, will you?’
‘Of course not.’ She’s touched that Deirdre would confide in her, maybe she doesn’t have that many people she can talk to. It’s certainly not something she could ask Angela’s advice about – Lizzie can just see Angela hitting the roof at the thought of her innocent young daughter heading off to London.
She can see how much Angela cares about Deirdre; it’s obvious whenever they’re together – the fondness in her voice when she talks to her, the way she often reaches out and touches her. No doubt John does his bit too, when he takes her out for the day. Still, it must have been horrible for her when they split up.
When Angela gets back, she nods in approval. ‘You’ll do.’
And Lizzie has to agree. Deirdre has done something to her eyes that makes them look far more dramatic than they are; and her lashes, her pride and joy, look amazing. Deirdre refuses to take the credit. ‘I didn’t have to do much with them – just a curl and some clear mascara. You’re lucky – they’re gorgeous, so dark and long.’
She’s made Lizzie’s skin look smooth and even, not a freckle to be seen, a rosy glow just where it’s supposed to be. Her lips have been buffed and painted and blotted and sealed – she’ll be te
rrified to eat or drink a thing. Angela reassures her. ‘Don’t worry, that lipstick will need to be scrubbed off tonight; it’s going nowhere.’
Her hair has been properly waxed – Deirdre tentatively suggested that she add a bit more – and the highlights shine, and the layers are defined, and it looks twice as thick as it is.
Lizzie turns to Deirdre. ‘Thanks so much, Deirdre. I’m really glad your mother bullied you into it. And please come shopping with me soon and help me choose make-up – I wouldn’t have a clue what to buy.’
Deirdre smiles as she packs away her powders and paints. ‘No problem; you look great. See you in a bit.’ She heads out the door. ‘Come on, Mum; your turn.’
Angela looks at her watch. ‘Oh my God, they’ll be here in twenty minutes. Lizzie, put some clothes on you quick and get your ass into that kitchen.’
‘I’ll be there in five minutes. Everything’s ready, anyway; calm down.’ As the caravan door closes, she calls, ‘Angela?’
Angela puts her head back inside. ‘Yeah?’
‘Did I mention how amazing you look tonight?’
She does; wide-legged black linen trousers, cream-and-black linen top, glossy blonde hair – natural blonde, not like Lizzie’s – and a turquoise-and-silver pendant that Lizzie covets every time she sees it.
‘You didn’t, and I know. See you in five.’ And she’s gone.
Lizzie shrugs off her dressing-gown and pulls on her new pale-blue low-rise cropped trousers. Then she takes out the white chiffon top that Angela made her buy to go with them, and puts it on. It’s not the kind of thing she’d ever have bought on her own, but she has to admit that it looks good – dressy without being dressed-up. She likes the wavy neckband, and the fact that it’s short enough to show off the band of darker blue around the top of the trousers.
She steps into the shoes that she bought in Footsie in Seapoint the other day. They’re higher than she’s used to, but they suit the cropped trousers; they make her ankles look slightly more slender, too, which they badly need.
Then she stands in front of the mirror and checks that the fake tan she put on her calves didn’t streak. No sign of a giveaway line anywhere. She grabs her turquoise shawl and pulls it around her as she opens the caravan door. Tottering over the gravel on her way to the house, she tells God that she’d appreciate not falling flat on her face tonight, please; she’d really rather remember the night for quite a different reason.
Joe shows up at twenty past eight, one of the last to arrive. He makes straight for Angela and wraps her in a warm hug. ‘Happy birthday, Ange. I must say you don’t look a day over fifty-five.’
Angela steps back and looks at him, then turns to Lizzie, who’s handing around a plate of canapés. ‘Lizzie, give him no food. Or drink.’ Then she pulls Joe back to her and hugs him again. ‘You look great for ninety yourself. Where’s my present?’
‘I knew I wouldn’t get in without one. Here.’ He takes a small packet from inside his jacket and hands it to her.
Angela looks up at him and bats her eyelashes, raising her voice for the benefit of Maggie Delaney, who’s standing nearby. ‘Looks like an engagement-ring box. Are you planning to make an honest woman of me, Joe McCarthy?’
If she’s trying to embarrass him, she’s wasting her time. He grins. ‘You wish. Open it.’
Angela opens it, and draws in her breath. ‘Joe . . . that is absolutely amazing. Lizzie, come and see.’
Nestling in a little cardboard box lined with cotton wool is a life-sized wooden fuchsia on a thin silver chain. The detail is wonderful, each petal delicately carved and perfectly curved. Lizzie wonders briefly if he was working on this when she came to him with her demand for a frame. Was he under pressure, trying to get the two pieces finished on time? She decides to keep her mouth well and truly closed, just in case.
Not Angela. ‘Joe McCarthy, you’ve really surpassed yourself this time. How did you manage it?’ She holds it up and twirls it around. ‘So perfectly formed, like myself . . . It’s fantastic – thanks so much.’ She reaches up and smacks a kiss on Joe’s cheek, then rubs off the lipstick. ‘And the frame is fabulous, too – look.’ She gestures to the photo hanging on the wall.
He gives it an amused look. ‘Where would you be without me?’
Angela digs him in the ribs. ‘Don’t start. Now, what are you having to drink?’
‘What have you got?’
‘Just about everything – except Guinness out of a barrel. But we do have cans of draught.’
‘That’ll do fine.’
Angela goes to get it, winking at Lizzie behind his back – ‘Lizzie, entertain our guest’ – and Lizzie watches as he peels off his blue-and-grey tweed jacket and drapes it over the back of a chair. Then she holds out the plate to him. ‘Sir, can I interest you in a snack?’ And may I just say, sir, that you’re looking dead sexy tonight? He’s wearing a faded denim shirt that somehow makes his eyes look even bluer, and khaki jeans. She could eat him up.
They’re in the restaurant, which is closed to the public on Sunday nights. The tables have been pushed back to make a space in front of the fire, which is blazing away as usual. Apart from Angela and Deirdre, there are half a dozen people in the room already, including Dominic the artist and Big Maggie from Blooming Miracles. Sarah Vaughan, a favourite of Angela’s, is singing softly in the background.
Joe eyes the plate of food and takes a salmon roll. ‘Thanks – and, now that I have your ear, there’s something I wanted to ask you.’
‘What’s that?’ Lizzie looks innocently back at him, hoping he can’t read her mind. Whatever it is, the answer is yes. Especially if it involves any form of physical contact.
‘I wondered if you’d be interested in a bit of work.’ He takes a bite of his roll. ‘Mmm, very tasty.’
‘Work? What kind of work?’ Her first thought is that this is probably a joke. She can just see him figuring it all out in the shop earlier. She’s determined not to be caught out tonight; she’ll have to have her wits about her.
He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘I need someone to help out in the shop, and I wanted to give you first refusal.’
Just then Angela comes back with a can and a glass, and Lizzie has a minute to think as Joe takes them and starts to pour. Is he serious? He seems to be – but then, Joe McCarthy is a master of the straight face. But why would he joke about a thing like that?
She decides to put him to the test.
‘Angela, Joe has just offered me a job in his shop.’ She watches his face for a reaction – nothing.
Angela gives him a fierce look. ‘What – are you poaching my staff, Joe McCarthy?’
‘No, no; I’m just looking for part-time help, two or three hours in the morning. You’re free then, aren’t you, Lizzie? I thought you might manage the two jobs.’
Angela looks puzzled. ‘But, Joe, you don’t need help, do you? I mean, the shop is hardly big enough for two working there.’
‘That’s true, but I want a bit of time off to carve. A pal has opened up a craft shop in Cork and asked me to supply some stuff, so I need someone to hold the fort to give me a break.’ He looks at Lizzie. ‘I’d still be on the premises, just in the back room.’
Angela’s face clears. ‘Joe, that’s great. I always said you should be making money out of your carving. I’ll leave you to negotiate with him, Lizzie. Just remember I need you in the afternoons. And you don’t get out of bed for less than fifty euros an hour.’
When she’s gone, Lizzie turns back to Joe. He’s still looking at her, waiting for her answer.
So it’s not a joke. Joe McCarthy is offering her a job in Ripe. She thinks fast. ‘How many days a week were you thinking?’ Please let her not sound as if this is the most exciting offer she’s had in years.
‘Let’s see . . . say three days a week to start with, Monday, Wednesday and Friday, from maybe nine or nine-thirty, three hours a day. I’ll pay whatever the going rate is. How does that sound?’ He takes a s
wig from his glass and waits.
That sounds like music to my ears. Lizzie pretends to consider; easy does it. ‘I think that would be fine . . .’ She nods slowly. ‘Yeah, I’ll take it. Thanks. When would you like me to start?’
Joe beams at her. ‘As soon as you like. Is tomorrow too soon?’
Not a minute. With great difficulty, she keeps a neutral expression on her face. Tomorrow she and the most fanciable man in Merway will be under the same roof for three solid hours. She’ll be in the shop, and he’ll be only yards away, in the back room. She wonders briefly why the shifty-looking Charlie isn’t helping out, then decides it’s none of her business. ‘That sounds fine. Let me get you another can to seal the deal.’
‘Thanks. Oh, and by the way –’ He picks another salmon roll off the plate. ‘– I did tell you about the uniform, didn’t I?’
Lizzie grins. Here we go. She leans against the table and waits. ‘Actually, no, Joe, you forgot to mention the uniform.’
He nods, studying the roll intently. ‘Oh, yes, it’s required by safety regulations. Black skirt, very short; little white frilly apron; very high heels – the ones you’ve on there would do fine; black top, very low-cut; and shiny red lipstick at all times.’ Not a hint of a smile as he looks back up at her. ‘Does that sound OK?’
She nods thoughtfully, biting her cheek to keep the smile away. ‘Fine – except . . .’ Is she brazen enough for this? She is. ‘The only low-cut tops I have are see-through as well; would they do?’ God, she sounds like a right brazen hussy; Mammy would faint in mortification if she could hear her.
Joe gives her his best dirty-old-man look and leans towards her. ‘I can see you’re a quick learner. I look forward to doing business with you, Miss O’Grady.’
The party is a big success. Everyone stays till well after midnight, even Big Maggie, who’s usually in bed by ten. Lizzie’s baby quiches and savoury mini-muffins – parmesan and pine nut, cheese and bacon – and Angela’s salmon rolls, stuffed vine leaves and cheesy sesame squares are followed by a devil’s-food cake and a hazelnut roulade, with one fat candle in the middle of each.
The Daisy Picker Page 11
