‘I have really got to get going, Bridie.’
‘I know you do, love. Come back tomorrow, and we’ll have a proper catch up.’
‘I will.’ I probably won’t.
‘You’re not just saying that now?’
Totally just saying that.
‘Because I’d love to talk with you. About your mother.’
I freeze. What does Bridie know about Mum? Does she know why she left? Would she tell me if she did?
‘You come by when you can.’ She squeezes my arm and swishes out the door before I can say another word.
CHAPTER EIGHT
I watch as Bridie trips up the path toward the minibus and the semi-circle of holidaymakers. Her head looks enormous in the whirling glass. Mum never mentioned Bridie. Or the factory. Not even once. But the way Bridie was going on about her, they must’ve been close. So why have I never heard of her, or St Enda’s?
I pause in the corridor, my heart humming in time with the old diesel. Don’t tell me the big, black Tully secret is cheese! Kate would never let me live that down. Maybe it was something to do with money. The diesel coughs, sputters for a few seconds, and then thrums brightly again. Whatever it is Bridie knows, or doesn’t know, it can’t be that important. Right?
I dart and duck my way around the perimeter of the factory floor. They are nice ladies, all of them. Very nice. But I can’t let myself get sucked into this mess! I have my own mess! My own very nice (very expensive) New York sort of mess. Brad materializes, all smooth talk and black jeans, in front of me. He puts a hand to my face and leans down, eyes wide open, to kiss me.
WAKE UP, for God’s sake, Julie!
I push Brad out of my mind, let myself out the loading bay door, and mince my way back up the road. At the top of the hill, I hang a right for the village. I have to check in with Kate. She made me promise I’d ring as soon as I got here. She’ll be worried sick! Hopefully, she’s been too busy to get too wound up.
I quicken my pace, imagining the what ifs. Has she landed the office off Bryant Park? Has she put in her resignation at M&A? Or had she been struck down with a terrible dose of The Biting of Reality? The thought makes me shiver. Even twenty-some-odd-thousand dollars to the good, there is no way I could launch the firm on my own. But Kate wouldn’t leave me hanging like that. No way. She’s probably kicked back behind an ultra mod plastic desk, chatting up clients and watching the park goers sip at their morning coffees.
Coffee. I’d give my left eye for a proper coffee. I double time it onto the main street of the village. A man with bushy eyebrows ambles by, a heifer at his heels. He cranes his neck at me as he passes. I round the bend and the glossy black façade of the Kilronan Arms rears into view, its tall sash windows sparkling in the sun. A hand printed sign sits wedged on the corner sill: ‘Free Wi-Fi’.
Thank God for that.
I push through the door and make my way to the bar, or what I think is the bar. It’s hard to see in the shuttered half light. Three old men swivel on their stools to consider me.
‘Hello,’ I say to the nearest of them. They nod.
Where is the bartender? I crane a look behind the bar and into a store. The ruddy old boys stare at me as unashamedly as children. Somewhere, a door slams shut, and then a boy, maybe fourteen, knees his way through the side door, his boney elbows jutting out on either side of the crate he’s cradling.
‘Sorry, now,’ he says to me and sets the crate under the bar. ‘What can I get ya?’
For a few too many seconds, I’m dumbstruck. The old fella beside me empties his glass and says, ‘Give her a drop of the black stuff, Paudie.’ The man beside him gives a low whistle into his pint.
Black stuff?
Paudie ignores them.
‘I’ll have a coffee, please.’
‘Milk and sugar?’
‘Black.’
He nods and pads to the other end of the bar. The drip machine hisses to life and fills the stale room with an earthy, sweet smell. When Paudie reappears with a steaming mug, I almost reach across the bar to hug him.
‘Thank you.’
‘Not at all,’ he smiles.
‘Any chance you have the paper?’
‘Connacht Tribune or The Independent?’
‘Em…’ No Wall Street Journal? No NY Times? I might as well be on Mars. ‘The Independent,’ I sigh.
I make my way to a back booth, the old lads swivelling round the other way to follow with their eyes.
‘Jayzus,’ the whistler says. ‘Where did she come out of?’
I flick on my laptop and unfold the paper: ‘Central Bank in talks to save Euro. Housing slump at record low. Irish farmers lose out on state subsidies.’
‘Different continent, same old story,’ I sigh and log onto the wireless network. In one glorious click, I’m back in the twenty-first century! I pull up my email with a flourish. My inbox is crammed with junk. Nothing from Kate. I log onto Facebook and take a long, luxurious pull on my coffee.
‘Day two in Ireland, first proper coffee!’ I type into my status bar.
Does that sound completely dull? As in ‘girl takes spur of the moment trip to Europe, highlight is coffee’ dull? I read the line over to myself. Kind of does. I jam on the delete key.
‘Living it up in Ireland,’ I type. Oh yeah. That’s the stuff.
I click onto my profile page. ‘In a relationship with B. Scholer.’ Bit of an overstatement? My eyes dart to Brad’s flawless black and white profile. I can almost smell the rich, rosemary twinge of his vegan aftershave. My stomach knots. Is it really over? I hover over the mouse. He was up on some girl IN your bed, Julie. I’d say it’s over. I jab at Brad’s eyeball with the pointer. Just two clicks and Julie Quinn will be single and ready to mingle. Sort of. I sigh.
The computer bleeps, and an instant message pops onto the corner of the screen. ‘B. Scholer: How’s things, Jules?’
What is he, psychic?!
‘Just saw your update--didn’t know you were going to Ireland! Hope you’re okay. Thinking of you.’
I exit out of Facebook in a flushing panic.
Not ready to talk to you, Brad. Not even close.
I log onto Skype and scan for Kate’s screen name. She’s online! Wow, that’s early! I dial through, and she picks up on the first ring.
‘Morning! I mean top of the morning!’ she trills into the web-cam.
‘Yeah, no one actually says that,’ I laugh.
‘No? How ’bout leprechauns? Or shalalies? Bet that kid behind you has a massive one!’
‘Kate, Jesus!’ I hammer on the volume key.
‘Wait--are you in a bar?’
‘A pub.’
‘Difference being?’
‘That kid’s pulling the pints.’
‘Oh wow.’
‘Seriously,’ I whisper into the mic. ‘This place is mental! Like time warp mental. I can’t wait to get out of here.’
‘I can’t wait for you to get out of there! Roger’s gone all gulag over here. I’m this close to backhanding him,’ Kate says. Her eyes dart to the side. ‘Shit. Hang on two secs.’ She angles the screen downward. There’s a screechy ruffling, then a man’s voice. Was that Stuart? Is she at work?!
I bite at a hangnail.
‘Ok, I’m back,’ Kate huffs.
‘What are you doing at the office? It’s half seven!’
Kate rolls her eyes. ‘Overtime for Mr. Kline.’
‘Get out.’
‘And Stuart’s been asking after you. Like every day. I told him you’re working on something big.’
‘In Inishmore,’ I smirk.
‘Well, Europe! Dude, what happened at the reading?!’
‘Promise you won’t laugh?’
‘NO!’ Kate smirks.
‘I’ve inherited a factory.’
‘Tell me chocolate.’
‘Cheese.’
Kate bursts out laughing. She claps her hands to her mouth, then plonks them on the desk. ‘You hate cheese!’
‘Well, yeah.’
‘I sign the papers Tuesday, and there’s a flight out that evening.’
‘Perfect.’ Kate claps her hands together, beaming. I can see myself sashaying down the jetway, a €20,000 check in my back pocket.
‘Any word on the office?’ I ask.
‘Not a one. Today maybe. I’m feeling good about today.’
‘You hear anything--ANYthing--email me!’
‘I will. No worries. I’ve got everything sorted, Jules. You have fun.’
‘Right,’ I laugh.
‘Hey, I googled the place. It’s gorgeous!’
‘I’m outnumbered by cows three to one.’
‘Which is WHY you should do something completely crazy,’ Kate winks.
‘I don’t know--’
‘Dive off a cliff! Or eat a raw oyster! And you are so not coming home till you sleep with at least two strange men.’
‘Trust me, Kate. These farm boys? Not my type.’
For a millisecond, I think of the guy from the ferry yesterday. Michael’s gorgeous, over-inflated head pops, gopher like, into my brain. The skin on my neck burns pink.
She narrows her eyes at me. ‘You met someone.’
‘No I didn’t.’
‘You totally did. SPILL.’
‘I didn’t.’ I flush red.
‘Was he funny-looking? Wonky eye? What did I tell you about the fugly ones?’
‘Don’t you have work to do?’
‘Cling-ons, Jules. Cling-ONS.’
‘I’m going,’ I laugh.
‘Right. Call me tomorrow!’
‘Okay. Bye you.’
She blows me a movie star kiss and signs off. So, nothing to worry about on the home front. Kate’s got it under control, and in a few days I’ll be back in the city to help her knock out the real work of up starting Quinn and Foster.
I order another cup of coffee and a toasted sandwich and take my sweet time reading the digital issues of The Times and The New Yorker. It’s nearly five when I shoulder my bag and step out onto the street, dazzled by the full sun on the wet asphalt. Deep crimson blooms droop from hanging baskets. How had I not noticed them before?
I peer down the street at the jumble of vegetable stands and bicycles, and look in a shop window filled corner to corner with shovels and buckets and serious looking tea pots. Women lope past with canvas shopping bags, their shoulders wrapped in bold knit shawls. A handful of men stand in a loose circle, arms crossed before them, in the doorway of a butcher’s. They nod to the women as they pass and ask after their Misters. No one seems in a hurry to be anywhere. I feel as if I’ve been superimposed onto a film set or a postcard, something picturesque and not quite real. New York seems more than a world away.
I take my time walking back up the road to Clare and Dermot’s, taking in the sweep of the fields and the wild crossed colors of the flowers that hem the road. Should I mention my visit to St. Enda’s to Clare? It’d be awkward, no matter how I phrased it; but if I didn’t, it might seem like I’m up to something. If she rescinded on our deal, I’d be S.O.L.
I wind my way up the walk to the cottage and rap lightly on the door. Through the opened windows I can hear Dermot’s wheezy laugh, the clinking of glasses, Clare knocking around in the kitchen. It’s Cormac who opens the door, face flushed and eyes wide.
‘Heya cuz,’ he says and steps aside to let me in.
‘Hey.’
‘You like bacon? The kind you boil, like?’
I try to picture a saucepan bubbling over with strips of bacon.
‘I said what if you don’t eat meat,’ says Cormac. ‘A lot of birds don’t eat meat. In the States.’
‘Birds?’
‘Chicks.’
AH.
‘This chick eats meat,’ I smile.
‘Good so. Because Mum doesn’t cook much else.’
I follow him into the sitting room. He stops just short of the kitchen door, peers in, and spins round to me. ‘Hey, can I ask you something?’ he whispers, eyes darting self-consciously.
‘Um. Sure.’
‘I have this friend, Ava,’ he says, cheeks searing. ‘She comes here every summer.’
Ohhh. We’re talking girls.
‘Anyway, she’s American, and you’re American,’ Cormac pratters on, a reddish splotch swathing his neck.
‘Uh-huh.’ I try to hide the sneaking smile rising now from the corner of my mouth. This kid’s got it bad!
‘I want to know what to say to her, like. So I don’t sound like a total pleb.’
‘You are asking the wroooong person,’ I drawl.
‘Ah, come on. Who else am I gonna ask?’
Good point. Clare doesn’t seem like the tell-mommy-your-secrets sort.
‘Well, what’s she like? What’s she into?’
‘She’s class. Pure sound out,’ Cormac says dreamily.
‘Okay.’
‘Like, you know how girls are all the time, squealing and going on about hair and Louis Wooton--’
‘Are they?’
‘Uh yeah.’ He rolls his eyes at me. ‘Anyway, Ava’s not like that. She into real stuff. Like movies. And The Doors.’
‘Sounds like a very cool girl.’
‘She’s from LA,’ he gushes.
Oh well, she must be cool.
‘She’s going to be a cinematographer.’
‘Fancy,’ I smile.
‘Yeah, and I wanted to get her something nice, but all they had up at the shop was Jesus candles and shot glasses.’
‘If she’s as cool as she says she is, I wouldn’t waste your time giving her stuff,’ I say. ‘Give her a memory.’
‘How do you mean?’ He scrunches his nose at me.
‘You know. Take her down to the beach. Or to the cliffs. Do something for her.’
Cormac chews on this for a second. ‘I could play her something on my sax!’
‘Yeah…’ Or not.
‘Thanks, cuz,’ he says and bumps my fist.
‘You’re welcome.’ Good one, Julie. He’s going to honk down at her from the cliffs.
Cormac sidles gangsta style into the kitchen, and I tag behind him. Dermot is hunched over the table, sipping a hot whiskey and bantering on with a broad shouldered someone. Clare stands over several gurgling pots, a hand on her out thrust hip.
‘Julie,’ Dermot smiles and raises his glass to me. ‘Come in, come in! I was only just talking about you.’
The man opposite him sets his elbows on the chair back and turns round to meet me. As soon as I catch sight of his sly, toothy smile, my stomach drops to the floor.
‘What are you doing here?!’ The words are out of my mouth before I have that second to rethink them.
Clare sets her spoon down and half turns to take in this unexpected drama. Michael doesn’t say a word. He just sits there smiling like a fool. A ridiculously good looking fool.
‘Sure you didn’t tell me you knew each other,’ Dermot says to him.
‘We don’t,’ I say.
‘We met on the ferry,’ Michael says. ‘But you’re right. We were never formally introduced.’ He stands up and juts a hand out. ‘Lovely to meet you, Julie.’ I give it one hard shake and let it drop.
That’s right. I know exactly what your game is, mister.
He pulls out a chair for me. I can feel Clare smirking at me from the sideboard.
Don’t make a scene. Just sit.
I settle onto the edge of the chair and force a smile. ‘Smells gorgeous, Clare,’ I say.
‘It should,’ Michael grins at her. ‘There isn’t a finer cook on Inishmore.’
‘Arrah stop,’ Clare says, blushing like a schoolgirl.
Wonder Boy, at full tilt. Gag me.
‘How are you finding our island?’ Michael asks.
Is there a right answer to this question?
‘It’s… lovely,’ I say and grab up a glass of water. I take a deep pull on it and pray he won’t prod any fur
ther.
‘Julie’s inherited St Enda’s,’ Cormac blurts.
The water skews down the wrong pipe, and I hack and splutter for air.
Michael considers me gravely. ‘Is that so?’
I nod and clutch at my throat.
‘She’s selling it,’ Clare says dryly.
‘I am. To Clare,’ my voice squeaks.
‘I see,’ Michael says.
Why is he smiling? And why is he here?!
I clear my throat haughtily. ‘I have to get back to New York.’
‘Of course.’
Clare divvies out the plates: boiled ham, cabbage, and more spuds.
‘Thank you, missus,’ Michael says to her and takes a massive bite of ham. ‘What was it you do, Julie?’ he asks.
‘She’s writes adverts,’ Clare says suggestively.
‘Hmm,’ he nods at her.
‘I’m in marketing. Digital marketing online. I’m starting my own firm, actually,’ I say smugly.
‘Very good!’ Dermot says.
Clare clucks at him. ‘All this high tech business. You’d swear the whole of the world was for sale on the Internet!’ Cormac spurts out laughing, then stops short when Clare levels a hard look at him. ‘The only sort of marketing we ever needed was the face-to-face sort.’
Made With Love: I Love You Forever Page 12
