by Cathy Kelly
She parked in the big supermarket car park and then walked along briskly until she came to one of the town’s backstreets where a big redbrick house took pride of place. Rose pushed open the green front door and stepped in as she had done many times before.
‘Good morning, Helen,’ she said to the receptionist, a girl who’d been in school with Holly. ‘I’ve an appointment with Dr Reshma.’
‘I’m afraid Dr Reshma had to go to Dublin urgently,’ Helen replied, then whispered, ‘his wife’s father again. The poor man is still clinging onto life.’
Rose smiled at this proof that Kinvarra still kept its gossipy village mentality, even though the inhabitants bravely insisted that you could live an anonymous life there and that people weren’t interested in everybody else’s business.
‘Dr Collins is away in Galway, so the new doctor is taking Dr Reshma’s patients,’ Helen added. ‘Dr Zeigler. She’s very nice.’
Rose hesitated. If she refused to see the nice new doctor,
it would imply that she was one of the town’s fuddy duddies who wouldn’t have so much as a boil lanced if Dr Reshma or Dr Collins weren’t in charge of the lancing. But she’d actually made the appointment with the doctor for advice rather than for any medical reason. She’d hoped that wise Dr Reshma could tell her what to do. She looked quickly round the reception area and saw that it was empty. Most days, there were at least six people waiting. Evidently nobody else wanted to make do with poor Dr Zeigler.
‘Of course I’ll see the new doctor, Helen,’ said Rose.
Helen allowed herself to breathe out with relief. ‘I’ll show you in,’ she beamed, thankful that at least one patient wasn’t going to shame Kinvarra by insisting on being sick only on Dr Reshma’s time.
Dr Zeigler couldn’t have been older than Holly. Maybe twenty-seven at the most, Rose thought as she settled down on the seat beside the doctor’s desk. She was freckled, with mousy hair, and if Rose had been asked to guess her profession, she’d have said ‘student’.
‘What can I do for you, Mrs Miller?’ the doctor said.
‘I haven’t come for any actual treatment,’ Rose began.
The doctor’s eyebrows moved up a fraction.
‘I’ve come for advice. You see, I think this friend of mine is suffering from depression and I wanted to ask what to do.’
The doctor’s expression changed subtly and she moved forwards in her chair, leaning so that she’d halved the distance between them. ‘This friend,’ she said kindly, ‘has she suffered from depression before?’
Rose smiled. ‘It’s not me. Honestly.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes. I’ve never been depressed.’ Rose didn’t consider this to be a lie, precisely. She’d never told anyone how she’d felt when Holly was a baby and she wasn’t going to start now.
‘Lucky you.’ The young doctor’s face was bland.
‘This is a friend of mine and I’m worried about her,’ Rose said. Without giving Minnie’s name, she described her general condition and listlessness. ‘Doesn’t that sound like depression?’ she said.
‘It could be,’ Dr Zeigler replied. ‘But there’s very little I can do for her unless she comes to visit me.’
‘I suppose.’ Rose wished now she’d waited for Dr Reshma, who’d have been more understanding and who would have come up with some plan for meeting Minnie and encouraging her to come to the surgery. This doctor plainly thought Rose was nothing but a well-meaning busybody. Perhaps she thought Rose’s actions weren’t even wellmeaning.
‘I’ve wasted enough of your time,’ Rose said, getting up. ‘Sorry. I’ll try and get my friend to come here.’
‘You do that,’ Dr Zeigler said and went back to her files.
Rose walked slowly towards the market, feeling useless and a bit stupid. Of course, Minnie had to go to the doctor’s herself. What had Rose been thinking? Trying to sort out the world’s problems as usual, when she couldn’t even sort out her own. She was going to have to make Minnie go to the doctor’s. She didn’t know how, but she was going to do it, she vowed. As she stopped at the pedestrian lights to cross the road, she realised that she was standing in front of Hugh’s office. It was half twelve, early enough to meet Hugh before he left for his customary lunch in The Angler’s Rest. Suddenly, Rose wanted to see him and tell him about her morning. Hugh would know the right thing to say. He’d cheer her up, tell her she was wise after all, and point out that young doctors didn’t understand the needs of a community the way old Dr Reshma did.
‘Mrs Miller!’ gasped Hugh’s assistant when Rose peeped round the door of her office.
‘Hello, Suzanna, I thought I’d surprise Mr Miller by taking him to lunch.’
Suzanna’s eyes widened dramatically. ‘He’s gone already,’ she said nervously. ‘I’m so sorry you missed him. I’ll tell him you called.’
‘I could catch up with him,’ Rose said. ‘Has he gone with a client?’
‘No, er yes. Well, yes.’
For a brief moment, Rose wondered if Suzanna was always this hyper. Hugh hated nervy people.
‘Never mind,’ Rose said, ‘tell him I’ll see him tonight.’
She set off again, this time determined to take a quick trip round the market in case she spotted something for Stella. Occasionally, she found real gems, like the square bottle with the silver top which Stella had adored.
It was nearly two when she began her walk back to the car, weighed down with a dozen free range eggs from the market and lamb cutlets from the butchers. She’d wandered round the market for ages, and had a cup of coffee and a sandwich with a neighbour she’d bumped into. Feeling guilty for idling round town when the house needed a final tidy up before Adele’s visit, Rose took the short cut down a winding street to the car park. At the bottom of the lane was the town’s latest restaurant, an intimate little French brasserie set on the corner, with big windows looking out onto the lane and the main street. She and Hugh hadn’t been to it yet and Rose looked in the big picture window as she passed, so she could decide if she liked the look of it or not. She’d always liked low lighting in restaurants, especially nowadays, as she joked to the girls. Candlelight was more flattering to older faces than any amount of facelifts.
This restaurant was suitably dark. It looked nice, Rose thought, as she emerged from the lane onto the street beside the shopping centre car park. She stopped to look right and left before crossing the road, then took a sharp, shallow breath as she noticed a couple leaving the restaurant. One of them was Hugh in the grey suit he’d gone off in that morning, and he was smiling down at his female companion in an intimate manner. Rose didn’t recognise her, she was petite and red-haired and about ten years her junior. And she was staring up at Rose’s husband in a way that suggested their lunchtime conversation had involved more than legal matters. There could be no mistaking that look. Or the one Hugh was giving back. Cautiously, Hugh pecked the woman on the cheek; a careful gesture obviously made so that any observers would think they were friends only. But Rose wasn’t any old observer. She’d known Hugh for over forty years and she knew his every nuance intimately. She’d only seen Hugh look at one person in that way: herself.
Some presence of mind made her dash into the shop beside her, not caring that she was hardly the sort of customer that Guyz fashions had in mind. Her hands shook as she pretended to rifle through shirts near the window, while she peered out to see where Hugh and the woman were headed. Hugh must have turned up the lane back to his office, but Rose was perfectly placed to watch the woman walk past Guyz, her every delighted step the movement of a woman who’d just had an expensive lunch with a man she found fascinating. Rose watched until the woman was long gone, then she moved woodenly towards the door. Deep inside her, she’d been expecting this ever since Christmas Eve. It had just been a matter of time.
Somehow, she got to her car and sat in it, shell-shocked, and oblivious to the driver who’d seen her get into the car and wanted her parking space. Eventu
ally, he gave up and drove off to look elsewhere. Rose sat there and stared blankly out of the window.
She’d known about the affairs. There had been three, until now, anyhow. It was hard not to know in a place like Kinvarra. There was always somebody prepared to mention that they’d seen Hugh having dinner with a person they didn’t recognise, and…well, they’d uncomfortably add that they thought Rose should know. At this point, Rose would smile and say she knew all about it; that Hugh had been at dinner with an old friend of the family and she’d have gone along herself that evening if she hadn’t had a cold. Her calm self-possession generally wrong-footed even the most concerned messenger.
Clearly if Rose knew about the tête-à-tête in the restaurant fifty miles from Kinvarra, everything must be above board. And anyhow, who would want to cheat on the lovely Rose Miller?
But Rose had known each time, without the outside information. She wasn’t one of those women who lived in a cosy world of their own, the ones who bleated that it was all a big shock. How on earth could they not know, she wondered? She’d known intuitively and knowing was her defence. And her armour. She knew that Hugh would never want to leave the girls because he was devoted to them. It was up to her to protect her children and she had, by saying nothing.
A loud buzzing noise shocked her into alertness. Her mobile phone. Rose had forgotten she had it with her. She still hadn’t assimilated this modern convenience into her life. She reached into her handbag, fished out the phone and looked at the name flashing in dark green on the little screen. ‘Stella.’
‘Hi, Mum,’ said her oldest daughter brightly. ‘I’ve got an idea, can you talk?’
‘Yes,’ said Rose automatically.
‘We’ve had this brilliant idea for you and Dad for your anniversary present. A weekend in Paris! Nick and I will tell you all the wonderful places to go to when we get back but it would be the perfect present from Holly, Tara and me. What do you think?’
Rose laughed mirthlessly. ‘Darling, that’s a very kind idea but I don’t think so.’
‘Mum, we’d love to do it for you both; please think about it.’
Rose closed her eyes and searched her confused mind for an excuse. ‘Dad’s so busy right now, it would be impossible,’ she said. ‘I don’t think we could manage it. Stella, can I phone you back later?’ she added lamely.
‘Of course, Mum. Call me tonight at home. Bye.’
Rose hit the off button and turned her key in the ignition.
If she was at home, she might be able to think about it all more clearly. She couldn’t fall apart in the supermarket car park.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
It was a month since her father’s birthday lunch in Kinvarra and Kenny and Joan’s attempts to find a man for Holly had met a hitch: Joan thought that speed dating was the answer and Kenny was opposed to the idea.
‘You can’t meet an ideal partner at some gimmicky night out,’ he insisted. ‘We might as well send Holly to a football match and tell her to pick the first person who winks at her.’
‘I’d prefer to go to a football match,’ said Holly miserably.
But Joan was having none of it, which was how she and Holly ended up in the Purple Mosquito at eight o’clock on a rainy Thursday evening along with thirty-eight other people who’d each handed over €20 to be part of the Purple Mosquito’s Speed Dating Extravaganza (free cocktail included).
‘Stop shaking,’ muttered Joan under her breath.
‘How can I stop shaking?’ said Holly. ‘I’m terrified. I don’t know what I’m doing here. I don’t like dating, full stop, never mind speed dating.’
The customers were sitting at small tables ranged around the club’s minuscule stage and they’d each just been given a card with a number on it, a pencil and piece of A-4 paper. Holly’s number was six. She wondered what this meant. She had to go on dates with six men, one after another? She had to go on a date with six men at the same time? She’d been filmed when she entered the club and she’d been judged as rating six out of ten, or worse, six out of 100? Who knew?
‘Take deep breaths,’ hissed Joan. Joan was number eighteen.
Holly closed her eyes and took a deep breath. With any luck, when she opened her eyes she’d discover this was all a dream and she’d be on her couch at home, with the telly comfortably on in the background and no scary woman stomping around in thigh-high pink suede boots…
‘Wakey wakey!’
Holly sat bolt upright and opened her eyes. The scary woman in pink suede was still there and staring, well, glaring, at Holly who was sitting near the front, thanks to Joan. Holly would have hidden down the back given a choice.
‘I hope we’re not boring you,’ cooed the woman, insofar as it was possible to coo with half a tonne of panstick welded to her face. Miss Mindy, the evening’s compère and the club manager, went for the make-up-as-armour approach. Her maquillage would stop a bullet.
Holly shook her head mutely and Miss Mindy sashayed off to continue explaining the rules.
‘She’s the ugliest drag queen I’ve ever seen,’ whispered Joan.
‘She’s not a drag queen,’ hissed another voice in disgust. ‘She’s a woman. Look at those legs. Criminal!’
Despite her nerves, Holly burst into giggles and earned herself another glare from Miss Mindy.
The Purple Mosquito was a cutting-edge club much favoured by trendy fashionistas, models, actors, drag queens and a select crew of men keen to discuss the difficulty of getting sheer tights in extra large. Holly hadn’t been keen on the idea in the first place, but to add to the sense of unreality, the speed dating night was packed into the early part of the evening, while Miss Drag De Luxe—a beauty contest for drag queens, no heckling allowed—was the latenight attraction. Consequently, the dating arena was surrounded by drag queens in various stages of make-uplessness. Holly had never seen so many beautiful, long legs in her life. There was also a lot of PVC clothing and an abundance of flowing, glossy hair straight out of a L’Oréal commercial.
‘We’ve given you each a number and that’s to tell you which table to go to first,’ said Miss Mindy to the crowd of people who were watching with bated breath. ‘We’ll bang the first gong and you talk, then when the second gong goes, the woman gets up and goes to the next table but the man stays put. Right?’
The crowd nodded. Apart from a group of rowdy young men at a table clogged with beer bottles, they were all too nervous to speak.
‘The girl at number one goes to table number two, and so on. You make notes in your sheet of paper.’
Holly looked anxiously down at her piece of paper.
‘And to loosen us all up, the speed dating club will be providing a free cocktail from the list for all the daters.’
This merited a nervous round of applause but Holly knew it would take more than a free cocktail to make her ready for this demented idea. A general anaesthetic might have had a hope.
If only Joan had never noticed the Purple Mosquito’s flier stuck to the notice board in college.
‘Look,’ she’d said brandishing it triumphantly at Holly, ‘this sounds brilliant, Holls. Listen to this: “Can’t find the one of your dreams and too lazy to chat up another frog? Try the Purple Mosquito’s Speed Dating Nite, hosted by Miss Mindy, €20 only. Twenty couples, five minutes each person, and a guaranteed night of fun and frolics. Book early to avoid disappointment. Gay night Tuesday, straight night Thursday.’”
‘We can’t go to that,’ Holly said, horrified. Even five minutes talking to someone was too long for her. What would she say to a whole series of men? ‘You go, Joan. Count me out.’
‘I’ve rung already and booked, we’re both going.’
It was all very well for Joan, who was used to cool clubs and strange people, but Holly knew she was the worst person in the world for a night of talking to strangers.
‘I’m not going,’ she finally announced to Joan early on the Thursday evening in question. ‘I know you’ve booked but I’m too nervou
s.’
Joan looked outraged.
‘You’re always telling me to stand up for myself,’ Holly protested.
‘Not to me,’ said Joan, shocked. ‘You’re coming, that’s final.’
The Mosquito was all urban cool, with minimalist decor and deeply uncomfortable backless cube seating which looked hip but was actually murderous on the lower back. Still, the whole effect was ultra stylish, Holly thought, looking around. If she hadn’t been there for the speed dating thing, she might enjoy herself.
On stage, Miss Mindy banged a gong and Holly jumped in her seat.
‘Just testing! Everyone to their tables.’
‘Good luck!’ said Joan happily as she rushed off eagerly to table eighteen. Holly hastily picked up her shoulder bag and a crash of glass told her she’d managed to knock something off a table.
‘It’s alright, it was empty,’ said a girl at the next table, picking up the remains of a beer bottle from the floor.
‘Sorry,’ mumbled Holly, her cheeks burning.
A waitress ambled over and surveyed the damage.
‘Sorry,’ said Holly again.
She turned and somehow banged into the table she and Joan had been sitting at, but just in time, she grabbed the ashtray before it trundled to the floor. ‘Sorry,’ she said to nobody in particular.
Table six. Where was it? Still bright red, Holly peered round the gloom. In her confusion, she just couldn’t see table six. Everyone else seemed to be sitting down in pairs except…Just in time, she spotted a guy sitting on his own. That had to be six. She rushed forward, slipped between the seats, and landed heavily on the empty chair.
A lurid blue drink with a cocktail umbrella and a giant bit of pineapple in it sat in front of her. Without actually meeting the eyes of the guy opposite, Holly looked up enough to establish that he had a blue cocktail too.
‘Is this mine?’ she whispered.
‘Yeah,’ he said.
On stage, Miss Mindy banged the gong enthusiastically. ‘The first five minutes have begun!’ she shrieked.
