I nodded again, this time onion rings preventing speech.
“And you’re sure that’s okay with you?”
“Yes,” I managed at last. “Of course.”
“It’s just that it became a problem with the other girls.”
Well, as you’ll find out, me and those other girls are not going to have very much in common.
“Well, it won’t with me,” I said truthfully. “I have friends in Dublin, but fitting around your schedule won’t be a problem.”
After all, I thought, with the first twinges of guilt, it was the least I could do for the six weeks I’d be here. I was suddenly reminded of the something I’d prepared that morning in advance of my new role. I reached into my bag and took out my laptop.
“Wow, that’s a fancy piece of equipment!” His eyes widened at the sight of the brushed steel casing.
“Um, yes, it was a present.” I lied. “From my parents.”
“Very generous of them.”
“Yes, well, anyway. I was thinking about the house-keeping situation.” I spoke rapidly in an attempt to get off the subject of my thousand-euro laptop. “I did up a spread sheet and –” I swung the screen around to face him, “you’ll see here I’ve divided all the expenses into categories, so you can see at any stage where the money is going and what it’s being spent on. Then you can direct-debit an amount into the household account and, at the end of the month, I can total it all up for you and give you your balance.” I obviously left out the fact that this task would be someone else’s in month two as I’d be long gone.
“Oh.” He went very quiet.
“Or I can do it weekly? I just thought monthly might be often enough, but it’s no trouble . . .”
“Mmm . . . yes.” He frowned, still looking at the screen. “The trouble is, it wouldn’t be quite the same level of detail we’d be used to.”
What? What did he want? Graphs? Shit, I should have done graphs, pie charts – some kind of averaging . . .
While these thoughts were flying through my brain, he got up from his chair and unearthed a terracotta jar from behind the bread bin.
“I usually just chuck a few quid into this whenever I have it and the nannies spend it whenever they need to.”
I looked at my multi-coloured spread sheet on my all-singing, all-dancing computer and snapped down the lid, flushing bright red.
“Or we could definitely just do that,” I muttered as I witnessed Mark Fielding laugh for the first time.
Chapter 11
And so here we were. Monday morning and still winging it.
And I was already exhausted.
Sunday had passed in a haze of domestic chaos, the like of which I could never have imagined. Every time I started to do something, I had to stop to extricate Amber from some death-defying stunt or other. As a result, the house was like a tip and I still hadn’t even managed to tackle the vast backlog of washing that seemed to envelop every room. I resolved to make a start as soon as I had Jamie safely in school.
This mission alone had very nearly come between me and my sleep. I’d had problems getting myself out to work in the mornings – how on earth was I going to manage with a five-year-old?
I needn’t have worried. On opening his bedroom door that morning, I was stunned to see him sitting quietly on his bed, already fully dressed in his uniform.
“Wow, Jamie, you look eager!”
He shrugged, getting up from the bed and walking past me towards the stairs.
I followed him, mesmerised. I had never before met a child so keen to get to school on a Monday morning. Not even Marsha the Golden Child. But I hadn’t time to dwell on Jamie right then. I had way bigger problems on my hands.
Amber.
She seemed to sense that I was under pressure and her behaviour was even more horrific than normal. She flung her breakfast from her high chair and gleefully tipped her beaker onto the floor.
“Right so,” I muttered under my breath as I dragged her out of the chair, “you can starve.”
Big mistake.
Her newfound freedom went to her head and she tore out of the room and into the TV room.
“Barney!” she hollered, flinging herself on the couch.
I ran in after her brandishing a clean nappy. Having spent the first twenty-four hours trying to figure out the correct way to put one of these horrific items on, I now no longer cared if they were back to front.
Two pinched arms and a bruised knee later, I decided she could suffer a while longer in her wet nappy and pyjamas.
By now, Jamie was standing patiently at the front door. I couldn’t blame the child. A day at school was infinitely more inviting than what I had ahead of me.
As Amber sprinted another lap of the house, it occurred to me that I had no chance of controlling her on the mile-long walk down the main road to the school. I clutched my forehead and sought frantically for a solution.
Aha – stroller!
There must be one somewhere.
“Jamie, where is Amber’s stroller?”
“Her what?”
“Stroller. Pram. Pushchair – you know –” I frantically made a pushing motion with my hands.
“Do you mean her buggy?”
“Yes! Buggy. Whatever.”
“She doesn’t go in one anymore.”
“Well, she is today – now where is it kept?”
Jamie shrugged again.
I dashed around the house. It wasn’t under the stairs, or in the back kitchen. I wondered if there was a garden shed and ran outside to check.
Sure enough, there was and in it, trapped under a pretty, vintage-looking bike which I presumed to have been Emma’s, was a very battered contraption that looked like it might just serve my needs.
Thank God.
Sweeping the compost and cobwebs off the front, I dragged it down the side passage and around to the front door, rapping my shins violently at the same time.
Now I just had to get the possessed child into it.
To my shock and relief, she seemed to view her new vehicle as some kind of treat and clambered in gleefully. With such enthusiasm, actually, that the goddamn thing collapsed.
Crap.
I cursed.
Amber screeched.
Jamie rolled his eyes to heaven.
“Cooeee!”
The next house’s front door had opened.
“You must be the American!” a high-pitched voice trilled from over the hedge.
Double crap.
This wasn’t happening.
“That must be me,” I replied sarcastically without looking up. Amber was still screeching as I untangled her from the dusty wreck but she seemed to be unharmed.
“I’m Bernadette Foley, Mark’s neighbour.”
Please go away, I pleaded silently, mindful of the fact that Amber was still very obviously in her pyjamas with a sodden nappy swinging low between her knees.
“Teresa Murphy was telling me all about you.”
Great.
“Are you having a spot of bother?” the shrill voice continued.
What does it bloody look like, you stupid woman?
“You do know that Emma didn’t use a buggy? She didn’t believe in them, used a sling. Said it formed a better bond.”
I really hadn’t time for this but there was nothing for it but to look up and make eye contact with the irritating Bernadette Foley. She was just as I had envisaged. Middle-aged, arms folded across an ample bosom, little bird-like eyes taking every in every single mistake I was making.
“Really. That’s very interesting but –”
“Oh yes, Emma-God-rest-her-soul –” she whispered this bit, gesturing towards Jamie with her beady eyes, “was a firm believer in the sling.”
I had never heard such rot. If she thought I was going to strap that banshee to my person like I was some kind of pack horse, she had another think coming.
“Well, I’m not.” My voice was firm. “It’s very bad for the child.
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“No!”
“Oh yes,” I shook my head sagely. “For their posture. A disaster.”
“Never!”
Aha! Now she was showing me some kind of respect. I started to warm to my subject.
“Oh yes, all the latest research says so – no one in New York uses slings anymore.”
“Oh!” she gasped, clasping her hands together. “Isn’t it as well she never knew! She was such an angel, you know, a beautiful, beautiful girl. Such a tragedy, such a –”
“Good morning, Mrs Foley,” interrupted a cheery voice.
Thank God, someone to distract her. I needed to make my escape – Jamie was starting to shift from foot to foot beside me.
“Good morning, Dawn!” Mrs Foley called out to the woman on the footpath. “Have you met Mark’s new nanny!”
Oh please, I begged, the last thing I needed was another old biddy to quiz me.
But I needn’t have worried. The girl was about my age and winked at me as she held out her hand.
“Lovely to meet you. I’mDawn Kinahan. I live in No 9, three doors down.”
“Holly, Holly Green.” The relief of meeting someone semi-normal swept over me.
“Holly’s from America,” Mrs Foley announced.
I rolled my eyes. It was too late now to explain.
“Oh lovely, what part?” Dawn smiled.
“Eh, New York.” I answered in an I’m-totally-not-from-New-York accent.
“Well, welcome to Duncane!” Dawn winked again. “Are you having buggy trouble?”
I nodded, looking down at the cursed contraption. “I don’t think it’s been used in a while.”
“No,” Dawn said, “I don’t remember ever seeing Emma with it – I think she used the sling.”
“Oh! I was only just saying, isn’t it better she never knew?” Mrs Foley was bristling with excitement.
“About what?” Dawn looked up.
I could feel the blood rushing to my face. Now I was for it.
“About the damage she was doing!” There was no stopping Mrs Foley.
“Damage?” Dawn looked at me in confusion.
“Yes,” I couldn’t look her in the eye, “to their posture.”
“All the New York research says so!” Mrs Foley said knowingly.
Dawn looked back at me and then smiled, her eyes practically dancing with mischief.
“Oh, that damage!” she said. “Sure I was only reading about that the other day, in Parenting Weekly – very serious it is too! All those poor teenagers, walking around like hunchbacks.”
I shot her a look. After all, there was no need to overdo it, but she was on a roll.
“And as for breastfeeding – who would have known –”
“It was lovely meeting you, Mrs Foley.” I put out my hand firmly before the older woman’s eyes could get any bigger. “Dawn, would you mind giving me a hand with the buggy?”
“Of course!” she grinned, “and then I’ll walk you to the school, just to show you the way. Bye, Mrs Foley!”
Mark’s next-door neighbour retreated reluctantly back into her house, and it wasn’t long before the buggy was righted with Dawn’s help, Amber was reinstated in it and we were on our way to the school.
“So, New York, eh?”
“Yep.”
“What brought you over here?”
For a brief minute Cain flashed into my mind and the fact that I had come to Ireland to escape the shame of that entanglement.
“Ah you know, nothing like a change of scenery.” I almost smiled as I thought of Oliver.
“True,” Dawn nodded. “The furthest I’ve travelled wasfrom Cork to Dublin and then down to here. I often wondered about working in a different country, but I couldn’t help feeling it would be the same thing only with different weather.”
I froze.
Cain Hobson. Oliver Conlon.
My American married lover, my Irish also-in-a-relationship lover.
Cain, Oliver. Oliver, Cain.
She was right. What the hell was I doing?
Chapter 12
I couldn’t get Dawn’s words out of my head as I trudged wearily back towards the house. Not even the fact that Amber had fallen fast asleep in the buggy could cheer me up.
Cain Hobson, Oliver Conlon.
Oliver Conlon, Cain Hobson.
Same shit, different weather.
So blown by Dawn’s words had I been, that I had even agreed to attend a Mother and ToddlerGroup with her on Thursday morning.
A Mother and ToddlerGroup?
Man, had I lost my way!
With a heavy heart I plodded wearily around the kitchen, scraping cereal off the ground and gathering up dirty breakfast dishes. What in God’s name was I doing? I could feel a wave of panic start to spread through my body as the reality of the situation I now found myself in started to rear its ugly head.
Surely this was my worst mess ever. Even Kelly, in her wildest imagination – and Kelly had a very wild imagination (I blamed the years she’d spent loved up on Ecstasy . . .) – wouldn’t believe all this if I told her.
Just then Amber appeared at the kitchen door.
“Barney?” she suggested, her little eyes huge with hope.
I hadn’t the energy to fight. Whatever Barney was, she could have it.
“Why not?”
She ran into the television room and came back brandishing a DVD case.
“Awan dis one,” she said.
Ah, so Barney was a television programme. You’re probably surprised I didn’t know that. Don’t be. When I told you I had very little to do with children before this venture, I wasn’t joking.
I sat on the couch with her as the opening credits rolled and to my surprise she snuggled into me. A huge purple dinosaur leapt into view and still I sat, beyond caring anymore.
“Gee, boys and girls,” he bellowed, “what would y’all like to do today?”
Fancy that, Barney was American!
To my horror a fat tear started to slide down my cheek at the familiar accent. And that was all the encouragement I needed. Five minutes later, I was sniffing furiously, to disguise the fact I was crying from Amber, and it was all I could do to stop myself climbing into the TV to join the multi-racial smattering of overlyhappy kids for a big fat dino-hug. Surely the purple monstrosity would tell me everything was going to be okay?
Or would he? Might the cuddlypillarofwisdom look me in the eye and tell me to call it a day?
Head back to New York and admit that I’d made a huge mistake, write Oliver off to experience and tell nobody, ever, that I had ended up in a three-bed semi in a small Irish town watching inane children’s programmes because of a man.
The more I watched, the more certain I became that what I was watching was essentially Dr Phil for toddlers. It could be only minutes before he’d come out with something like: “All together now, kids: There are no victims – only volunteers!”
And sure enough he was bursting into song now. Some rubbish about raindrops being lemon drops and gum drops. But I wasn’t really listening. I was still thinking about Doctor Phil. He’d been Auntie Monica’s guilty pleasure and she’d make me sit through his show over and over again. Well, no prizes for guessing what he’d say to me if I was on his couch right now.
‘Holly,’ he’d drawl with his Texan twang, ‘Sometimes you make the right decision, sometimes you make the decision right.’
Oh my God.
That was it.
Sometimes you make the right decision.
Sometimes you make the decision right.
On and on Barneysang, with the hordes of annoying overly animated children chanting along with him.
I started to hum along.
At first in my head: Sometimes you make the right decision.
Then under my breath: Sometimes you make the decision right.
Then louder: Make the decision right!
And then louder and louder until I had scooped a bewildered Amber up into my arms and
was waltzing around the room screeching: Make the decision right!
Round and round the room we went, Amber by now in hysterics of laughter.
Round and round until my purple saviour stopped singing.
I flopped back down onto the couch. My moment of hysteria over.
But it had worked. I was no longer longing to sob in the arms of a dinosaur, and miraculously my head was definitely clearer. There was no doubt but that I had made some seriously dodgy decisions in the last few days but there was no point in thinking about that now.
Now was the time to make it right.
As was my habit in a crisis, I started to think about my time in the kitchens in downtown New York. While my family firmly believed I had squandered those years of my life, I knew better, as had Monica when she sent me to work there. Those years had been the true foundation of my education. College had simply built upon them.
For it was in the grimy kitchen of Fontaines Grill, on the corner of 42nd Street that I had first come in contact with Fat Tony Abadesso.
Fat Tony was Portuguese and not only was he fat, he was gargantuan. The head chef at Fontaines, he was primarily responsible for its rise from a measly fifty covers a night to two hundred plus. In fact, I was there for its all-time high of two hundred and eighty and it was this experience I found myself thinking about now.
There were definitely better chefs in New York than Fat Tony, but you have never seen a man to mobilise his troops with such vigour, such energy and such determination.
But his main talent was his insurmountable ability to pull his team out of the shit – or le merde!as Tony would bellow – no matter what problems arose.
Fifty orders of monkfish when we had only catered for twenty-five? With a roar he would stride from the kitchen and come back with a box of monkfish on his shoulder.
Or the night that Anton, the broiler chef, had broken the handle off the giant grill in the middle of service, and Tony had plunged his huge ladle into the slot, twisting it until it did just as good a job. Which was lucky for Anton as Tony’s next solution was for the tiny Italian to stick his own hand in instead.
Yes, someone’s head would always roll later but, at that moment, while food had yet to leave his kitchen, all Tony was interested in was fixing the problem.
Between You and Me Page 9
