She was utterly amazed to see Sylvia’s car outside her apartment building when she got home.
“You’ve forgotten, haven’t you?” said Sylvia as she got out, followed by Jeanne.
“Forgotten?” Carey stalled for time.
“You told Jeanne and me that we could come over today,” Sylvia reminded her. “You said that it would be a good day to look round.”
“Yes, I did.” Carey smiled at her niece. “And I hadn’t exactly forgotten. Just slightly.”
“Slightly?” asked Jeanne.
“Now that I see you I remember,” said Carey. “I hope you haven’t been waiting too long.”
“Ten minutes,” said Sylvia. “I rang but your phone is switched off.”
“It’s in the bottom of my bag,” said Carey. “I probably didn’t hear it. Sorry.”
“You’ve been shopping!” Jeanne was peering into the back of Carey’s car. “D’you want me to bring some stuff in for you?”
“That’d be great,” said Carey. She took her keys out of her bag. “Syl, could you grab the lamp, and then we needn’t come back for anything.”
Sylvia sighed, but picked the lamp out of the car and followed Carey along the flagstone pavement to the building’s entrance.
“I don’t know how you can afford to buy clothes and stuff,” she observed. “Buying a place of your own is ruinously expensive.”
“Credit card,” said Carey succinctly as she opened the apartment door and ushered them inside.
“Oh, wow, Carey, it’s way cool,” breathed Jeanne as she looked around her. “I really, really like it.”
“Very nice,” said Sylvia.
“Thanks.” Carey felt bathed in a proprietorial glow. She beamed at them as they wandered from room to room, exclaiming in delight over the kitchen appliances and the built-in wardrobes. “To think,” she murmured to herself, “that I even care about the fact that I have cherrywood wardrobes!”
“Oh, sorry, Carey, this is for you.” Jeanne handed her a box wrapped in bright yellow paper and topped with a rosette. “From all of us.”
“Thanks,” said Carey again. She pulled the paper from the box and opened it to reveal a delicately cut John Rocha vase.
“I really wasn’t sure that vases would be your thing,” said Sylvia. “But it’s a modern design, so I hope you like it.”
“It’s fantastic,” said Carey. “Now all I have to do is get flowers!”
“And remember to change the water,” added Sylvia. She walked over to the patio doors and peered over the balcony. “That garden will be lovely when it matures a bit.”
“I know,” said Carey. “It’s very peaceful, isn’t it?”
“Gorgeous,” agreed Jeanne, who’d joined them. “I’d love a place of my own, I really would.”
“No chance,” said her mother. “By the time you can afford a property you’ll probably be middle-aged.”
“God, Sylvia, that’s cheerful!” Carey made a face at her sister. “Jeanne might get a brilliant job, earn a fortune, and buy some fabulous penthouse overlooking the Bay.”
“I want to be a controller, like you,” said Jeanne.
“Really?”
Jeanne nodded. “Absolutely.”
Sylvia sighed. “She’s been talking about it for ages.”
“It’s hard work,” Carey told her. “Just because I’m a bit of a messer from time to time doesn’t mean it’s all like that.”
“I know,” said Jeanne. “And you’re not a messer, Carey. You just live life to the full.”
“I’m not so sure about that.” Carey stepped back into the apartment. “I do my best, but I’ve had a few spectacular failures.”
“At least you tried,” said Jeanne passionately. “That’s what counts, isn’t it? What’s the point of never doing anything because you’re afraid you’ll get it wrong? Better off giving it a go.”
“But looking before you leap isn’t exactly the worst thing you could do either,” said Sylvia.
“I know.” Jeanne glanced at her mother. “You should weigh up the possibilities. All I’m saying is that you don’t always have to go for the safe option.”
“Actually, if you’re directing a plane, you do.” Carey grinned at her.
“Well, yes, for that,” admitted Jeanne.
“I’m glad we’re in agreement on the safety issue,” said Carey.
“I think that’s why you do some mad things in your personal life,” Jeanne added. “You’re safe and sensible at work so you’re not when you’re at home.”
“Jeanne!” cried Sylvia. “You can’t say things like that to Carey.”
“Why not?” Carey shrugged. “Maybe she’s right, Syl. Maybe I do like to take chances at home.”
“That’s why she took the chance on getting married,” said Jeanne.
“And we all know where that led,” said Sylvia tartly.
“It was worth it. Anyway, I’m not discussing it anymore,” Carey told them. “It’s past. This is the present — me and my apartment. A single woman doing it for herself.”
“Will you get lonely, d’you think?” asked Jeanne.
“Nope.” Carey grinned. “When I shared the house with Gina I used to dream of being on my own. She was so untidy it drove me mad.”
“Are you a tidiness freak?” Jeanne sounded surprised. “I didn’t think so.”
“Not like Sylvia,” Carey told her. “Your mother used to go round folding her knickers into neat little different colored bundles when we lived at home and tying each bundle with a different color ribbon.”
“Carey!” Sylvia blushed.
“She still does,” said Jeanne. “Well, I don’t know about her knickers, of course, but she color codes everything else. Folds everything into neat little parcels, too.”
Carey snorted with laughter.
“There’s nothing wrong with that,” said Sylvia defensively. “At least that way I know where things are. There are three women and three men in our house. I need to know. Anyway,” she added, “it makes sense.”
Carey laughed again.
“It’s no different to your boxes of shoes,” said Sylvia.
“My shoes are works of art,” Carey told her. “Investments even.”
“Well, so are my knickers,” said Sylvia.
This time both Jeanne and Carey laughed.
“The price I paid for the La Perla ones, they damn well are an investment!”
“I hope they are,” said Carey. “I hope they do the trick for you.”
“Stop it!” But Sylvia was smiling too now.
“Maybe I’d have better luck with men if I spent the money on knickers instead of shoes,” mused Carey. “Though Peter likes my shoe collection.”
“You’re not going out with him though.” Sylvia stared at her sister. “Are you? You told me you were just renting a room from him.”
“Oh, he took me to lunch to celebrate the apartment,” said Carey. “Nothing special.”
“Don’t, Carey,” said Sylvia. “Don’t do something really stupid.”
“I won’t,” said Carey. “Don’t fuss.”
“Is this the married bloke?” asked Jeanne interestedly.
Carey glared at Sylvia.
“Mum told me about him,” Jeanne explained. “She said he damaged you emotionally.”
“Sylvia!”
“I explained to Jeanne why it is that having a relationship with someone who’s married isn’t a good idea,” said Sylvia.
“I wish you wouldn’t use me as an example of all that’s wrong in relationships,” Carey told her. “I didn’t know he was married at the time. Why doesn’t anyone believe me?”
“I believe you,” said Jeanne robustly.
“Jeanne, I’m a hopeless role model for you, obviously,” Carey said. “Certainly when it comes to men.”
Jeanne laughed. “I dunno. At least while she’s fretting about you and your men, Mum leaves me alone.”
Sylvia turned to her. “I certainly don
’t intend to leave you alone.”
“What you don’t know won’t hurt you,” said Jeanne, her voice bubbling with laughter.
“Anyone want some tea or coffee?” asked Carey hastily.
“Do you have Diet Coke?” asked Jeanne.
“In the fridge.”
“Let me make the coffee,” said Sylvia.
“OK,” said Carey. “I’ll unwrap my lights and you guys can help me decide where to put them.”
The orange blob looked well on the low sideboard, but it took her and Jeanne a while to decide on the best place for the stainless steel lamp. Eventually they put it in the far corner of the room, where it threw a small pool of light onto the polished floor.
“It’ll be fabulous in the evening,” Jeanne assured her.
“I think so too,” agreed Carey.
Sylvia handed her a coffee in one of the new black and white cups. They stood side by side in the middle of the living area.
“These places are so cute,” she said. “It makes me wish for one myself.”
“All you have to do is divorce John,” said Carey. “Then you can find a place of your own.”
“Mum would never divorce Dad,” Jeanne said. “They’re too much of a pair.”
“You think so?” Sylvia looked at her daughter curiously.
“Oh, absolutely,” said Jeanne. “You finish each other’s sentences, you know what the other one is thinking…you’re very definitely married.”
“I guess that’s good to know,” said Sylvia.
“How about you, Jeanne?” asked Carey. “Any romance on the horizon?”
Jeanne blushed, which made Carey smile. Her niece had been so self-assured until now that it was nice to see that she could still be embarrassed.
“Gary,” said Sylvia dryly.
“Gary?”
“She met him at your party,” Sylvia told her.
“Oh!” Carey nodded. “The football guy.”
“Yes.” Jeanne’s cheeks were still bright pink. “He phoned me.”
“And you’ve been going out with him?”
“Only a couple of times,” said Jeanne. “And, of course, Mum is like the secret police every time we do, wanting to know where we’re going and how long we’ll be and all that sort of thing.”
“Oh, Sylvia.” Carey grinned. “Cut the girl some slack.”
“I’m her mother,” said Sylvia grimly. “It’s not in my nature to cut her any slack.”
Both Carey and Jeanne laughed.
“It’s a pity you and Ben didn’t stay together,” sighed Jeanne. “You could’ve had a kid and I could’ve babysat and invited Gary over for heavy snogging sessions and it would’ve been very convenient.”
Sylvia glared at her daughter and Carey laughed again. “By the time I got round to having a baby you’d have moved on to someone else,” she assured Jeanne. “But I promise you that if I ever do have a kid, my apartment is available for you.”
“Carey!” Sylvia sounded angry. “Not even in a joke.”
“Sorry,” said Carey. “I sometimes forget I’m supposed to be an example.”
“A bad example,” Jeanne reminded her.
“Oh bloody hell!” Carey drained her coffee. “I don’t really want to be an example at all.”
Sylvia and Jeanne stayed for another hour. Carey enjoyed their company, although she was glad when they finally left and she had some time to herself. She went into the spare bedroom and stacked her new shoes along the wall with the rest of her collection. Then she tried on the rhinestone jeans and the cashmere cardigan together and gazed at her reflection in the full-length mirror. Not bad, she thought. She looked strong. The red cashmere brought out the color in her cheeks and the mahogany tints in her hair. The jeans were figure-hugging. Carey had to admit that even though hers was the sort of figure that wasn’t flattered by floating dresses and short skirts, she always looked well in jeans.
It doesn’t matter how I look, she told herself as she took off the jeans and hung them up. Not from the potential boyfriend point of view anyway. I’m taking some time out for myself. Today was a watershed because I met Ben and I talked to him and we were adult about everything, even though I never expected us to be. And I know that I’m over it. She grinned at her reflection in the mirror. I even have the apartment to prove it.
She pulled on her tracksuit and went into the kitchen. She opened the fridge door and took out a Tesco lasagne for one. It was a pity, she thought as she popped it into the microwave, that the apartment had such a gorgeous oven and hob and she hadn’t got round to using them yet. At some point she’d try cooking. But it seemed so much effort for a person on her own.
Chapter Twenty-Four
MYRRH
A soothing resin oil with a musky and smoky scent
Brian and Freya sat at a corner table in Oleg’s, a half-finished bottle of Beaune between them. Colman, the owner, came over and refilled their glasses at the same time asking them if they’d enjoyed the meal.
“As always,” said Brian. “It’s a great place, Colman.”
“Thanks.” Colman smiled at him. “We want to become an institution. Anytime anyone thinks of eating Russian food in Dublin we want them to think of here.”
“I’m sure they do already,” said Freya. “And I don’t want to appear picky, but there probably aren’t that many places in Dublin serving Russian food.”
“Not just Russian food, obviously,” added Colman. “Good food. That’s our aim. And good service.”
Brian laughed. “You have the loan, Colman, you don’t have to pitch the business plan every time we meet.”
“I guess not,” Colman acknowledged. “But I feel that I have to assure you that we’re doing well.”
“That’s pretty obvious,” remarked Freya. “The place is almost full.”
“Yes,” said Colman. He looked in satisfaction at the occupied tables round them. “And we have had a lot of functions as well. Since I did the party for your brother, Freya, we’ve had three other weddings.”
“Really?”
He nodded. “How is your brother?” he asked. “And his lovely, lovely wife?”
“Actually —”
“They’re great,” Brian interrupted Freya. “It was a fantastic night, Colman, and we appreciated it very much.”
“I’m glad.” He smiled at them and moved off to another table.
Brian looked at Freya. “I just didn’t see the point in telling him that it had all blown up in their faces,” he told her. “Colman and Dimitri put so much effort into making everything just right…”
“It wasn’t their fault,” said Freya.
“I know,” said Brian. “But why make him feel bad?”
“I didn’t realize you were so thoughtful,” she said.
“No?”
“Maybe I did.” She took a sip of her wine and then looked at him. “Were you thinking of us having our wedding reception here too?”
“What?” Brian looked startled.
“It’s something we should start thinking about,” said Freya. “Always provided that you still want to go through with it.”
“What makes you think I don’t?” he asked warily.
“The fact that you’ve just asked that question.”
Brian cracked his fingers and Freya winced. It was a nervous gesture of his, one that he used to buy time, and she recognized it as such. She said nothing.
“I suppose I haven’t given it a lot of thought,” said Brian.
“The wedding? Or the reception?”
“Any of it,” he admitted.
“Haven’t you?”
“It didn’t seem urgent.” He looked uncomfortably at her.
“No. But you were the one who asked me to marry you and I said yes, so I suppose we should get a move on,” she told him. “Unless you just want us to get engaged and stay like that forever?”
“Don’t be silly,” he said.
“I’m not.” She drank some more wine. “I’m brin
ging things into the open, Brian, because I can see that I have to.”
“What d’you mean?”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Her impatience was evident. “You asked me to marry you and I told you that I couldn’t have kids and we haven’t talked about it ever since.”
“You said you were going to check out the whole children thing,” he said uneasily.
“I know. I have, and it’s not very promising. I didn’t expect it to be. Yes, it’s possible — just like winning the lottery is possible. But it’s not very probable. So, Brian, you have to make a decision. Given that I’m unlikely to produce any kids for you, and given that you’ve said already that you want them…” Suddenly Freya’s voice trailed off and she reached for her wine glass again.
“You don’t have to make it sound so stark,” he complained.
“I do,” said Freya. “Because it is stark. Oh sure, I can try all sorts of treatments if I want to. And we could do insane things like using someone else’s egg.” She shivered. “I don’t even want to think about that, to be honest. But the bottom line is that you and I as a unit would probably be childless. We’re too old to adopt.” She snorted. “I never realized before just how on the scrapheap a thirty-nine-year-old woman is in our society. I always thought that with our age-defying make-up and our aerobics classes we were as young as anyone. But we’re not.”
“Freya —”
“So you have to decide, Brian. An old husk like me or someone young and fertile?”
“Freya —”
“If you opt for the young and fertile, I’ll understand.” She reached out and touched his hand. “I will, honestly. Just because you’ve never had to think about the kid issue before doesn’t mean you’re not entitled to better options now.”
“I don’t know any young fertile women,” he said.
“But you could find one,” said Freya.
“I’m not looking,” said Brian.
Too Good to Be True Page 32
