Still, part of Ava couldn’t help think this house had to be linked in some way to her gran. Part of her reluctance to tell Maggie was related to her fear of damaging their relationship. She didn’t want to feel anger or hurt as a result of Maggie not sharing something so big with her. It was the way she had always been with her gran.
Then there was Maggie’s usual resistance to anything grand. Ava was sure Maggie would give one of her looks, indicating that to own such a house was to reject all she had been brought up to value. Maggie mistrusted wealth and she would consider Mount Pleasant Square to be an insult to her very being. Ava could imagine Maggie’s mouth twisting into a sneer of disapproval and she didn’t want to risk that.
Ninety-seven Mount Pleasant Square was meant to be Ava’s house and she loved the idea of it becoming her home. Now that she felt there was no reason why she shouldn’t own the house, and possibly live there, she was thinking of a million ways to make it happen.
Joseph, you’ll never guess what’s happened. I’ve only gone and inherited a big old, falling down house!
What? For real?
Yep.
That’s fantastic. Couldn’t happen to a nicer girl. Hang on, who died?
That’s the strange thing. I don’t know. Weird eh?
How can you inherit a house without knowing who left it to you? Surely the solicitor will know.
She says that it has been “bequeathed” to me. Don’t think we’ve ever had that word on the Scrabble board.
So, what are you doing with this old house?
That’s part of the mystery. I think I know and then, the next time I think about it, I don’t know. One minute I decide to sell it, and the next I’m daydreaming about moving in. Wish you were here to sort me out. You know what Niamh is like. God, I love that girl, but her mind is nearly always on some fella.
Keep me posted. I’m about to go into a conference to give a presentation on Computational Methods for Simulation of Biological Development.
Ah, Joseph, here’s me wittering on about my mystery house and you’re in the middle of something really important.
No big deal. There are only two hundred or so people out there. Waiting on me. Shit. I’ve just managed to make myself nervous.
Take a big breath in. You’ll do brilliantly. I know you will.
Thanks, Ava. Can I breathe out yet?
Sure. Now, go get them.
3
‘Girl, dry your eyes and catch yerself on. No man is worth ruining your mascara over,’ Cal, Niamh’s work friend was in full flow, determined to sort out Ava’s heartache. She clenched her jaw and let him continue. Once he started there was no holding him back. Best to ride the wave, until she reached the shore.
‘When I was dumped by Malachy the Boke, I gurned for days. All that achieved was to dry out my skin and make my eyes look piggy-small. Believe me, it took a half bottle of fifty quid serum to restore my skin to its natural glow.’
‘What you need is a night out,’ said Niamh, rescuing Ava from a blow by blow account of Cal’s lost loves, ‘and I don’t mean a trip to the cinema and a quick drink in The Errigle on the way home. A proper night out, let’s do the scene!’ She said it like there was something salacious and wonderful to be had out there, in club land, that place which came alive at midnight with weird and suspicious characters all out for a good time.
‘Yes, let’s,’ said Cal. ‘We can take you to all the best clubs on the scene and give you a proper night out.’
‘The scene? What scene?’ asked Ava, full of trepidation. The scene for Niamh and Cal could be the gay scene, an S&M house party or a weekend of drug taking and debauchery with suburban swingers from Edenderry.
‘Don’t worry, nothing too scary for a novice like yourself. I was thinking we could go to the burlesque night down in Macy’s Basement.’ Niamh was painting her toenails a lurid mauve colour while Ava was drinking coffee. She had called into Niamh’s apartment on the way back from visiting Maggie at the nursing home.
The debris of Niamh’s previous night out lay strew across the living room. A pair of black patent spiked killer heels were discarded on the floor along with a short denim skirt, and a spangled black top, the sleeve of which was partially draped over a half-empty cereal bowl. The dregs of the cereal were cemented to the sides of the bowl like concrete.
Not for the first time, Ava wondered how on earth she and Niamh managed to remain friends. They had so little in common, but somehow it didn’t matter. She loved Niamh’s sense of adventure and spontaneity even if it was far removed from Ava’s own safe personality.
‘Here, do your toes while you’re sitting there.’ Niamh indicated to the box of nail varnish sitting on the floor. Ava opened it and peered in, trying to decide which colour she should use. There in front of her was a manifestation of the difference between them. Ava had two bottles of nail varnish at home: one a pale shell pink and the other one clear. Niamh’s collection was like a riot in a Smarties factory. Luminous yellows, candy pinks, and electric blues, nothing sedate and boring like nude or French pink. Opting for a rather flamboyant raspberry sorbet shade, she pulled off her fluffy grey socks and painted her toes. Despite Ava’s lack of interest in all things sparkly and girly, they had been friends since before forever, having bonded over a box of crayons in Miss Archer’s primary two class, that and a dark secret which had bound them together ever since.
One lunchtime Miss Archer had noticed that Niamh was looking a bit peaky, so she told her she could spend the lunch hour in the warmth of the classroom rather than hanging around the frost-covered playground. Ava was allowed to accompany Niamh and the two of them thought they were great, getting to have the whole classroom to themselves.
Unfortunately, in all the excitement of playing with the blackboard and impersonating Miss Archer, Niamh had a little accident resulting in a puddle at the top of the classroom. Rather than admit she had wet herself, Niamh and Ava set about drying it up with none other than Miss Archer’s purple mohair cardigan which had been conveniently draped over her chair.
They had sat shame faced throughout the rest of the school day, in mortal fear of Miss Archer feeling the cold and putting on the cardigan. Thankfully, if she had discovered that her cardigan, hand knitted during the previous term, was mysteriously damp, it occurred when Ava and Niamh were safely at home watching the Clangers and eating their tea.
The incident ensured that they would always be friends, bound as they were by the laden guilt which had lingered like the stench of warm pee, long after Miss Archer had knitted a new cardigan. They had remained friends even when they had grown up and developed interests beyond Abba records, Johnny Depp posters and making pom-poms out of cast-off balls of wool as shown on Blue Peter.
Usually, Ava never bothered with make-up. She didn’t see the point of all that gunk and whale blubber to tart yourself up and fool some poor fella into thinking he was pulling someone with Slavonic cheekbones and arched eyebrows. Niamh’s trade was make-up, and so she was into all that shading and contouring and hiding her true Irish colouring. Ava preferred to be low maintenance. She had a wash-and-go routine in the morning: a quick shower and a rough towel dry of her tawny brown hair, and she was ready. Sure, no one passed any remark when you were stood behind a counter all day up to your elbows in raffia, oasis and lilies.
Maybe having raspberry toes would liven Ava up and give her a bit of sparkle.
Ava loved Niamh’s effortless style and lust for life. Niamh was one of those girls who did her own thing. She made unusual look quirky and girly look feminine. She also possessed an outrageously large collection of shoes and knee-high boots and lots of funky handbags and a market-stall worth of beads, pearls and sparkly jewels, which Ava loved to rummage through. She also had the face of a mischievous elf teamed with the body of a woodland nymph. Men loved her combination of effortless fun and not giving a hoot about anything, and Ava could see why.
Her apartment was an extension of her riotous personality; full of
edgy prints and glitzy furnishings. If asked about her thoughts on the hot pink backdrop to Niamh’s ultra-modern kitchen-dining area, Ava would have struggled to find a good description to say without causing offence. Bright, fun, loud would have been the best she could have come up with, but really it just seemed mildly ridiculous to Ava. It made her want to wear sunglasses and she couldn’t imagine living with it, let alone having to face it with a hangover. Still, she couldn’t help admire Niamh’s individuality and her self-expression.
The electric blue shower room was certainly interesting, with the silver disco ball hanging above the loo, and the bedroom decorated in black and white Rococo style was like something out of a film set. Love it or loathe it, there was no denying Niamh had a certain style and flair.
‘What’s the craic with Joey? Any flirty little text messages from San Fran?’ Niamh asked with one eyebrow arched.
‘He hates when you call him Joey and no, we don’t do flirty text messages. I’ve told you before, we’re just good friends.’
Cal rolled his eyes dramatically. ‘Girl, men don’t do friendship. They have two speeds — sex and not sex. You’d do well to take note.’
‘I’ve known Joseph for years. He’s the boy next door, nothing else.’ She had to admit she missed Joseph. When he headed off to Liverpool for university, she had always expected him to come back when his degree was finished, but a job offer in Silicon Valley had been too good to turn down.
‘If I’d a mate in San Fran I’d be busting a gut to get a freebie holiday,’ Cal said. ‘I’d love to see it. Great clubs and everything.’
‘I couldn’t leave Maggie. Maybe one day,’ Ava said.
Niamh sighed. ‘Ava Connors, one day won’t wait for you.’
Ava needed a bit of Niamh to rub off on her, now more than ever. Some of that kookiness and her exuberant love of life and that sense of adventure could help her get over Finlay.
‘All right, I can’t go to San Francisco, but I will go to this here burlesque thingy, but the deal is you help me get ready for it. Not a makeover, mind, just let me a have a rummage through your wardrobe and you can do my make-up,’ Ava said feeling brave. She had agreed, despite her inherent reservations, but there was no point going half-heartedly. She might as well look the part.
‘Yeah!’ screamed Niamh, nearly knocking over her bottle of nail varnish, ‘I’ve been itching to do you over for years, Ava Connors. Don’t worry about a thing. Finlay Kane will be begging you to take him back by the time I’m finished with you.’
‘Steady on. I said you could help me get dressed up, not remodel me like I’m the bionic woman or a TOWIE wannabe. I don’t want anything too drastic,’ Ava warned, but barely concealed a giggle, for no one could resist Niamh’s infectious love for playing dress up.
There was a time when Ava wasn’t so dowdy and boring. She had worn short skirts and pixie boots, slicked on cherry-flavoured lip gloss and had done the club scene with Niamh, but it was more youth club than night club. When she was seventeen, a mere baby, Niamh had dragged her out most Saturdays to shop for an outfit — usually some ensemble from Miss Selfridge or Exhibit — and then they would go back to Niamh’s house to put it all together, telling each other they looked ‘class’.
It was all so innocent. A Bacardi and coke or vodka and orange juice, a drag on a cigarette if someone was passing one around, and a quick snog on the dance floor as she was rocked to George Michael in the arms of some wee lad with yellow-headed spots and bum fluff on his top lip.
Niamh had moved on and progressed to rave nights, proper students’ parties with scenes of wanton lust going on in spare bedrooms, while Ava had been happy to watch the telly with her gran and have Scrabble nights with her mate Joseph. She never felt she was missing out but, looking back, she couldn’t help think that perhaps a vital part of her growing up had been lost. Maybe everyone needed to go through that period of teenage rebellion and trying on different personalities for size before settling into who they really were.
Later that night, Ava was driving home from Niamh’s when she had found herself turning onto Annadale Embankment and towards where Finlay lived. It was as if she were on autopilot and had been summoned by the gods of fate.
Ava turned the engine off and sat trying to look inconspicuous. Finlay lived in Jerusalem Street which consisted of a row of terrace houses not unlike her own on Moonstone Street. The streets of the area were edged by the banks of the River Lagan, a dawdling and murky river which ran through the city.
Ava sank down as low as she could into her seat, not wanting to be seen. The streetlight directly opposite his house was broken, probably smashed by a hurling ball, so she was lucky enough to be in darkness, save for the moonlight which was casting a silvery pale glow over the wet street. A light, drizzly rain was falling softly but she didn’t put on her wipers. Instead she sat, waiting.
God, this is like stalkerville, she thought. Niamh would laugh at her for being so soft. She didn’t know what she wanted. Would it help to speak to Finlay and try to reason why they had ended? She thought not. They both knew the reason lay with Ava and it was up to her to sort herself out. In the past, whenever Finlay had brought up the subject of marriage, Ava had readily humoured him without ever actually committing to any formal arrangement. It wasn’t like he had proposed, as such, more just sussing her out in advance of the big question. They talked about it in generalised terms; something to be considered in the future, not a pressing issue. A small part of her conscience thought that it was unfair to keep the poor man living in hope, but she didn’t want to burn her bridges either.
But she knew marriage was expected. He came from a family of four happily married sisters who had a ready supply of flower girls and page boys all waiting for the opportunity to trot up the aisle, scattering rose petals at their new auntie’s feet. Ava didn’t feel ready to be gliding up any aisle just yet. Rose petals could wait. Sure, she was only young, not yet thirty.
Then there was the whole baby dilemma to worry about. Marrying Finlay would have come with the express expectation to be an instant breeder. Finlay adored every one of his nieces and nephews. Just as everyone thought he was a great potential husband, they also considered him to be ideal father material. He thought nothing of changing nappies and burping newborns over his shoulder, looking like he was made for being a daddy. But try as hard as she had, Ava couldn’t visualise herself as a mummy. Not in this lifetime.
Hazel, her boss, had suggested the reason for Ava’s aversion to mothering, lay in Ava’s lack of a relationship with her own mother. But how could she explain to Hazel that Maggie had been more of a mother to her than she could ever have hoped for? There was certainly nothing lacking in Maggie’s mothering skills, and so what if her actual mother had been AWOL for almost all of her childhood? She probably wouldn’t have been as caring or loving as Maggie had been, even if she had stayed around. All in all, Ava was sure she had the better deal in being brought up by her grandmother instead of her flighty, runaway mother.
Maybe there was something in Hazel’s psychobabble, but Ava couldn’t help how she felt. Mind you, listening to Hazel go on about her kids was enough to put anyone off. If being a mother was so wonderful, Hazel did an excellent job disguising the fact. An hour of listening to her go on about her four-day labours, never mind the problems she had with her eldest son Daniel’s school, would have been a far better contraception than any amount of teenage sex education lectures.
Her train of thought was broken when she heard a car’s engine and saw the headlights dance off the road as it pulled up to Finlay’s house.
Shit, shit, shit. Ava tried to shimmy lower down into her seat. She didn’t want a confrontation. If she needed to talk to him she could have rung his mobile, but this was too much like being caught out waiting on him, spying even.
His car door clunked shut and she watched as he moved round to the passenger side to open the door. Ava gasped, her heart missing a beat as she realised he wasn’t alone. Desp
erate now not to be seen, but too shocked and curious to move away, she watched as a tall blonde girl poured herself out of the bucket seat in one fluid movement. Willowy was the word to describe her. She pulled her cream-coloured trench coat up over her head to shield her long hair from the rain, as Finlay put a protective arm around her waist, steering her towards his front door.
In that instant, Ava’s heart felt like it had been inflicted with a million tiny paper cuts. It lunged from a sorrowful longing to a raging jealousy, as she watched the man she was supposed to be with, be with touch another woman.
‘My life is falling apart,’ she murmured to no one but herself. She sniffed, feeling a wave of self-pity welling up, and threatening to spill out into self-loathing.
She waited, terrified that the bedroom light would switch on. She could picture them climbing the stairs, their hands pulling greedily at each other’s clothes. Suddenly there he was. Finlay Kane lit up like a film star on the big screen reaching to pull the curtains closed, before he went off to his appreciative co-star to partake in the performance of the night.
There was ever only one thing to do when Ava felt miserable: text Joseph. He could always make her smile and help her see that even if life wasn’t all daisy chains and sunshine, it was still worth smiling.
Ava: Joseph, it’s me.
Joseph: Bout ye, Ava. How’s it going?
A Posy of Promises_a heartwarming story about life and love Page 3
