‘Just concentrate on getting a good job that uses you to your best ability. Seeing that happen would be payment enough for me,’ she smiled.
He couldn’t resist.
‘Just let me know whenever you want to start work on the feature you were talking about.’
‘The what?’ she asked, and he guessed that exhaustion was momentarily clouding her normally perfect recall.
‘The feature for your paper? About guys like me and how they fare on the outside?’
‘Oh yeah, the feature, of course,’ she said unconvincingly he thought, her involuntary glance down to the left giving her away again. ‘Not now, but another time, okay?’
A minute later, she had gone back out into the rainy night and all Jake could do was stand there, utterly baffled, thinking … why? Why was someone like her putting herself out like this just for someone like him?
He’d meant what he said to her, he didn’t feel one bit comfortable at all with the help she was so freely giving him. True, he was paying his own way in the flat, but then there was all that work she was putting into his CV.
And another thing. Was the girl really that lonely, that he was the only person she had to talk her in off the ledge after a bad day? Where were her friends, her family?
Or was he really the only person in the world she had to open up to?
Chapter Eight
His mam’s magic novenas to St Michael and St Joseph were answered and not long after, Jake got a letter from one of the many language schools where he’d applied to teach English as a foreign language, requesting – he thought he was seeing things – an interview. An actual interview. For a decent, respectable job and not driving taxis or flipping burgers or selling the Big Issue outside late night supermarkets like most of the ex-cons he knew.
He called Eloise immediately and even though she was in her office and couldn’t really react, he swore he could hear the delighted triumph in her voice. ‘We’ll plan this all out later,’ she hissed down the phone.
Planning, scheming, devising, taking total control, he’d learned, were Eloise’s favourite pastimes in the whole world. The woman was utterly wasted at the Post, he reckoned, she should have been head of the CIA – she’d have the place running effortlessly smoothly with one hand tied behind her back.
True to her word, she popped into the flat late that night, on her way home.
‘Okay, we’ve just got one problem,’ she told him decisively, whamming her briefcase down on the tiny coffee table, whipping off her too-tight jacket and gratefully taking the glass of white wine Jake offered her.
‘You’ve only just got in the door! Would you ever relax and tell me a bit about your day first?’
‘Can’t Jake. This is too important for us … I mean, for you. Have you any idea the amount of prepping we’re going to have to do to get you ready in time? And while we’re on the subject, there’s something that’s been worrying me …’
‘You mean what to say if they ask what I’ve been doing for the past two years?’
‘No, no that’s not it,’ she interrupted. ‘At least, that’s not just it.’
They’d been over and over the subject of how best to gloss over his past and Eloise had stressed time and again that any potential employer was bound to run background checks, even for a part-time job. So with that in mind, she advised Jake he’d no choice but to openly and honestly tell them the whole truth and nothing but. It was a huge gamble and they both knew it, but somehow she believed in him and genuinely hoped that his personality and passion for the job would sway things his way. Not to mention the fact that his score on his final TEFL exam was one of the highest in the country. Besides, from sitting on the far side of an interviewer’s desk, she claimed to know from bitter experience that an employer was always far more concerned about the potential future of the candidate sitting down in front of them, and considerably less about their past.
‘What’s up then?’
‘There’s no easy way to say this, and you’re not to take offence, but – it’s your appearance.’
‘What about it?’
‘Ehhhh … Jake, to date all I’ve ever seen you in is either a black or a blue T-shirt and the same pair of jeans day in day out. Two T-shirts does not a well-dressed interviewee make. Not good enough. There’s an awful lot riding on this, so you’ve got to give yourself the best shot possible.’
‘Ahh Christ, don’t say what I think you’re going to say.’
‘You need a suit. You need a whole new wardrobe, in fact.’
‘No way.’
‘Yes way.’
‘Suits are for bankers, developers who’ve gone bust and gay magicians on TV. The one and only time I was ever in a suit in my whole life, I was up in front of a judge in Circuit Court number six.’
‘Jake, I interview people all the time and first impressions count. You have to trust me.’
The following Saturday, Eloise called him to say that as it was a relatively quiet news day, she could grab a short window away from the office to take him shopping.
‘What, don’t you trust me?’ he’d teased her down the phone. ‘Afraid I’ll come home with stonewash denims and a shiny shirt with Megadeth written on it?’
He swore he could hear the smile in her voice.
‘Just meet me at the bottom of Grafton St. at half one.’
‘Fine, there’s a tattoo parlour close to there, you can help me pick out a new one that says, “done time and proud”.’
‘Please tell me you’re messing …’
‘You have to ask?’
‘Just stop acting the eejit and don’t be late!’
Strange, he thought, being made over by someone with actual taste when it came to labels he’d never heard of and designers he’d only been vaguely aware of from TV shows, where stick-thin models cavorted down Parisian runways wearing what looked like their knickers and not much else. The lads sometimes watched that stuff inside so they could salivate over the models, but more often than not, they’d take one look at the get-ups on them and crease themselves laughing.
And now here was Eloise taking him into shops he’d never set foot in before in his life, making him try on clothes that looked poncey and totally gak on the hanger, but when he put them on, somehow miraculously worked.
She insisted on his stepping out of the changing rooms so she could give him the once over after he’d tried anything on. When he stepped out in an elegant pair of charcoal-grey trousers teamed with a pale blue shirt the exact same colour as his eyes, he could read the approval on her face.
‘You’re sure I don’t look like a gay hairdresser?’ he asked uncertainly, hating the way the male sales assistants were eyeing him up. ‘I feel like a gay hairdresser.’
‘Definitely not. You look,’ she paused, eyeing him up and down from head to toe, thought for a second, then added proudly, ‘you look … like a teacher.’
Jake nearly passed out when they got to the till and he discovered that he’d just spent close to three hundred Euro. His worst nightmare. Palms sweating, he realised that ate into most of the little stash of cash he had to tide him over till he found work. And so, mortified, he stammered at the sales guy in the upmarket boutique that he’d made a mistake and would have to put something back.
But just as the sales guy was looking snottily down his bony nose at him, dismissing him for the time-waster he was, Eloise calmly slid up beside the till and smoothly handed over her own credit card.
‘No,’ Jake hissed firmly at her under his breath, purple in the face at this and mortified beyond belief. ‘No way. Not a chance. I’ll shop in Penneys or Dunne’s rather than let you fork out for this. This is not happening.’
‘I insist,’ she said cool as a breeze. ‘Besides, it’s only a loan. These clothes are an investment in your future. Trust me, when you get the job, you can pay me back out of your first month’s salary. Deal?’
It wasn’t one bit okay with him, as it happened. He felt deeply uncomforta
ble and had to fight the urge to smack the sales assistant right square in his patronising gob when he caught him smirking snidely, but on the condition that it was to be a loan and nothing more, he eventually swallowed his pride and gave in. Besides, he’d pay her back, even if he never got the job and ended up driving taxis for the rest of this life. If it was the last thing he did, he’d pay her back every shagging penny.
But if he’d thought Eloise was finished with him there, he’d another thing coming. Next stop was the men’s barber shop in Brown Thomas, and he nearly baulked like a kid when he saw how intimidatingly posh it was. Designed to terrify. Like a gentlemen’s club with copies of the Financial Times dotted around the place, where all the sofas were green leather and where even the cushions had cushions. The type of place Supreme Court judges would meet to have a shave and pause to brag about how much their individual wine collections were worth. For a split second, he had a mental image of himself sitting in a swivel chair while the same judge he might have appeared in front of sat down beside him, peered out over the top of his Irish Times and said, ‘Excuse me young man, your face is familiar, haven’t I seen you somewhere before?’
‘I’m out of here,’ he muttered, turning on his heel.
But Eloise was having none of it. ‘You’ll thank me in the long run,’ she whispered to him, then swooped in like she owned the place and made an on-the-spot appointment for him to have a haircut and then a shave, in that order.
‘But I know a bloke on Liffey St. who’ll cut hair for a fiver,’ Jake protested, ‘and for feck’s sake, I’m able to shave myself, thanks all the same.’
He’d even made it back out as far as halfway to the door, but then he felt her ice-cool grip on his arm.
‘First impressions count,’ she told him firmly. ‘And when you walk into that interview, I want their first impression of you to be that you’re groomed, elegant, articulate and ready for the job. I’ve done my fair share of hiring in my time and trust me, I know what I’m on about.’
So, against his better judgement, he went along with it, while Eloise waited for him, tapping away at her mobile, firing off emails and having low, hissy conversations down the phone with someone called Marc, something about a review in that weekend’s culture section. God only knew what the poor guy had written, but from what Jake could gather, Eloise was far from impressed.
‘Absolutely not, it has to be rewritten and that’s all there is to it,’ he could hear her whispering urgently, phone clamped to her ear. Then he found himself smiling when she added, ‘because a review that pretentiously bollocky is exactly the kind of thing that puts people off going to the theatre. And another thing, about your TV review of the Jane Austen drama series, it’s way too harsh. What, may I ask, is wrong with a good, corsety, bonnety drama anyway? Rewritten and on my desk by four p.m., thanks.’
The barber caught Jake’s eye and gave him a conspiratorial wink that seemed to say, ‘Glad I’m not on the receiving end of that call, mate.’
Half an hour later, and he was done and dusted, ready to see the final result. And Jake, who only ever looked in a mirror about once every six months, barely recognised himself by the time the barber was finished with him. He was, no other word for it, transformed. His longish fair hair was now neater, tighter, his skin looked shiny and glowing and healthy, the scruffiness was gone, the just-fell-out-of-bed-unkemptness vanished. In short, he looked, as his mam would have said, cleaner.
‘Good work,’ Eloise said to the barber approvingly as Jake fixed up, making sure to include a decent tip, as he figured you were expected to do in posh places like this.
‘Better service than you get from the prison barber, I’ll say that much,’ he hissed to Eloise as they left. ‘The last haircut I had was a number one.’
‘A what?’
‘Shaved head. Though some of the lads get corn circles cut in as well. All the rage inside. Prison chic, dontcha know.’
‘Shhh, enough of that. All in the past and time to move on.’
She had to get back to the office, so he walked with her for company. Well, you never really walked with someone like Eloise, he’d learned, she power marched everywhere and you just kept pace as best you could. Even the way she walked was a battle. Jeez, didn’t this one ever slow down? For anyone? Ever?
‘What’s your rush?’ he asked her as she strode down College Green, like Apache Indians from an old black-and-white Western were chasing after her. ‘It’s Saturday. It’s a gorgeous sunny day. It’s lunchtime and for God’s sake, you haven’t even eaten.’
‘Oh Jake, if you only knew how much I have to do this afternoon …’ she panted back at him, expertly weaving her way round the shoppers laden down with bags who were blocking her path, delaying her.
‘Ah get over yourself, I’m not listening to you any more,’ he said, firmly gripping her by the arm and steering her into the Lemon Tree coffee shop on Dawson St., almost lifting her off her feet.
‘No, would you stop it please? I told you, I don’t have time for this,’ she protested, but he’d learned by now that if you just firmly ignored her, she’d eventually give up.
‘I can eat back at the office, you know.’
‘Yeah right, eat what? By the look of you, I’d say you live off a couple of celery sticks and coffee. Now either you can shut up and eat, or else I can ram it down your bony throat, the choice is yours.’
‘Okay, okay,’ she sighed.
So Jake ordered her a large egg, cheese and bacon crêpe with two coffees to go, paid up, then handed hers over to her so she could at least eat walking down the street on her way back to work.
‘Out of curiosity, do you ever take time off, ever?’ he asked her as they headed towards the Post offices on Tara St.
‘I mean, just look at you. It’s the weekend. Normal people all over the world are relaxing and recharging their batteries, and here you are, racing back to the office so you can stay on schedule. On a Saturday. Jeez, what do you want for your next birthday anyway Eloise? A nervous breakdown?’
She was munching hungrily into her crêpe and had allowed her pace to slow down to a gentler stroll, he was pleased to see.
‘Would take time off I could, but I can’t,’ she said, mouth full. ‘Believe me, you’ve no idea the pressure I’m under. Even though it’s a Saturday, we still go to print tonight …’
‘I know, I know, I’ve heard it all before, the Post holds up the sky and you’re single-handedly holding up the Post, and the whole world will crumble if you work anything less than an eighteen-hour day. All I’m saying is that sometimes it’s okay to stop and smell the roses for a bit. Graveyards are full of people just like you, who were indispensable to their jobs, you know. I’m only saying.’
It was almost painful to hear the deep, long-drawn-out sigh she gave.
‘I hear you,’ she nodded. ‘But I keep telling myself that one day I’ll have time to do all the things I want. One day.’
‘Like what?’
‘I couldn’t say.’
‘Yes you bloody well could. Go on, tell me. A day in the dream life of Eloise Elliot.’
‘Well … I dunno … In my dream life, I’d like to actually be able to sleep for starters. And to eat actual meals. And to go a whole day without once using my mobile. And to read a book right the whole way through. And drink a glass of wine in the afternoons if I was in the humour. And go to the movies midweek because I feel like it. And … take an actual holiday to somewhere like EuroDisney. Where I could take my lit …’
She stopped herself from finishing that sentence, he noticed. Odd. He picked up on it, but said nothing.
‘What I mean to say is,’ she corrected herself, ‘I feel I’m working this hard now because in a funny way, I’m storing up time that I can enjoy later on, down the line. Does that make any sense?’
He took a giant glug of his coffee and nodded.
‘Does to me. I know all about storing up time alright.’
She smiled up at him. ‘To be
honest with you,’ she added, ‘I feel like I’ve spent the past couple of years just waiting on the storm to pass. But one day it will. Won’t it?’
‘Life isn’t about waiting on the storm to pass. It’s about learning to dance in the rain.’
They chatted easily and walked on as far as the Post offices on Tara St., when suddenly …
‘Eloise? That really you? I thought I was seeing things.’
It was Ruth O’Connell, the Post’s Northern editor, wiry and alert as ever, looking curiously at Jake, then at Eloise, then back to Jake, just waiting to be introduced.
‘Ehh, oh, sorry,’ said Eloise, mouth full of cheese crêpe, suddenly flushing like a wino in an off-licence. ‘Emm … Ruth, meet Jake, Jake, Ruth. Well I’d better get going, busy afternoon. You heading back in Ruth?’
‘Jake, was it?’ said Ruth, taking everything about him in with beady-eyed curiosity, missing absolutely nothing.
‘That’s right,’ he nodded amiably, going to shake hands.
‘Friend of Eloise?’
A trick question. Ruth knew Eloise didn’t have any friends, just people who didn’t despise her.
‘Yes,’ Jake answered evenly, looking down at her. ‘Yes I am, as a matter of fact.’
Eloise, for no reason, flushed even more at this. ‘Okay, so that’s that then,’ she said in a panicky voice, several notes higher than usual. ‘Come on Ruth, let’s get going …’
‘So, how exactly do you two know each other?’ Ruth asked Jake in her deadpan Norn Iron accent, in absolutely no rush to go anywhere.
Eloise semaphored a flustered look across to Jake, but there was no need. He was expert at reading people, sensed Eloise’s discomfort and wasn’t about to give anything away or let her down in public.
An awkward pause while they all stood around the busy street corner, waiting to see who’d blink first.
‘Perfectly simple question,’ said Ruth, breaking the now awkward silence, bony arms folded, giving Jake her best head-girl glare. ‘I’m just curious to know where you two met, that’s all.’
‘Err, well … you see,’ Eloise began to stammer, for once not quick enough on her feet to think up a fast answer. ‘The thing is … I met Jake through … emm …’
A Very Accidental Love Story Page 16
