Quentins (23 page)

“Or maybe care,” Brenda said.

“That's hard to believe,” he said.

“For a nice young man like you and a decent, hardworking woman like me it is, but not for people like the no-show tonight.”

“I'm not a nice young man,” Drew said. “But it's all there, every penny of it.”

“I'm sure it is,” Brenda Brennan said with a smile.

“Why are you sure?” He was puzzled. She was serene and she was nonjudgmental.

“Because if it wasn't all there, then you'd just have kicked it under the table when you had a change of heart,” she said simply.

“A change of heart!” he said, surprised at her accuracy.

“Sure, that's what it was. Can I offer you a dinner here some evening, another time, you and a friend?” she suggested.

“It would mean getting back here all the way from Scotland,” Drew said.

The others were all getting up to leave now, and asking about nightclubs.

“Not for me, alas,” Drew said. “Too old and staid. I'm heading off in my head-of-department taxi for an early night.”

“I've a feeling it will stand to you,” Brenda Brennan said.

Drew saw her talking to Mr. Ball, but he knew that she wasn't telling tales that he had almost stolen a wallet.

He discovered only next day what she
had
been saying.

That he was a remarkable young man who had not only rescued a wallet for another customer and handed it in, but who had been caring enough to be concerned over the woman's distress.

Mr. Ball felt the very same about Drew. A boy who might have been overlooked before.

But once he had discovered Drew's interest in the gym and his obvious sense of disappointment that he couldn't afford to join one, Mr. Ball, too, had a change of heart. He would recommend the boy's promotion the moment they got back to Scotland.

M
on often wished that she were back in Sydney, Australia. On a day like today, she could go out to the beach and lie there with her friends. In Ireland, it was what they thought of as summer, but truly it was not a day for the sand. She would be blown to death by the wind, heartbroken by the small tidal ripple instead of the rollers she knew and loved back home, frozen by the ice cold water if she ever dared get into it.

Still, she hadn't come to Ireland looking for a life of surf. She had come as part of a great world tour. Oddly, there had not been all that much of a tour. It was meant to start with a week in Rome, and then a week in Dublin and six weeks hitchhiking around the rest of Ireland, then a dozen other lands before going back to the rest of her life. But something strange had happened—after the week in Rome she had arrived in Dublin totally broke.

It wasn't exactly that her money had been stolen or lost or anything. It was just that she had managed to spend in one week almost all her two years' savings on a man called Antonio. It was hard to realize quite how, but this had somehow happened.

And so, on her first day in Ireland, she needed a job.

There was an advertisement in the newspaper that
she read on her way in from Dublin airport and she had phoned for an interview, got the job in Quentins. Somehow the time had passed.

“You've fallen in love, that's why you're still there,” her mother accused her by e-mail. But it wasn't true.

“There must be a crazy scene with those Irishmen,” her friends wrote. But that wasn't true either.

What had happened was that Mon, or Monica Harris (as she was never called), had settled in. She had worked in eleven different jobs since she left college, but for some reason she could never understand, Quentins was the first place she really called home. Patrick Brennan, the chef who taught her how to cook when things weren't too busy, his younger brother called Blouse for some reason, who was a little less than intelligent but certainly not a fool. Patrick's cool, unflustered wife, Brenda, who seemed to know everyone in Dublin. She felt as if she were some kind of a younger sister, part of the family. Mon was part of this team and she liked it. No need to move on. For the moment.

“We'll have to find you a fellow,” Brenda Brennan said unexpectedly to Mon one morning.

“Why?” Mon was genuinely surprised.

It wasn't the way Brenda usually talked. She must have a reason for saying it. And indeed she had.

“You're very good, the customers like you. Mon, you'll go on somewhere else unless you get caught up in some complicated, messy romance like they all do.”

Brenda smiled as she spoke, as if she alone knew the ways of the mad world they lived in.

“Any advice and help always welcome,” Mon said.

“Someone once said to me that I should keep my heart open as well as my eyes. It worked.”

Mon gasped. Immaculate, ice-maiden Brenda telling her this. Maybe she was right. But after that amazingly foolish and romantic adventure with Antonio in Rome,
Mon was being cautious. Perhaps she had swung too much to the other side. Maybe she should keep her heart more open. Or a fraction more open anyway.

Mon went through the restaurant before lunch as she did every day, checking that everything was in place on every single table. Mr. Hayes from the bank next door came in. To eat his lunch alone as he did three days a week. Dull man with nothing to say. His head always in a book, usually with a brown paper cover. Once Mon had laughingly asked him if it was pornography and his eyes had been cold. She made no more jokes. Her cheerful Aussie humor had been very unsuccessful.

“Ms. Harris.” He nodded at her.

“Mr. Hayes.” Mon nodded back.

But Brenda had insisted on unfailing politeness and charm, even to those who did not return it. So Mon nailed on her smile as she handed him the menu.

“Chef has done a really beautiful monkfish today, Mr. Hayes. I think you'd like it.”

It was hard to know what the man would or would not like. He seemed to eat without noticing. None of them liked serving him.

About thirty-five, fortyish. Must have some big job in the bank, since he could afford to eat in Quentins so often. Never a guest or companion, never a newspaper or magazine, never a smile to the left or right of him. Just studying books covered in brown paper.

Mr. Hayes said he would try the monkfish, and as Mon leaned over to pour him a glass of water, she accidentally knocked against his book, which fell to the ground and the cover came off.

It wasn't pornography, but it was something equally surprising. Pop psychology. A book offering twenty ways to a woman's heart. A Never Known to Fail guide to making any woman love you.

Mr. Hayes and Mon Harris looked aghast at each
other and the book, revealed in all its humiliating pathos.

Someone had to say something.

“Does it work, do you think?” Mon asked as she handed it back to him.

Mr. Hayes had a face like thunder. “Why do you ask?” he wondered.

“Well, over a year back, when I was in Rome, I met this guy, Antonio, and well, I'd have read anything to get him, and they have that kind of guide for women too, to get to fellows' hearts and you see I couldn't find the bookstores that sold English books and then it was too late . . .”

She knew that she was burbling on and on, but she couldn't stop.

“Too late?” Mr. Hayes looked interested. “How did you know it was too late?”

“Well, Antonio had gone and all my money, you see, I was going to invest in a sandwich bar with him . . .”

“He took your money?” Mr. Hayes was horrified.

“Yes, well, that wasn't the worst bit . . . actually none of it was too bad, but I'd sure like to have known the Way to His Heart,” Mon admitted.

Mr. Hayes was looking at Mon as if he had never seen her before. “You mean, women actually read these books too?”

“You bet they do. Maybe the person you fancy is reading one wherever she's having lunch today.”

“I don't think so.” Mr. Hayes shook his head sadly.

“Mr. Hayes, would you like to have a drink with me about six o'clock this evening and we could sort of pool what we think we know about the opposite sex?” Mon heard herself say.

Brenda Brennan was, of course, passing the table at that moment. She slowed down slightly so that she could hear Mr. Hayes saying that nothing would give
him more pleasure, and where would Miss Harris suggest?

And for weeks they went out and sought manuals on how to be appealing to the opposite sex, which mainly involved being thoughtful and considerate and tactile.

Everyone knew that they fancied each other long before Mr. Hayes and Miss Harris did. Their faces lit up when they saw each other. The six o'clock drinks turned into dinners, and theater visits. And when the annual Bank Dinner Dance came round, Mon was surprised that everyone in the restaurant knew that she was going to go as Mr. Hayes's guest.

They thought for a considerable time that they were only exchanging helpful books with brown paper covers. But it turned out, of course, that they didn't need these books at all. Mr. Hayes and Miss Harris had well found the way to each other's hearts long before either of them realized it.

T
he January sales started earlier every year. Most of the big stores opened the very day after Christmas. A lot of people protested and said it was ruining family life. But secretly they were often relieved. Family life could often be overrated. Patrick Brennan said they should cash in on it, serve a comforting lunch to take the weight off the weary shoppers' feet.

“And what about the weary staff's feet?” Brenda asked. But she knew that he was right. People would love it. It would take the effort out of shopping if people knew that they could hand their parcels into Quentins' big roomy cloakroom and sit down to a lunch where cold turkey would make no appearance.

“We won't force anyone to work unless they want to.” They wouldn't need the full team.

Patrick's brother, Blouse, and his wife, Mary, would help. There was no way they could open their organic vegetable shop that day. On the day after Christmas, people wanted to buy digital cameras, copper saucepans or designer shoes. They did not want Blouse and Mary Brennan's parsnips, guaranteed free of pesticides.

They put a discreet little notice on each table in the restaurant advertising a Special Sale Lunch with a limited but interesting menu on December 26. Early booking was
essential. The menu was not, strictly speaking, limited, since they planned to serve Patrick's legendary steak and kidney pies, rack of lamb and a fiery bouillabaisse.

Yvonne booked a table for four as soon as she heard about it. It was the ideal choice for her boss, Frank. He could take his three children to lunch there as a treat, something totally different on this, the first Christmas that he would spend away from his home. Frank's difficult wife, Anna, who had laid down so many ground rules and made things so awkward, would not object to this. It was quite extraordinary, Yvonne thought, that Anna, who had left Frank for another man, was still calling the shots.
She
still lived in the family home, and
she
had the children for Christmas. Frank was altogether too easygoing. He said that there was no point in upsetting little Daisy, Rose and Ivy still further. The whole thing wasn't
their
fault. He seemed to imply that it was nobody's fault. Anna had suddenly fallen in love with this other man, Harry, and that there was nothing anyone could do about it. Everyone at the office was furious with him. Some even went so far as to say that if he were as passive as this, then perhaps Anna had a case for leaving him.

But Yvonne knew better. Frank was a loving husband and father who put in long hours in computer sales so that his family could have a holiday abroad, a new carpet, add decking in the garden. Yvonne knew how he worried about these expenses. She saw him sigh and frown when he thought that no one was looking.

Yvonne was always looking at Frank, but he never saw. Why should he see her? The small, dumpy assistant in the sales department. Yvonne lived with her handicapped mother. Yvonne, who had no style or love of her own. A million miles from the tall, blond Anna, who had only to smile and everyone did what she said.

She told her mother about it.

“And will you go too?” her mother asked eagerly.

Sometimes Yvonne despaired. She would
love
to have had a great lunch on the day after Christmas in a smart, buzzy restaurant with Frank and his three children. Love it more than anything, but it would have been entirely inappropriate and intrusive. The only part she could play was to call his attention to the lunch and make the reservation for him.

“Oh, no, Mother,” Yvonne said. “That wouldn't do at all.”

“You must go out yourself over Christmas, Yvonne,” she said. “I'm fine here on my own with my thoughts and my television.”

“I know, Mother, but there's really not all that many places I want to go.” Yvonne looked into the flames and thought about being thirty-six, the same age as Anna. Even Mother, who was in a wheelchair, had once had a life and a love and a child. Wasn't it odd the way the world turned out for people? Frank reported that Anna had been highly approving of the lunch-in-Quentins idea. She had even praised him for thinking of it.

“I'm afraid I didn't say it was your idea,” he apologized. She wanted to lean over and stroke the side of his face. But she restrained herself. He would have been horrified and embarrassed and eventually the nice, easy friendship they had would have disappeared.

Christmas Day was cold and windy in the city center. Brenda Brennan cooked a turkey for her husband, Patrick, and his brother, Blouse, and Blouse's wife, Mary. And the new baby, Brendan. Mon and her fiancé were with them.

Yan the Breton waiter telephoned to send them greetings and to say that his father was now fully recovered and home from the hospital. Mon's family called from Australia to say they had been sunburned at the
beach and to know if Mon's Mr. Hayes was still on for the wedding. Or had he seen sense.

Mr. Hayes, flushed with port, told them all that he just
adored
Mon and he didn't care who knew it. They ate in the kitchen of Quentins and played country and western music all day long.

“I hope we'll all think it's worth opening tomorrow,” Patrick said.

They reassured him. “Isn't the place going to be full, and we don't get that every Tuesday,” Brenda said, ever practical. Blouse said he loved the thought of being a waiter for the day, all dressed up and people thinking he was the real thing.

“You
are
the real thing,” they all said to Blouse at the same time. They talked about the bookings they had taken. Blouse had taken a booking from a woman in a wheelchair who had never been there before. She had been very eager for a table where she and her companion could be seen by everyone. Brenda had booked a table for a young man who was going to propose to his girlfriend and wondered could they have champagne on ice ready. And if it were not needed, he would let them know. They all agreed that there was no other job quite as interesting as watching the human race at feeding time.

Christmas Day was cold and windy outside the big house where Anna and Frank's three little girls opened their presents. Harry stood watching.

“It's a bit rough on Frank that he's not here to see it,” he murmured to Anna.

Her blue eyes were sad. “We have to start as we mean to go on,” she said, “and he does get them all day tomorrow.”

Frank didn't notice the weather as he sat in his sister's home, playing with her children instead of with his own.
Trying all the while to avoid everyone's pity for him and their rage at Anna.

Yvonne and her mother sat together as they had for many a year. Yvonne's mother was resplendent in the fine wool stole with a soft lilac color, which had been Yvonne's gift. Yvonne was sitting speechless, looking at the invitation for two to lunch at Quentins the following day, which had been her mother's gift to her. There was no way she could return or refuse to accept a present like this. She would have to go through with it.

Frank called for the girls at ten-thirty. Anna looked beautiful, as she always did. Harry looked a bit embarrassed, not sure how to play it. The girls were excited. They dragged him over to the Christmas tree to see what Santa Claus had brought. All of the gifts were exactly what they had been hoping for. And Mummy had given them each a new velvet dress.

“What time would you like me to deliver everyone home?” he asked mildly.

Anna gave a tinkling laugh. “Frank, honestly, you don't have to ask, you
are
their father. We aren't the kind of people who have court rulings. Keep them all day until they're tired. Right, girls?”

Right, they said, pleased that there was no row. Daisy was nearly nine and almost grown up, so when the others weren't listening she whispered some of her theories about Santa Claus to her father. Frank listened thoughtfully and said it was hard to know all right and we should all keep an open mind on things.

“Do you mind about Harry being here, Dad?” she said.

“No, darling, not if it makes your mother happy.” He tried to read her face but wasn't sure if he had given the right answer or not.

The shops were crowded. It was hard for six-, seven-, and eight-year-olds to make decisions. The little legs were tired when they got to Quentins, the first guests.

“You're welcome,” the waiter said. “Can I take your parcels for you, ladies?” Daisy, Rose and Ivy giggled at being called ladies.

“How will you know which are ours?” Ivy asked.

“You'll give me your names and I'll write them down,” he said.

“What's your name?” Daisy asked.

“Blouse Brennan,” the man said.

“Why?” Ivy asked.

“When I was a young fellow I called my shirt my blouse. No one ever forgot it.”

“Well, a shirt
is
a sort of blouse,” said Daisy.

“That's what I always thought,” Blouse said, pleased.

Frank looked at his eldest daughter with pride. The restaurant filled up, mainly families, the odd twosomes. Even though he felt a deep sense of loneliness not to be part of a proper family, Frank thought from time to time that he got envious glances with his three beautiful daughters. Alert and smiling and interested in everyone.

“Look at that couple kissing,” Rose said as a bottle of champagne was opened at a nearby table.

“Does that woman have any legs?” Daisy said in her bell-like voice.

The woman in the wheelchair turned round with a smile. “I do, dear, but they're not any use to me, so the waiter wheeled me in up the ramp. He was very helpful.”

“I saw you come in. That was Blouse that wheeled you in.”

“Blouse, is it? A very nice young man.” The old lady nodded.

Finally her companion looked up from staring at the floor. It was Yvonne from work.

Frank was amazed and pleased. “So you decided to
come yourself too,” he said happily. “Isn't it great! I must introduce you to my daughters.” He brought them over to Yvonne's table, where they all stood in everyone's way until Blouse Brennan suggested that he merge the two parties to save on space.

Yvonne's face was scarlet. “I can't tell you how sorry I am, Frank. This was all my mother's idea,” she hissed at him.

“But I can't tell you how delighted I am . . .” he began.

They could hear the children talking to Yvonne's mother, asking her how her legs had decayed, and did she bother wearing stockings and what would happen if the restaurant went on fire. “Blouse would push me down the ramp,” Yvonne's mother said.

“Indeed I would, Madam,” he said as he tied Ivy's table napkin around her neck, the way the French do.

“What lovely dresses you have.” The old woman felt the colored velvet frocks.

“They're from our mother. She doesn't live with Dad anymore, you see, so that's why she's not here.” Daisy seemed to have a mission to explain today.

“So you must remember it all to tell her. She'll want to know what you did because she loves you so much, like your father does. He must love you a lot to think of taking you to a very high-class restaurant like this.”

“Is it high-class?” Rose was interested.

“The highest there is.” Yvonne's mother was firm on this.

“It's a pity they're not both here together,” Daisy sighed.

“Oh, I don't know . . . you can have better times separately. Like Yvonne's father and me. We loved her to bits, but we changed in loving each other, and she was always happy with both of us, weren't you, Yvonne?”

“Yes, I was, indeed,” Yvonne said, astounded.

“So her dad loved someone else eventually, and I loved someone else, but it didn't take away one bit from loving Yvonne.
Isn't that right?
” she barked at her daughter.

“Oh, absolutely right, Mother. Like as if your heart got bigger or something and there was more love in it,” Yvonne said, wild-eyed at the whole thing.

Frank patted her knee and stroked her hand. “Yvonne, I wish you knew how much this means . . .” he began.

But Yvonne was listening to what her mother might be up to now. It was reasonably harmless. She was asking her new best friend, Blouse Brennan, for some bread that they could throw to the ducks in St. Stephens Green.

“Can we come too?” Rose asked.

“Please,” Frank begged.
“Please.”
And it was arranged. There would be time later, much later, when she would tell him that her mother and father had never separated, and he had died fifteen years ago and her mother had never looked at another man. This was not the time to do it. The Special Sale Lunch was nearly over, the rain had stopped and it was time to go and feed the ducks.