Second Hand Jane (3 page)

Marian had
derailed her train of thought.

“If like you
say, Jessica, and the odds are really not in your favour, then you
should come home. I’ll say no more on the subject.”

If only she
would say no more, Jess had thought. Frustratingly, she refused to
entertain the idea that perhaps her daughter was happy in her life
and that maybe, just maybe, she didn’t want to hear the
pitter-patter of little feet in her future and that maybe, just
maybe, she was managing quite nicely without a man.

Jess shook the
spectre of Marian Baré away and, kicking off her slippers, she went
in search of a pair of trainers.

Jess didn’t own
a car. There really wasn’t much need for one when she could walk
nearly everywhere in the city. Besides, Dublin’s roads were
congested enough without her adding to the problem. Not to mention
the fact her budget didn’t stretch to paying for a permanent car
parking space in Riverside’s underground garaging. She’d soon
learnt on arriving in the city that she could get to wherever she
needed to be faster on foot than she could in a car or on public
transport, especially come rush hour, and it kept her relatively
fit at the same time. As for all the carbon monoxide fumes she
breathed in every time she marched down the Quays—well, the Chinese
had it right with those masks they wore but she herself was far too
vain to do a Michael Jackson.

Slamming the
main doors of Riverside Apartments shut behind her, she stared for
a moment at the steady flow of cars. Some had people half hanging
out the windows, waving flags. Obviously victorious after the
morning’s football match, she thought before setting off at a
steady pace along pavements that had seen better days. Her new
trainers were almost neon in their whiteness and she hoped they
wouldn’t give her blisters as she passed under the shadow of the
domineering Four Courts building. The bodies of those who partook
of the hard stuff and slept rough in the building’s grand entrance
way had all shuffled off for the day. All except for one chap who
was still huddled under his grey greatcoat. Jess paused; it was so
sad to see—with all that grey, he blended into his surrounds. Most
passers-by wouldn’t even notice him. Rummaging in her bag, she
found what she was after and stuffed a tenner into the bag that lay
open next to him. She hoped he’d use it to buy breakfast and not
his next fix.

A Saturday
afternoon stroll down the Quays was usually a much more relaxed
affair than an early morning weekday one when the traffic was at
its worst. Once, she’d almost been knocked down by a car mounting
the pavement in an effort to get out of the way of an ambulance.
The emergency vehicle had been trying to manoeuvre through the
middle of the two-lane traffic on a road that had originally been
designed for a horse and cart. After she’d gotten over her fright,
she’d fervently hoped that she was never in a position where she
needed help in a hurry.

Reaching the Ha’Penny Bridge in good time,
Jess rocked from foot to foot as she waited her turn to cross over
to the Southside. Even from that distance, she could see that the
bridge was thronging with its usual horde of both tourists and what
her mother would call ne’er-do-wells.
He
was there in his usual spot, too, she thought, wrinkling
her nose as she spied the chap with the gingery dreadlocks sitting
on his piece of cardboard. His back was pressed up against the iron
railings and he was decked out in what some might call an
alternative and others might call the wastrel uniform of army
fatigues and Doc Marten boots.

In the past,
she’d always done her bit for him—flicking a couple of euros into
the tin cup he’d hold out whilst worrying about the likelihood of
his getting piles sitting so close to the ground like that. That
was until the day she’d spotted him fine dining in the latest hip
little French bistro to open up in Dublin with a lady friend. So
much for on the bones of his arse—he was creaming it! Jess shot him
a disgusted look as she marched past, carrying on to her
destination of Tara Street Station.

***

The train
didn’t keep her waiting long and she settled back to enjoy the
short ride. This was her favourite route on the Dart and not just
for the scenery but for the celebrity spotting, too. She was busy
trying to spot signs of life down in U2’s The Edge’s pink house. It
resplendently perched on the rocks overlooking the sea but she was
distracted by the couple sitting across from her. Neither looked to
be the full packet of biscuits, Jess concluded, giving the woman’s
frumpy floral, nylon housecoat the once-over. Her legs were splayed
in that slightly apart stance of the chubbily well-blessed and her
greasy, grey hair was short and to the point. Hubby looked like he
would be called Errol and he was in a brown suit. There was no need
for him to stand up for Jess to know it would be an ill-fitting
one. He had an impressive comb-over going on, too, which was
presently flapping up and down as his wife gave him a couple of
slaps about the ear-hole before calling him a “Fecking Eejit.”

Jess sighed
happily; she did so love Dublin public transport theatre. It was
great fodder for her column—a Kiwi girl’s take on life in Ireland’s
capital. Take, for instance, the occasions when she caught the bus.
The harried housewives travelling on it seemed to incorporate the
word “fecking” into every sentence, pausing momentarily in their
cussing to cross themselves as they passed by St Patrick’s
Cathedral.

Now, though,
the husband beater turned toward her and muttered something about,
“Fecking useless eejits.” This was Jess’s cue to smile in polite
agreement with her before averting her gaze back out the window.
Dublin public transport theatre was all well and good so long as
she wasn’t on the receiving end of it.

The waves below
the tracks were crashing onto the rocks but even on a grey day, the
view from the train’s smeared window was a stunning one as it
hugged the rugged coastline. As they neared Enya’s castle, which
wasn’t really a castle but an impressively purposely-built pile of
rocks, Jess risked a glance over to her right. She always hoped to
spot the singer wandering ethereally around the grounds in a
billowing white dress. She refused to believe that she was more
likely to be decked out in jeans and a sweatshirt, pulling weeds or
hanging out her washing like every other mere mortal. There was no
sign of Enya today and catching the husband beater’s eye, Jess
swiftly returned her gaze to the sea and shuddered. God, she hoped
she didn’t wind up like her. Still, at least the woman had a
husband whereas she was well on her way to spinsterdom. She’d
really have to help herself and get out and about more.

Nora was
forever offering to escort her along to various speed-dating events
or 90s Dance Revival nights at her local pub but it was all a bit
of an effort these days—putting on her glad rags, only to be
jostled back and forth in a crowed pub. Or, if the lights were dim
enough, being chatted up by cubs in search of a bit of cougar
action. It was enough to make a girl feel cheap!

Not Nora,
though. No, Nora was blatantly proactive in her search for a mate.
Her pretty soft blonde, blue-eyed features, breathy Monroe voice,
and petite build all combined to give men the false impression that
here was a woman who was in dire need of their protection. However,
having clawed her way up the professional ladder into a high-flying
career in cinema management, Nora was in actual fact what you could
call a strong woman. Or, to put it more plainly, she had a tendency
to frighten men off with her “say it like she saw it” manner
because they never saw it coming.

Brianna and
Jess had referred to their friend fondly as the Praying Mantis—an
insect who bites the head off its mate after sex—ever since the
night they’d first borne witness to Nora in all her glory.

The three women
had been propping the bar up in some pub buried deep in the cobbled
zone of Temple Bar when a chap had bravely stepped forth from the
crowd and offered to buy Nora a drink. She’d acquiesced like the
Queen accepting a bouquet of flowers from a commoner by going on to
order the most expensive drink on the menu. She’d then delved deep
into her handbag and just when the girls thought she would never
come up for air, she’d resurfaced, waving a business card as if she
had won the lotto. It wasn’t just any business card, mind; oh no,
it belonged to her dental hygienist.

“She’ll sort
your halitosis out lickety-split, love,” she’d told the poor sod,
placing it in his shirt pocket before accepting the drink he
proffered and cheerily raising her glass.

Brianna, by
contrast, reminded Jess of Bambi. She was pretty and sweet of
nature yet tall and gangly and her bobbed chocolate hair and big
round brown eyes suited her perfectly. Her olive skin colouring was
most definitely that of her ancestors—the Celts. Brianna was also
the first of the trio to say “I do” to anything other than the
offer of a drink and for the past seven years, she had been happily
married to Pete, who was both big and burly and loved the bones off
her.

Five years ago,
Harry had arrived in the world and while his mother professed that
he drove her potty, he was a child Jess actually did really like.
He was by no means saintly—as Brianna often attested—but he had
such of sense of fun, not to mention a penchant for makeup. He was
a veritable magpie where cosmetics were concerned and when his two
spinster aunties, Jess and Nora, weren’t spoiling the little boy
rotten, they were keeping a tight hold of their makeup bags. “He’ll
grow out of it, Brie,” Jess had assured her the last time he had
been caught red-handed literally with her new Bobbi Brown lippy.
“Honestly, my nephew used to do some unspeakable things.”

“What does he
do now then?” Brianna had asked hopefully.

“Oh, more
unspeakable things. My sister says that if you try to analyse what
your children do, you’d send yourself mad. She reckons life with
kids is just one continual phase after another.”

When she wasn’t
playing happy families, however, Brianna still occasionally liked
to live vicariously through her single friends but if the truth be
known it was she, the old married woman of the trio, who got the
most action on a regular basis. So, in point of fact, it was Jess
and Nora who lived vicariously through Brianna’s sex life. She was
also a fiend for committees and belonged to everything from the PTA
at Harry’s school to Save the Manatee, the latter being a
mermaid-like sea-creature she encountered and went on to bond with
on her Florida honeymoon.

Jess had never
figured out exactly where she fitted into their friendship
equation, not just because she was the polar opposite of Nora and
Brianna in her taste for all things vintage. Her idea of a great
day’s shopping was not trawling the High Street for the latest
fashions with them but rather rummaging through an Oxfam store or
hitting a car boot sale. She definitely had her own sense of style,
too, with her love of vintage designer clothes, and had gone
through many phases in the fashion stakes. At Uni, she had fallen
in love with the 1950s floral frock, eventually moving on to the
Boho look of the early 1970s. She was currently enthralled by all
things 80s, although she drew the line at horrendously oversized
shoulder pads. Looks wise, she was out on a limb, too, with her
green eyes and unruly crop of auburn curls that simply refused to
do what they were told, no matter how many times she singed them
between the hair-straighteners.

She was neither
quiet nor what you could call outspoken and the three girls often
had a laugh that they were like Bananarama, the female trio from
the 80s, before launching into an off-key version of “Venus.” Jess,
however, was the only one who actually looked the part with the
side bow in her hair and pinafore smock dress. What she did know,
though, was that leaving London and arriving in Dublin back in 2001
was the best choice she ever made. The Celtic Tiger had been
roaring and Dublin was rocking when she met the girls and the three
of them had just clicked. This was surprising given their
inauspicious start:

Jess had booked
in for a haircut with Miss Brianna—as the salon’s receptionist had
referred to her—the morning of her job interview at the Marriott,
the Marriott being an established Dublin guesthouse near St
Stephens Green where she’d wound up working for slave wages during
her first year in Dublin while she tried to establish a name for
herself as a freelance journalist.

Brianna, who
never was a very good hairdresser and for whom half of Dublin’s
female population breathed a sigh of relief when they heard she’d
hung up her scissors in favour of being a stay-at-home mammy, had
managed to brutalise her fringe—and that’s when Nora had walked
into the salon for a lunchtime shampoo and blow-wave.

Flopping down
in the seat next to Jess’s, Nora called out a hello to Brianna, who
was hopping nervously from foot to foot. She was gripping a mirror,
waiting to show her already unhappy client the concave she’d
attempted and which she had now decided was not such a good idea on
hair that was as thick and curly as this girl’s was. Nora took in
Brianna’s latest victim’s mortified expression as she frantically
tried to stretch her shorn bangs down over her eyebrows and shook
her head in commiseration.

“My God, she’s
done a job on you. You’re not going to be able to do much with
that, now are you?”

Distracted,
Jess turned her attention to the blonde woman seated next to her,
surprised that one so petite and dainty had such a big gob and
feeling a stab of envy—a proper fringe! “Fringe envy”—now that was
a new one, she’d thought. Still, the woman had only stated the
obvious and so she’d blinked back the tears that were threatening
and confided, “I know. I look terrible and I have a job interview
this afternoon.”