Semi-Sweet (15 page)

“PA required,”
Nora read.
“Experienced, flexible, highly organized & efficient individual with an excellent attitude toward work and the ability to
adapt and function under pressure.”

Nothing about qualifications. Nora read on.

“Responsibilities will include diary management, compiling PowerPoint presentations, organizing travel, accommodation, and
meetings, and providing PA support at senior management level.”

Piece of cake—apart from the PowerPoint presentations, which Adam could coach her in. She skimmed down to
“Professional Qualifications”
and read
“Leaving Cert”
and
“Secretarial Qualification.”
Was that it? She had the Leaving Cert, and the secretarial qualification could be arranged with a phone call to Sonia at
one of the fashion magazines. A letter on headed paper from New York would surely do the trick with the hicks of Clongarvin.

No mention of what kind of company it was, not that it bothered her. Not when she was doing this purely for laughs, when she
could leave anytime she felt like it. She’d apply to the box number, see what happened.

“Here we go.”

The taxi driver pulled up to the curb. Nora folded the newspaper and looked in amusement at the lavender walls, the pink window
boxes filled with the little vividly colored flowers—something beginning with
c
, she thought—that everyone seemed to grow in Ireland in February. “Indulgence,” the ornate gold letters over the window spelled.
Pure Leah Bradshaw, as girly as ever.

“How much?” He mightn’t be bad without that horrendous woolly hat. Probably hiding a bald patch. Sexy green eyes, though,
and decent-enough teeth.

“Four-thirty, thanks.”

Nora pulled out a note and checked that it was a fiver. “Keep the change.”

“Thanks a lot.”

Nice music too—she was partial to a bit of Miles Davis. But of course a taxi driver didn’t interest her. She stood on the
path and rang the bell outside the salon, smoothing her leather jacket as she waited.

“Surprise,” she said when the door was opened.

Leah’s eyes widened. “Nora O’Connor? Is that you?” She stepped forward and put her cheek against Nora’s. “Bloody hell, you
look fantastic. It’s been years.”

“I’m here for a massage,” Nora told her. “I booked under the name Jackie Collins.”

Leah laughed. “That was you? I should have known.” She stepped back into the hallway and held the door open. “Come in. How
did you find me?”

Nora walked past her, taking in the deep blue carpet, the white reception desk, the framed certificate on the wall behind.
“You’re kidding, aren’t you? This is Clongarvin.”

Leah Bradshaw had put on weight. Her face was heavier. Hard to see her figure with the loose, flowery thing she wore, but
her ankles had thickened too. Maybe she had kids now. No ring on the wedding finger though.

“Come on.” Leah walked ahead of Nora down the narrow corridor that led off the hall. “We have lots to catch up on.”

“We certainly do.”

Nora was led into a small treatment room that contained a massage table, a cart piled with various bottles and pots, a sound
system on a shelf, and a single chair. “You can strip down to panties and lie under the towel,” Leah said. “I’ll be right
back.”

“Hey, no need to disappear—I’m not shy.” Nora unbuttoned her jacket and slipped out of it. The room was warm and scented.
Some elevator music wafted softly through the speakers. “Nothing under here that you haven’t seen plenty of times.”

She was aware of her still-youthful body as she undressed—and well aware, as she listened to Leah’s voice, while she laid
her clothes on the spindly-legged turquoise chair and unhooked her Agent Provocateur bra, that her school friend was checking
out the full breasts, the flat stomach, the firm thighs.

Jackson Paluzzi’s obsession with his wife’s figure—he’d happily paid for the personal trainer, the yoga and Pilates classes,
the regular spa treatments—had served some purpose. And his first-anniversary present of a boob job hadn’t hurt either.

“Right, let me have it.” She swung her legs onto the massage table and rolled onto her stomach, knowing that her thong made
it quite clear that Nora Paluzzi didn’t have an ounce of cellulite. “I like it good and deep—as the actress said to the bishop.”

She closed her eyes and prepared for an hour of gossip and pampering.

“What’s today’s special offer?”

“Red velvet—it’s a basic chocolate mix with red coloring and a classic cream-cheese topping. It’s one of our most popular
varieties.”

In between customers she found her thoughts straying to John Wyatt. His accent was very attractive; all those soft, rolling
r
’s made the Clongarvin dialect sound very flat in comparison.

“Have you any chocolate-coconut today?”

“Sorry—they’re all gone. What about orange-coconut?”

She refilled the shelf and rubbed at a mark on the glass counter. She’d never been to Scotland. Her parents had honeymooned
there, and Geraldine’s abiding memory was that it had rained solidly for five out of the seven days.

“I’ll take two of the strawberry and one peanut butter, please.”

She stirred her lunchtime soup, minestrone today. She didn’t think he had a wife. It felt like he had an interest in her—you
always knew when someone had. She wondered if he was planning to ask her out and hoped he wouldn’t. It was much too soon,
after Patrick.

“My husband goes mad for your ginger-sesame—he kills me if I bring home anything else.”

She switched channels on the little radio she’d bought and found something that wasn’t sports. Yes, definitely much too soon.

“A chocolate-vanilla, please—oh, and a double chocolate, too.”

“Any lemon left?”

At ten to five, she began to mop the floor. Pity, though. It would have been nice.

John Wyatt took his saxophone from its case and thought about the treacle-haired woman behind the counter of the shop that
sold nothing but cupcakes. “Hannah.” He said the name out loud, liking the soft roundness of it. It suited her.

The lie about his sweet tooth was forgivable. How else was he going to get to know her? She was never at Vintage on Saturday
nights, or anywhere else he’d been to. And Patsy at the woodworking store was delighted to take the cupcakes off his hands,
so he was making someone happy, which surely canceled out the lie.

He was lonely, and it had been quite a while. The only ring Hannah Robinson wore was on the middle finger of her right hand.
Enough grounds for asking her out? Maybe he should bide his time, get to know her a bit more.

Or maybe he should go for it, take a chance. Not much to lose if she turned him down. A minor embarrassment, a small disappointment.
Easy enough not to put himself in the way of meeting her again.

He opened the sheet music and began to play around with “Penny Lane” for Saturday night.

Hannah turned the key again and pumped the accelerator. The little yellow van shuddered, coughed, and went silent. She groaned
and leaned her head against the steering wheel. This was all she needed after a slow day, with a thumping headache and a big
wash on the line that Adam had probably forgotten to take in when the rain that had been threatening since noon had finally
arrived at four o’clock, the only time she’d been too busy with customers to phone him.

It was still lashing now, but at least the thunder and lightning had stopped. She’d always been terrified of lightning; it
had taken all her resolve not to put the Closed sign on the shop door and hide in the back until it passed. And now the van
had broken down, and who knew how much it would cost to get fixed?

She pulled out the keys and grabbed her satchel and umbrella and stepped into the rain. She’d hail a taxi and go home. In
this rain, and with her busy schedule, waiting for a bus wasn’t an option—and anyway, the trays were too awkward to manage
on the bus. Her shoes were completely sodden by the time a taxi pulled up. She closed her umbrella and opened the door.

“Can you come around the corner? I have to get some trays from my van.”

“Sure—hop in and I’ll drive you.”

“Thanks.”

He helped her shift the wooden trays from the van to the back of the taxi. Hannah gave her address and sank gratefully into
the passenger seat, closing her eyes. A hot bath when she got home, even if she couldn’t spare more than ten minutes in it.
Hopefully Adam would have dinner waiting. And a couple of aspirin might get rid of this damn headache.

She opened her eyes and fished her phone from her bag, and called Adam.

“The van broke down,” she told him. “Will you call your friend?”

“Do you need me to come and get you?”

“No thanks, I’m in a taxi. I’ll be home in a few minutes.”

As she hung up, she caught the driver’s eye. “Sod’s law,” she said, smiling bleakly.

“Bummer,” he agreed.

The music was pleasant, something mellow and jazzy. She was dangerously close to nodding off in the warm car. He wasn’t wearing
the woolly hat today, but she was pretty sure it was him.

She remembered him driving her to the restaurant the night Patrick had broken up with her, then home again later that evening,
with her parents in the car. And hadn’t she seen him since somewhere?…Yes, getting into his taxi in the supermarket’s car
park. She hadn’t recognized him that day, but now she was sure it had been him.

His hair was muddy blond and curled around the edge of his collar. His left hand rested on the gearshift as he negotiated
Clongarvin’s rush-hour traffic. He wore a green pullover. She couldn’t be sure without looking directly at him, but she thought
his eyes were green too.

He caught her glance. “Thought you were asleep.”

“Nearly. I’ve been on my feet since three this morning.” Yes, definitely green.

He grinned. “In that case, feel free—I’ll wake you when we get there.”

Nice even teeth. She turned to the window and noticed that the rain had finally stopped and been replaced by a pale lemon
sun that was doing its best to shine.

D
id you know that Leah is the woman Hannah’s ex left her for?”

Adam poured boiling water into the mugs. “I wasn’t sure of the name, but I had heard, yes.”

“Does Hannah know?”

“Yes. She’s the one who told me.” He handed her a mug. “Nora, it’s in the past—leave it alone. Hannah’s moved on.” He offered
her a biscuit but she waved the packet away. “She’s doing fine now.”

She sipped her coffee and grimaced. “What’s the deal with you two anyway?” she asked. “You and Hannah, how come you never
got together?”

Adam bit into his custard cream. “You’re such a drama queen. You know quite well that Hannah and I are just friends. It is
possible, believe it or not.”

“Right.” She tapped a nail against the side of her mug. “Do you remember Leah?”

“Not really. She was one of the princesses you hung around with, that’s all I know.”

“Leah was the small dark one. She’s the small blond one now.”

Adam shook his head. “Nope, nothing. Did she fancy me too?”

Nora laughed. “Oh, no, Leah was immune to your charms. She went for the studs.”

“Thanks.”

Hannah had told him about dropping in to Leah’s salon and getting the gift voucher for Patrick.
I probably brought them together,
she’d said, trying to smile.
Isn’t that a good one?

“I got a massage from her the other day,” Nora said. “Wasn’t the best I’ve ever had, but it wasn’t bad.”

“You don’t say.”

“Stop looking like that. I didn’t know about Hannah till Leah said it—how could I, when you tell me nothing? And anyway, like
you say, it’s all in the past and nothing to do with me.”

“Yeah…so you two had a good gossip?”

“Of course we did. I had to find out what everyone else was doing. Get this—Jojo married a widower with six kids.”

Adam took another biscuit. “Fascinating. I just can’t believe it. Good old Jojo.”

“Shut up.” Nora pulled an envelope out of her bag. “Here’s the real reason I came round—have a look at what I got in the post
this morning.”

Adam took the envelope. “What is it?”

“Read it.”

He pulled out the single sheet and scanned it. He looked back at Nora. “You’re joking.”

She giggled. “Isn’t it a scream? Talk about a small world, even for Clongarvin.”

He stared at her. “You’re not going to go?”

She took back the letter and folded it. “Of course I’m going to go. The first job I apply for and I’m called for an interview—you
should be pleased. And why the heck shouldn’t I go?”

“Because you’d be working for him.”

“So? Just because he did the dirty on Hannah, who I hardly know, I’m not allowed to work for him?”

Adam frowned. “Well, no, but—”

“Look,” Nora said, “I might not even get the job. But if I do…well, like you keep telling me, Hannah’s moved on, right?”

“Have you told Leah about this?”

Nora paused. “No. Why should I? She said nothing when I told her I was looking for work, although she must have known that
lover boy was in the market for a PA. Anyway, she’ll find out soon enough if I get the job.”

“Jesus.” Adam lifted his mug. “I’ll never figure women out.”

He wouldn’t mention it to Hannah; it might come to nothing. On the other hand, if Patrick Dunne decided to take Nora on as
his PA, it might be awkward explaining to Hannah why he’d kept quiet about his sister’s applying for the job. He sighed.

“Don’t worry, bro,” Nora said, “I didn’t tell you anything, okay? Wouldn’t want you getting into trouble with Hannah. You
know nothing about this job interview. Right?”

Adam nodded slowly. “Right.”

He might never figure her out, but his sister had him completely sussed.

As Geraldine slid the grill pan toward her and lifted the lamb cutlets onto the warmed plates, she heard her husband’s key
in the lock. After thirty-five years of marriage, their timing was impeccable. “Yoo-hoo,” she called, and a second later Stephen’s
head appeared. “Just in time,” she said. “I’m dishing up.”

“Smells good. Won’t be long.”

He thumped up the stairs while she uncorked the red wine that they’d opened the night before and emptied what was left into
the two glasses on the table. She drained the broccoli and transferred the potatoes from the steamer to a bowl. She turned
the oven down to low so the apple crumble would keep warm.

She knew exactly the kind of meal Stephen would serve up if their working hours were reversed and he was the one who got home
earlier. On the very few occasions he’d cooked dinner in the past, he’d taken several hours and used more saucepans than she’d
thought they possessed. He wasn’t a bad cook—the end results were generally very palatable—but for the time and effort involved,
Geraldine could have cooked for the week. Just as well she was always home ahead of him.

“Guess what,” she said when they were sitting opposite each other, he having splashed his face and exchanged his work shirt
and shoes for sweatshirt and slippers. “Alice and Tom are coming to that dinner-dance after all.”

“I know,” he said. “Miraculous recovery.”

“Tom mentioned it to you?”

“He asked if we wanted to go. I told him we already had tickets.”

Geraldine looked sharply at him. “You didn’t say Alice gave them to us, did you?”

“No—I said as far as I knew, you’d got them from someone who’d bought them and couldn’t go.”

“Good.”

Alice had been strange, that was the only word for it.
You won’t believe this,
she’d said to Geraldine,
but Tom was asked to buy tickets to that dinner-dance by one of his patients, so it looks like we’re going along after all.

There’d been an expression on Alice’s face that Geraldine couldn’t put a name to, a smile that wasn’t a smile, and she didn’t
meet Geraldine’s eye as she spoke.

Of course, Geraldine hadn’t asked how Tom was feeling—clearly that story hadn’t been true. Just as well she’d told Stephen
to say nothing to Tom at the dental clinic. There was something going on between Alice and her husband, but whatever it was,
Alice wasn’t saying.

Geraldine had offered to pay for her and Stephen’s tickets, but Alice had firmly refused.
They’re a present,
she’d said.
I won’t hear of it.
So now they were all going, the four of them.

They hadn’t often gone out together in the past, even though she and Alice got on fine in the shop, and Tom and Stephen would
go for a drink after work every now and again. For whatever reason, they rarely went out as a foursome.

Alice and Tom were older than Stephen and Geraldine—at almost sixty, Alice was around seven years older than Geraldine, and
Tom’s sixtieth had already come and gone—but that in itself wouldn’t have stopped them from meeting up socially. Maybe it
was the fact that they worked side by side every day.

We can share a taxi,
Geraldine had suggested, and Alice had agreed. So on the last Thursday in March, they were all dressing up and heading off
to the Dunmurray Arms Hotel for a night out that probably none of them wanted.

Stephen hated having to wear his dinner jacket and eat much later than they normally did, and he danced only when it was completely
unavoidable. Geraldine would miss
Dexter
, and she didn’t fancy having to get up for work after a late night. And Alice and Tom had whatever was going on between them,
so they were probably looking forward to it with even less enthusiasm.

But it was for a good cause, so that was that.

And who knew? They might even enjoy it. Geraldine had that navy dress she’d worn only once, to Aoife’s cocktail party last
autumn. Hopefully, she’d still fit into it, with everything else feeling a little snug these days. She’d cut out all treats
till the dinner-dance—Lent was next week anyway—and maybe desserts too.

“I saw that Leah Bradshaw today,” she told Stephen. “She walked past the shop, all done up.”

Fiona Bradshaw was still avoiding her at bridge, and Geraldine was pretending not to notice. All a bit awkward, really, but
she had no intention of giving up her weekly game, and it wasn’t as if she and Fiona had ever been close in the past.

“I phoned Hannah at lunchtime,” she said, “to see how Una’s first day went.”

“Oh, yes?”

“She did fine, apparently. Hannah will stay in the shop with her this week while she learns the ropes, and then she’ll let
her off on her own after that.”

“Good.”

Geraldine vaguely remembered the Connolly girls, for whom Hannah had baby-sat in her teens. The parents still lived across
the park in Larch Crescent, although the father rarely left the house—Parkinson’s or MS, he had—and the mother was a bit odd,
would say hello to you one day and ignore you the next.

Claire, the older girl, had had a baby a few years back. Geraldine recalled the minor scandal it had caused, remembered seeing
Claire and a boy—the father, she presumed—pushing a pram, both looking like children themselves.

But Claire was always pleasant, would smile at you when she passed, not like her mother. And Una, the younger sister, was
a nice little thing too. Hannah seemed happy with her choice of assistant.

“It’ll be great for her to have a bit of time to herself,” Geraldine said. “Take some of the pressure off her.”

“Certainly will. Did she mention the van, how it’s running now?”

“I forgot to ask. She would have said if it was still acting up.”

“Hope it wasn’t a bad buy.”

They’d gotten it cheap from one of Stephen’s patients, who had a small garage out in the country. Patrick had organized the
spray-painting, and the fitting of the wooden brackets in the back to hold Hannah’s trays in place.

They ate apple crumble—Geraldine allowed herself a small portion, now that it was made—and in due course the dishes were washed
up, the fire lit, and the television switched on. Stephen played Scrabble against a virtual opponent on the computer, and
the evening passed in the same way that most of their evenings did.

And when she went upstairs, Geraldine slipped the navy dress out of the dry cleaner’s plastic sleeve and tried it on in the
bathroom, and decided that desserts were definitely out for at least the next three weeks.

Hannah sprinkled blue cheese onto her tomato soup. “I can’t believe I’m actually someone’s boss.”

Adam took a chunk of bread from the basket. “I wanted to warm this, but I didn’t know how.”

“Wrap it in tinfoil and put it in the oven. Did you hear what I said?”

“About what?”

She slapped his wrist. “Pay attention. About my having an assistant. About me being the boss.”

Una had arrived ten minutes early. Hannah had explained how to record sales in the hard-backed notebook by the cash drawer—
just put a tick in the appropriate column
—and shown her where the gloves were kept—
don’t forget to take them off before you handle any money
—and provided a list of the main ingredients of each variety, in case anyone asked—
and make sure you mention when you’re selling anything with nuts in it.

Una had listened and nodded, and swept the floor without being asked, and insisted on making tea when Hannah mentioned that
she usually had a cup around eleven.

That’s what I’m here for,
she’d said.
The assistant always makes the tea.

Adam dunked bread into his soup. “So you think you chose well?”

“I do—she’ll be fine.”

“And the soup?” he asked. “You think I did okay? Not too chunky?”

She grinned. “You did very well, dear. Maybe your best meal so far.”

They were getting more like a married couple every day.