Semi-Sweet (24 page)

“I know, love,” Geraldine said quietly. “Of course it was.” She took a ginger nut. “I’m supposed to be off these for Lent,
but, really, what’s the point?” She dunked it in her tea. “Where did you say Adam was gone?”

Hannah cradled her cup. “Out for a drink with Nora. It was her first day at work today.”

“You never told me she got a job. Where’s she working?”

And just like that, they were back to Patrick.

Wally slapped John on the back. “Hey, Johnny. Fancy meeting you here. Can I get you another one?”

John shook his head. “I’m okay, thanks. You working tonight?”

Wally nodded. “Probably be quiet, but I’ll do a few hours.”

Monday nights at Vintage were very different from Saturdays. At almost ten o’clock, barely a dozen drinkers were about, soft
piped music replacing the band.

The barman set a small bottle of water in front of Wally. “Thanks, Neil.” He touched it against John’s glass.
“Sláinte.
”

They sometimes ran into each other on Mondays. John had developed the habit of dropping in for a pint on his way home from
the rented workshop, just down the road. He liked the quietness of Monday nights, liked the chance to kick back and do nothing
for an hour or so. And Wally, whose work brought him all over Clongarvin, sometimes found his way to Vintage on Mondays, too.

We could use a saxophonist,
Wally had said when he’d rung John, his cousin Patsy having passed on the number of the carpenter-musician from Scotland.
That’s if you’re any good, of course.

No sign of a smile in his voice, so John couldn’t tell if he was joking.
I’m not bad,
he’d replied.
No complaints so far.

Why don’t you come round when we’re rehearsing,
Wally had suggested.
Try out a few pieces with us, see how it goes.

So he’d gone to Wally’s house and met the three of them, and they’d played together for an hour or so. The pieces were popular
ones that John knew well, and he soon adapted his playing to suit their quirky style. He knew he fitted in well so he wasn’t
surprised when Wally, the unspoken leader of the outfit, invited him to join them.

We play here and there, wherever we can pick up a gig,
he told John.
As it stands, we’ve got no regular slot, but there’s a wine bar just about to open down by the river, and I’ve heard that
the owner wants some live jazz, so I’m going to have a word with him.

Carlos, the Portuguese double bassist, had heavily accented and quite broken English, and Wally’s sister Vivienne, who played
the clarinet, was so shy she barely spoke, so it was Wally whom John felt he knew best after almost four months of playing
with them.

Wally finished his water. “Better get going. That taxi won’t drive itself. See you Wednesday.” Wednesday was rehearsal night,
usually in Wally’s house.

“Good luck, now.” John raised his pint and drank, and wondered, as he often did, what his daughter was doing right then in
Edinburgh. For some reason, since Hannah Robinson’s rejection, he was missing Danielle more.

“Hannah saw that Leah Bradshaw today,” Geraldine said.

Stephen tried in vain to remember who Leah Bradshaw was. “Really?”

Geraldine stirred her tea. “It appears,” she said, “that Maureen Hardiman was right.”

“About what?”

Geraldine threw him an exasperated look. “You never listen to me. I told you she told me Leah Bradshaw was pregnant. I distinctly
remember telling you when I got home from bridge.”

“Sorry.”

“Poor Hannah got the shock of her life today. She knew the minute she saw her.” When he made no response, Geraldine looked
at him sharply. “Which means, of course, that she was already expecting by the time Patrick broke up with Hannah.” She shook
her head. “And to think that trollop did my nails.”

Stephen raised his cup. Sometimes silence was the safest option.

Geraldine sighed. “I wish Hannah and Adam would give it a try.” And as Stephen opened his mouth, she added quickly, “I know
you say they’re just friends, but can’t friends become something more? At least they could try.”

“Maybe they’re afraid of ruining their friendship if it didn’t work out,” Stephen said.

Geraldine flapped an impatient hand at him. “Why are you always so sensible? And there was that other lovely man from Scotland—I
told you about him, but you probably don’t remember that either.”

Stephen smiled. “Actually, I do. Isn’t he the one who makes kitchens?”

“Yes—he was just lovely, and I’m sure if she’d encouraged him, he would have been interested.”

“She’s trying to get a business off the ground,” Stephen pointed out. “That doesn’t leave a lot of time to socialize.”

“I know, I know—especially now with that awful accident and Una gone again.”

“But she’ll be back in a few days, won’t she?”

Geraldine lifted her shoulders. “Who knows what’ll happen now? That whole family must be devastated.”

They drank in silence for a while. It was twenty past eleven, and they were having their usual nighttime cup of tea before
going upstairs to bed.

“We were talking at work today,” Stephen said after a minute.

There were four male dentists working in the clinic—three now, without Tom. Geraldine had met them all. The other two were
in their thirties, both with young families. Tom had started the clinic more than twenty years before, with another man who
had since died. Stephen had worked there for more than a decade. The younger men had joined in the last five years.

“About Tom,” Stephen added. He lifted the spoon in the sugar bowl and let the sugar spill off it.

“Oh, yes?”

“We were thinking that he doesn’t have that long left to work,” Stephen said, digging the spoon in again.

Geraldine stared. “What do you mean, he doesn’t have that long left? Tom is barely sixty.”

“He’ll be sixty-two next birthday,” Stephen said. “He could take early retirement now if he wanted.”

Geraldine frowned. “Early retirement? Has he ever talked about it?”

“Well, no, but that doesn’t mean—”

“I wish you’d stop playing with that sugar,” Geraldine said sharply. “I can’t see Tom wanting that at all. He’s much too active
to give up work. What would he do with himself all day?”

Stephen lifted the teapot and refilled their cups. “Well, maybe after what’s happened, he might change his mind.”

Geraldine’s hand, reaching for the milk jug, stilled. “Stephen, you’re not going to hound him out, are you? Have you forgotten
that it was Tom who started the clinic? He got
you
in there, for God’s sake.”

Stephen put his hands up. “Of course I haven’t forgotten, Geraldine. But it’s not entirely up to me—I’m just one voice in
there.”

“You’re the senior voice. You and Tom are the seniors. The others haven’t been there long enough to be having those kinds
of discussions.”

“Look, it wasn’t an official discussion. It wasn’t anything like that. The subject just came up casually over lunch, that’s
all.”

“It was an
accident
,” Geraldine said angrily, “and he’ll be well punished for it. The man could go to jail, for heaven’s sake. The rest of his
life could be ruined.”

“I know it could.”

“We’re his friends. He’ll need us to be there for him.”

“I know,” Stephen repeated. “We
will
be there for him.”

“So there’ll be no more talk of him having to leave work?”

“Geraldine, I told you it wasn’t like that.”

“But if the subject comes up again, you’ll defend him?”

“Yes.”

Geraldine reached for a biscuit.

“I thought you’d given them up for Lent,” Stephen said mildly.

“Oh, who cares about bloody Lent?” Geraldine snapped. “There are more important things than
Lent
 !”

She dropped the biscuit and put her head into her hands. Stephen reached across the table and stroked her arm.

“Sorry,” he said.

“No,
I’m
sorry,” she said, and he could hear the tears in her voice. “I’m not cross with you, it’s just…What a horrible thing to happen.
It’s just horrible.”

“It is,” Stephen said, squeezing her arm gently. “It really is horrible.”

They sat opposite each other, the tea cooling in their cups, the clock on the wall every now and then giving a soft electronic
whirr.

Patrick lay back in the hot, scented water and closed his eyes.

We had this password,
Nora had said, leaning across the table toward him,
for when we fancied a boy.

Waiting for Patrick to ask, so of course he’d asked.

It was “climax,”
she’d said, watching his face.
If one of us worked it into a sentence, the other knew to lay off whoever it was, or else.

The dress she wore crossed over her breasts, and when she leaned toward him, it revealed quite a lot of them. He’d found it
hard to avoid looking. She’d caught him once, more than once. It didn’t seem to bother her.

Did you ever fall out over boys?
he’d asked.

It was just talk, there was no harm in it. It was just harmless talk about two schoolgirls and what they might have gotten
up to.

Nora had grinned.
A few times we shared, if he was too good to resist,
she’d said.
Not at the same time, of course.
Poking her fork into the pasta she’d barely touched.
Although there was this one guy…
Trailing off then, laughing softly.
Leah would kill me,
she’d said.
She’d have my guts for garters.

Go on,
Patrick had said, smiling.
Your secret’s safe with me. I won’t tell.

She’d put a finger to the side of her mouth, pretending to consider.
Well,
she’d said,
let’s just say he got a very tasty…um, sandwich one night. We were all a bit drunk…but it was great fun.

Twirling a fork through her pasta, smiling.
He was older, so he knew a thing or two about keeping us happy.
Bringing her fork to her lips, sliding it out slowly.
Oh, my.

Patrick lay in the warm water and pictured two teenage girls peeling off their school clothes—unknotting ties, unbuttoning
white shirts, stepping out of pleated skirts. Teasing him, giggling as they undressed. Lying on a bed, or on a floor, maybe—yes,
let’s put them on the floor, in front of a log fire, with their firm bodies and their lacy white panties.

He was an older man, someone Patrick’s own age, probably. Watching as they shed their uniforms, smiling at their antics, egging
them on, maybe, before taking off his own clothes and joining them.

He knew a thing or two about keeping us happy. Oh, my.

He lifted himself quickly from the bath, patted himself dry, and walked naked into the bedroom.

Leah looked up from her book and glanced at his erection. “Oh, God,” she said. “Sorry, Patrick, not tonight. I’m totally bushed.”

S
ooner or later it had to happen.

After several Friday nights of successfully managing to ignore the events that had taken place in the lives of their daughters,
matters between Fiona Bradshaw and Geraldine Robinson finally bubbled to the surface—in Maureen Hardiman’s house, of all places.

The bridge itself was played in the drawing room. Maureen called it the drawing room, but as far as Geraldine could see, it
was identical in both size and layout to her own sitting room. Typical Maureen, putting on airs, with her collection of spindly-legged
two-seaters that really seated only two very good friends comfortably—what was wrong with fold-up chairs?—and ridiculous little
coffee tables that were far too low and that barely held their cards and score sheets, never mind a handbag.

There was nothing disastrous in itself about Fiona and Geraldine meeting up. Hadn’t they been in the same room several times
since Patrick’s defection? Hadn’t they sat opposite each other for a set time each evening? They were both mature women; they
could handle a sensitive situation with the dignity and tact it required. There was no reason for any loss of face or sharp
words of any kind. No blame whatsoever need be attached to either party, for indeed both women were entirely blameless.

Geraldine took her seat opposite her partner as usual at the start of the evening, and play commenced. In due course a new
game was announced, and the partners who were moving found their new positions and began again. The cards were dealt, the
usual discussions ensued. Games were won and lost, scores were entered. The evening wore on.

As usual, Geraldine and Fiona eventually found themselves playing against each other. At no time over the course of that particular
bridge game did Geraldine address Fiona directly, or vice versa, unless communication was strictly necessary. The two women’s
eyes never met, and their hands remained resolutely apart, despite the limited space on Maureen’s tables. So far so normal.

Such a shame, then, after successfully negotiating their way through most of the proceedings, after keeping to separate sides
of the room during the ensuing tea and nibbles, that Geraldine happened to overhear a chance remark in Maureen’s hall at the
end of the evening, when the bridge players were maneuvering themselves into coats and retrieving umbrellas. When, in fact,
all danger of a contretemps of any kind between the two women in question might have been assumed to have passed.

“Fiona,” Dolores Mulcair was heard to say in her unmistakably strident tones, “I hear that your Leah is expecting.”

In the act of buttoning her coat, Geraldine froze.

“Yes,” Fiona replied, “in June.”

Geraldine turned slowly to regard her enemy and discovered Fiona to be looking directly across the hall at her, a tight smile
on her face, even while Dolores was congratulating her loudly, even as Maureen Hardiman was saying triumphantly, “I knew it!”

And if she’d seen the slightest hint of remorse, the tiniest sign of regret in Fiona’s expression, Geraldine might possibly
have found it in her heart to remain silent and let the moment pass. Sadly, she saw nothing of the sort as she gazed across
the hall. Fiona’s smile wasn’t one of triumph, but it held no repentance either. Not, of course, that Fiona was personally
responsible for Hannah’s desertion, but her daughter had behaved despicably—surely the woman could pretend she was even a
small bit ashamed of that?

So Geraldine decided to react. “That was quick,” she said loudly, over the buzz of conversation, every bit as loudly as Dolores.
“Weren’t you saying just at Christmas, Fiona, that you wished Leah would find some nice man?”

Fiona frowned. “No, I—”

“Oh, yes, I definitely remember you saying that,” Geraldine continued, “and now she’s due in June, which means she got pregnant”—pretending
to calculate, aware that the conversations had trailed off around them—“way back in October, it must have been. Now, don’t
you tell me,” she went on, “that you had no idea, you sly old thing.”

A dead silence. Eyes swiveling from Geraldine to Fiona. A slight flush in Fiona’s cheeks the only sign that her composure
was slipping. She opened her mouth, then closed it again. Geraldine waited.

“So who’s the lucky man?” someone asked finally, into the silence.

“Yes, Fiona,” Geraldine said, the smile rigid on her face, “who is this mystery man that nobody knew about?”

Fiona met her gaze squarely. What else could she do?

“Patrick Dunne is his name,” she said evenly, “as you well know, Geraldine.”

A collective indrawn breath. Eyes back on Geraldine now, waiting for her reaction. They all knew that Patrick had been with
Hannah: Hadn’t Geraldine often mentioned him, saying how good he was to her daughter? Hadn’t she expressed the hope to quite
a few of them that he’d propose at Christmas? And now they all knew that it was never going to happen, that he’d moved on
to Leah Bradshaw, who was pregnant with his child.

Mind you, they’d probably known it all already; when had anything stayed private in Clongarvin for more than five minutes?
Hadn’t Maureen Hardiman herself been only too delighted to share the juicy details with Geraldine? But here it was, in the
public domain at last.

Geraldine turned without another word and opened Maureen’s teak front door. She stepped into the damp night air and closed
the door on the silence, and walked on shaking legs to where she’d parked the car.

Already she regretted her impulse. It had been irresistible, baiting Fiona like that, so satisfying to throw her off balance.
But now they’d all look at Geraldine in pity, and they’d be careful not to mention Hannah. And, of course, she and Fiona would
be watched furtively anytime they came face-to-face in the future.

Still, it was out in the open now, no more avoiding to be done. She and Fiona would carry on as usual, she supposed. They’d
be polite and cool and never, ever friendly. And naturally, the other women would be sensitive to Geraldine’s situation, and
Leah’s pregnancy wouldn’t be discussed in front of her, which was a blessing.

She started the engine and drove home, trying to remember if there was any custard. She could do with a bowl of custard—which
was perfectly allowable as long as you made it with skimmed milk.

Hannah raised her glass and sipped. The Spanish wine had a creamy taste that hinted at apples. “Mmm, this is a good one, must
remember it.”

“Now aren’t you glad you came out?”

“You didn’t give me a lot of choice.”

But she
was
glad, happy to escape her gloomy thoughts for a couple of hours. Here in this dimly lit wine bar it was easier not to think
about little dead boys, and eaiser to push ex-boyfriends out of your head, to stop endlessly calculating, counting back the
months to figure out when he might have made a baby with another woman.

She sighed, resting her elbows on the bar. Not for the first time, she wished that she and Adam could just fall in love. How
simple that would make everything, how happily-ever-after that story would be.

Or would it? Would they drive each other mad within a week? Would romance mess things up between them, ruin the brilliant
relationship they had now? She shook her head; what a foolish notion. She hadn’t the slightest intention of falling in love
with her best friend. Things like that only happened in books.

“To happy times,” she said, lifting her glass again, “that are just around the corner.”

“I’ll drink to that.”

A movement caught her eye then, and she turned to see three men and one woman assembling on the little stage, setting up instruments,
settling into their seats. “Hey, I forgot about the music.”

She watched them preparing for their performance. She saw the woman in black taking a seat, leaning forward to set pages on
the stand in front of her. The keyboard player, his back to her, sorting wires and pressing switches, the enormous double
bass being positioned on its stand. The man with the closely shaven head raising the saxophone to his—

“I don’t believe it,” she said softly, lowering her glass.

“What?”

“The man on the far side, with the sax.”

“What about him?”

“He’s the one who asked me out—John Wyatt. He’s John Wyatt. Remember I told you, and I said no.”

He hadn’t been back to Cupcakes on the Corner. Almost three weeks now without a sign of him, and she kept telling herself
that she was relieved, that she’d done the right thing.

“I thought you said he was a carpenter,” Adam said.

“Well, he was a carpenter—I mean, he is. I had no idea he did this too.”

She was sure he’d never mentioned playing a musical instrument. But they’d spoken so little—two or three times altogether,
a few minutes at the most. She knew virtually nothing about him. She remembered thinking he looked familiar, the first time
he’d come into the shop, and now she realized it was because she’d seen him here.

She sipped her drink. The band played “’Round Midnight” and “Moonglow” and “At Last,” the slow old tunes wafting over her,
perfectly suited to the intimate, candlelit surroundings.

He wore a white shirt open at the neck, its sleeves rolled to the elbows. He looked relaxed as he played, perfectly at ease
with his instrument. She loved the idea of a man who could make music. Patrick hadn’t even been able to sing.

She drained her glass and turned to Adam. “Same again?”

She hadn’t been going to stay long: She’d been planning an early night—or at least not too late a night. But what was the
rush, with a Sunday lie-in to look forward to? It had been so long since she’d had a night out. One more drink wouldn’t hurt.

They had two more. By the time the music stopped, Hannah’s head was buzzing pleasantly. “He’s coming this way,” she said as
John approached the counter in conversation with the man who’d been playing the keyboard.

“Say hello,” Adam ordered.

“Hello there,” she called immediately, loudly, and they both looked across.

“Well.” John smiled as he came over. “Hello to you. Still selling your cupcakes?”

“Of course.”

She’d forgotten how attractive his accent was. He showed no embarrassment. There was no awkwardness meeting him again. She
introduced him to Adam.

The men shook hands, and then John turned to indicate his companion. “Wally O’Toole.”

“Hi,” he said, lifting a hand.

“I know you,” Hannah exclaimed. “You drive a taxi. You brought me home the day my van broke down.”
And the night Patrick left me,
she added silently.

She hadn’t even looked at him up to this, too preoccupied with her discovery of John in the band to notice anyone else.

“I remember that,” he said. “Presume you got it sorted.”

“Oh, yes, all better now.”

“Glad to hear it.”

He was definitely Irish, no trace of a foreign accent there. He had a nice smile, with very even teeth, and tousled, muddy-blond
hair.

“Hannah sells cupcakes,” John said, his eyes on her. “She makes them herself.”

“Cupcakes,” Wally said. “They’re some kind of fancy buns, are they?”

Hannah laughed. “That’s exactly what they are. ‘Cupcakes’ is just a sexier name.”

“Well, I’m all for sexy buns. Can’t have too many of those.”

John turned toward the counter and signaled to the barman. He pointed at Hannah’s almost-empty wineglass questioningly, but
she shook her head. She didn’t fancy ruining her one day off with a hangover.

“What’s your shop called?” Wally asked, nodding as he accepted a bottle of water, setting aside the accompanying glass.

“Cupcakes on the Corner,” Hannah told him.

He considered. “Yes, I remember it now. It’s yellow, isn’t it?” Raising the bottle to his lips.

“It is.”

“That’s good,” he said. “Yellow’s a good color for a cupcake shop.”

“I like your music,” she could hear Adam saying to John. “A nice mix of instruments, and you play well together.”

She threw him a mocking smile—trying to sound as if he knew the first thing about music—but he ignored it.

“I’m afraid I’m just the blow-in,” she heard John reply. “The other three are the real musicians—especially Vivienne.”

“‘And now you’ll have to excuse me.” Wally waved his half-empty bottle at them. “She’ll be waiting for me to drive her home.
Nice to meet you both. Johnny, see you next week.” And he was gone, weaving his way through the tables toward the rear of
the pub.

John turned back to Hannah. “So what do you think of our music?”

“I love it—I had no idea you were a musician.”

He really was quite good-looking. And it wasn’t as if there were the smallest hope that Patrick would be back now. She wondered
if there was any chance she’d be asked out again, or if she’d burned her bridges with John. Maybe she should take the initiative—but
even as the thought occurred, she knew she didn’t have the courage. She’d never had that confidence around men, could never
imagine putting herself into the vulnerable position of asking someone out and risking rejection—just as she’d rejected him.