Semi-Sweet (5 page)

Was six hours enough sleep? It would have to be. Could she keep that up for seven months, six days a week? What had possessed
her?

She undressed quickly. This was the worst time, going to bed by herself—and waking up alone came a close second. Maybe she
should get a cat, or maybe a small dog that would curl up at the end of the bed and help her to feel less unwanted.

She burrowed under the duvet, trying to think positive. Adam was right: This was what she’d always wanted, since she’d begun
working in Finnegan’s Bakery all those years ago. She used to imagine running her own place, selling exactly what she wanted
to sell, answerable to nobody. If only she had the money.

And then Granddad had died, three years ago last August, and his house had been put on the market a few months later and had
sold just before prices began to fall. And Hannah, his only granddaughter, had been given enough from the proceeds to realize
her dream.

Last November a little corner unit on the main street had become vacant, the rent not too horrendous thanks to the recession.
After dithering for a few weeks, she’d finally taken the plunge and signed the lease, and told Joseph Finnegan she’d be leaving
at the end of the year.

She’d invested in a stove that took up twice the space of the old one—forcing a complete reshuffle of her other kitchen appliances,
during which the tumble dryer had migrated to the shed—and she’d bought the frighteningly expensive stand mixer, along with
the thousand other bits and pieces she hadn’t realized she’d need.

Adam and his cousins had rallied, and the little shop had gradually been scrubbed and sanded, painted and fitted with display
cases and shelves. And last week a man had painted
CUPCAKES ON THE CORNER
in bright blue letters on the yellow strip of wall above the front window.

The shop was tiny—not much room for more than three customers at a time—but there was space around the back to pull up with
the van. Adam had set up a Web site and designed stationery and printed off leaflets that they’d pushed through mail slots,
stuck on telephone poles and supermarket notice boards, and slipped under car windscreen wipers.

And a week before Christmas, Hannah’s kitchen had been visited by a health inspector and deemed a suitable place in which
to produce the cupcakes.

So everything was set. She was poised at last to make her dream come true—and the one person she wanted by her side had just
left.

She reached out in the darkness and found her phone on the bedside table. She opened a new text message and inserted Patrick’s
name on the recipient line, then typed “
I miss you
.” She held her thumb above “send”—and slowly moved it across to press “exit.”

Save message? the phone asked.

No, she replied with her thumb, and the words vanished.

She replaced her phone, closed her eyes, and forced herself to begin measuring flour, sugar, and butter. For some reason mental
baking usually sent her right to sleep.

“Mum?”

“Hello.”

Leah’s heart sank at the cool tone. “I’m just ringing to see how you are,” she said, as brightly as she could manage.

“He’s moved in, has he?”

Leah could picture her face, pinched with disapproval. “Yes, he’s moved in—and his name is Patrick,” she added before she
could stop herself. “Mum,” she went on quickly, “please don’t be like this.”

“Easy for you to say,” her mother answered, “when you don’t have to face Geraldine Robinson at bridge every Friday night.”

“She can’t possibly blame you.”

“And who else would she blame, when it’s my daughter who stole her daughter’s boyfriend? You should have seen how upset she
looked last Friday—I dread to think what she’ll say when she finds out who’s responsible for all this.”

Leah closed her eyes and took a breath. “Mum, let’s not get into this. Just please try to understand, nobody planned it. I
didn’t set out to—”

“You knew he was involved with someone else. You should have had some self-restraint.”

“It wasn’t like that. It’s not something—”

“Imagine what that poor girl is going through right now, and just about to open up a shop. Geraldine was telling us all only
a couple of weeks ago how nervous she was about it. Remember how tough it was for you when you opened the salon? How would
you have liked to be landed with something like that on top of it?”

With an effort, Leah held her tongue. No point in arguing: Nothing she could possibly say would make a difference. Not when
her mother had been in Hannah’s very situation thirty years earlier—only worse, because Leah’s father had walked out on his
wife and small daughter. At least Patrick hadn’t been married to Hannah, and no children were involved—not that there was
anything to be gained by pointing that out, of course.

And it was definitely not the right moment to break her other news—although time was running out for keeping quiet about it.

“Can we meet for lunch?” she asked instead. “My treat. Maybe Wednesday?”

Her mother’s sniff was perfectly audible over the mobile network. “I might be busy. I’ll have to check my diary.”

Leah dug her nails into her palm. “Well, give me a ring,” she said lightly. “I’ll keep one o’clock free. Let me know, okay?”

Hanging up, she opened the appointments book, took a pencil from the jar, and wrote
“Lunch with Mum”
in the one-o’clock slot on Wednesday. She lifted the phone again and made a reservation at Giovanni’s; her mother liked it
there.

Leah would wait until after the pasta to tell her what had to be told—and her mother would rant and rave all over again and
probably not talk to her for another month.

Leah lowered her head into her hands and groaned quietly. It wasn’t as if she’d set out to lure any man away from another
woman—that had never been her intention. Not that she hadn’t been attracted, right from the first time they’d met, when he’d
walked into the salon to claim his massage. She remembered privately admiring the broad chest, the muscular arms. She remembered
him flirting with her, warning her to leave his towel alone.

She’d been disappointed when he’d mentioned a girlfriend, but not surprised—the gift of a massage generally came from a woman.
And that had been it as far as she was concerned. He was with someone else, no point in going there. Even after he’d made
it plain that he was interested, she’d resisted him for as long as she could, insisting over and over that she didn’t want
an affair—particularly when she discovered the identity of his girlfriend and realized that they’d known each other, albeit
slightly, at school.

But in the end he’d charmed his way into her bed. He’d said the things she wanted to hear, convinced her that it was over
between him and Hannah in all but name.
She means nothing to me,
he’d insisted.
I just have to find the right time to leave her. I
will
leave her, I swear.

Was it so bad then, that Leah had finally given him the incentive he needed to do just that?

The doorbell rang. She raised her head, pasted on a smile, and crossed the room to let Martina Hennessy in for her Indian
head massage.

Alice spooned more peas onto her husband’s plate as he lifted the wine bottle and refilled their glasses. She wouldn’t finish
hers—one glass was all she could manage comfortably—but if it was in her glass, it meant
he
couldn’t drink it.

They never used to have wine with dinner; this was a new thing. Tom had received a case for Christmas from a patient who imported
it, and they’d gotten into the habit of a glass or two in the evening. Alice could have lived without it quite happily—she’d
never taken a drink until well into her thirties, apart from the odd brandy—but now it was a given. A bottle opened half an
hour before dinnertime and, more often than not, gone by the end of the meal.

“There’s more potatoes,” she said.

“I’m all right, thanks.”

He was well able to drink; he’d always been well able. There’d been times, mercifully few, when she’d had to put him to bed.
But up till now he’d drunk only when they were out, and most of the time he managed to stop before it went too far, when he
was still the life and soul of the party.

And it wasn’t much, she supposed, a bottle of wine between two people. Where was the harm in his relaxing after a day’s work?
Except that he drank at least two-thirds of the bottle each night, and sometimes she noticed a slur in his words and worried
about his condition the following morning—because who wanted a dentist with unsteady hands, or who smelled of alcohol as he
bent over you?

“You heard about Hannah,” she said. “I presume Stephen mentioned it.”

Tom cut into his steak. “Mentioned what?”

“Her boyfriend left her.”

“No, I didn’t hear that.”

Of course Stephen wouldn’t have told Tom. Men didn’t talk about those things the way women did. They probably discussed the
latest soccer results or political shenanigans when they had a break at the clinic.

“Just walked out on her,” Alice said. “About a week ago now.”

“That’s too bad.” Tom chewed his meat and lifted his glass. “They were together a good while, weren’t they?”

“Over a year. Geraldine was convinced he’d propose at Christmas.”

“So where’s he gone?”

Alice made a face. “Some other woman, apparently.”

“Mmm.”

His wineglass was almost empty, hers practically untouched. In a minute or two he’d raise the bottle and hold it out to her,
and she’d shake her head and he’d empty it into his glass.

Six whites and six reds they’d gotten, all French. She wouldn’t know one wine from another, they all tasted the same to her.
By the time the case was gone, it had become a habit. Now he brought home two or three bottles every few days. “Six ninety-nine,”
he’d tell her. “Couldn’t leave them behind at that price.”

“Are you busy tomorrow?” she asked.

“Kept going. The usual.”

“Will you have time to stop into the cupcake shop?” she asked. “I thought it would be nice to show our support on the first
day, and I won’t get a chance, with Geraldine gone.”

“Right.”

“Get half a dozen of whatever she has, a mixture. And don’t let her give them to you for nothing.”

“Okay.”

He reached for the wine bottle. She put a hand over the top of her glass, and he emptied what was left into his own.

He was only relaxing. There was no harm in it.

A hundred and forty-four, twelve trays of twelve. Were 144 cupcakes enough for one day? There was no way of knowing. What
if she’d made too many chocolate-orange and not enough lemon-lime? What if everyone wanted vanilla- coconut and nobody looked at the mocha? What if people hated the cream-cheese icing and only went for the ones topped with buttercream?
Was Clongarvin ready for mascarpone frosting?

“Stop.”

Hannah looked at her mother. “Stop what? I’m not doing anything.”

“You’re worrying. It’s as plain as the nose on your face.”

“I can’t help it; my stomach’s in a knot. I think I might get sick. I feel like I’ve been up for hours.”