The Better Woman (19 page)

Because I promised myself this. One summer away.

Her final year at UCC was finished. It seemed like the perfect time to see some of the world. Leaving Kieran was the only downside. Usually so sunny and upbeat, he had become withdrawn as the date for her departure drew closer.

‘Remind me again why you feel you have to go?'

Lying naked on his double bed, four days before she was due to leave, Sarah struggled to remember her reasons.

‘Because I was always left behind. Not just at college, but all through school too. I've never had a holiday – not ever.'

There was a secondary reason, though, one that Sarah wasn't revealing. She wanted to test how strong she was, how confident,
without Kieran. She wanted to test whether the depression had really gone, or if it was just waiting in the wings. It was a controlled test: she was doing the leaving, not someone else.

Kieran, lying on his back, rested one arm behind his head and stared at the sloping ceiling. If Sarah looked hard enough she could see patterns in the cracked white paint. She often gazed at the rivulets on the ceiling after she and Kieran made love, until she fell asleep. Now she waited for him to say what he was thinking.

‘Three months is a long time, babe.'

Too long for you to wait? Is that what you're thinking?

‘Remind me why you won't come with me,' she said, sounding flippant but not feeling it.

‘You know why,' he all but snapped. ‘You know well how hard it is to get a full-time job. So don't make me feel like I'm doing the wrong thing.'

Kieran's summer work had paid off with a permanent job offer on the completion of his degree. Tempted as he was by the idea of jetting away to New York, he was practical enough to see that turning down the job could have a negative long-term impact on his career. With graduates forming a growing part of the unemployment statistics, there was a real chance that he'd return to join the dole queues. Anyway, he didn't have a green card. Sarah did. Along with practically every other student in the country, she had applied for one. A lottery system, which didn't care for Kieran or her responsibilities with the shop, had selected her as a winner.

Sarah rolled on top of him, her face grazing his, her breasts hanging, waiting for his touch.

‘Let's not spend these last few days together fighting,' she whispered.

His hands pulled her head closer and he devoured her mouth in an angry kiss.

For the rest of their time together, any discussion about New York ended in sharp words and those angry kisses.

The biggest surprise about JFK Airport was that it wasn't shiny new. It looked like an old train station. It felt grim.

Sarah walked along littered floors towards customs. There, a large mean-looking African-American scrutinised her passport and ticket.

‘This ticket says you're going back home in the fall.'

‘Is that a problem?' asked Sarah earnestly.

He frowned. He looked quite ferocious. ‘Seems like a waste of a green card to me. Why are you going back?'

‘I own a shop. In a place called Carrickmore. My staff can't run it indefinitely.'

He glared at her, beads of sweat lodged above his fat upper lip. The airport's airconditioning system was down. Staff and passengers alike were feeling the heat.

‘Why bother coming here at all?'

‘I want to work somewhere else. Try something new.'

‘Who are you staying with here in NYC?'

In her growing intimidation, Sarah didn't know what he meant. ‘NYC?'

‘New York City,' he growled.

‘Tim Brennan – a friend from college. He's meeting me outside.'

Finally, begrudgingly, he stamped her passport and let her through.

Tim was one of the first people she saw when she got to the arrival's lounge. His pale face was easy to pick out in the crowd.
He wore a white shirt, a light blue tie and black trousers. Sarah thought he looked very suave.

‘God, I'm glad to see you,' she said and gave him a big hug.

He returned her hug with such warmth that it was obvious he was very glad to see her too. ‘Come on, I'll show you to your hotel,' he joked.

Tim's apartment was in Greenwich Village. He shared it with his girlfriend of three years, Louise, and his mate, Charlie.

‘Isn't there a lift?' asked Sarah as they trawled up endless flights of stairs.

‘No – it's a walk-up,' Tim puffed as Sarah's suitcase bumped along behind him.

They got to the top. Tim bent over, hands on his knees, and exhaled slowly.

‘Don't be shocked when you see inside,' he said when he caught his breath.

‘Why?'

‘Because in this city you don't get much for your dollar by the way of accommodation.'

‘Oh.'

His warning was justified. Sarah's first impressions of the hallway were of peeling paint and badly fitted carpet. The kitchen was shabby and the bathroom looked like a converted cupboard.

‘Where are the others?'

‘At work.' It was 7 pm. ‘I'm the only one who works nine to five around here,' he added.

‘Are these the bedrooms?' Sarah asked, looking at two adjacent doors on the right-hand side of the hall.

Tim opened the first door. ‘Louise and I are in here.'

Sarah had a quick glance at the unmade bed before he clicked the door shut and opened the next.

‘Charlie is in here at the moment, but he's willing to move out to the living room if you want to take it.'

‘There's no window,' said Sarah in wonderment.

Tim shrugged. ‘That's not unusual in New York.'

Sarah turned back towards the living room. Despite the flaking paint and awful carpet, it felt comfortable. A murky brown sofa was the only piece of furniture; the TV was perched on a cardboard box and books in uneven stacks on the floor.

‘How would Charlie fit in here?'

‘He'd be happy down there.' Tim pointed to the end of the room and Sarah saw that it had an L-shape. ‘It's quite private round the corner there. But, of course, the bedroom has a door, so there's more rent for it . . .'

‘How much?'

‘Six hundred a month.'

‘I'd better get a job, then.'

Sarah was soon to discover that getting a job in New York was easier said than done. She scoured the advertisements in the newspapers, but nobody was looking for graduates. She phoned every recruitment agency in the directory.

‘I'm looking for something with a bank,' she told them.

‘You don't have any previous experience,' they replied and that was the end of the conversation.

She spent precious dollars printing out her CV and mailing it to all the banks in the city. A few days later she received dozens of replies in the post, saying thanks but no thanks.

Tim became her only hope. He worked in EquiBank, one of the most elite investment banks in the world.

‘Did you give my CV to your manager?' she asked.

‘Yes. But he says we're overstaffed at the moment.'

‘How long before he starts recruiting again?'

‘A few months, I'd say.'

‘What will I do until then?'

‘Wait tables,' Tim shrugged. ‘Just like Louise, Charlie and everybody else in this city waiting for their big break.'

Tim knew what he was talking about. This was his third summer in New York and the first time he'd scored an office job. EquiBank was his big break and he was going to stay in New York indefinitely to make the very most of it.

Sarah took his advice and the next day she hit the streets looking for work. Just two blocks away from the apartment she happened upon Palazzio's, a busy café with a large sign on its window that read,
Staff needed. Apply within
.

It looked charming, with its green awning and square wooden tables.

‘Is the manager around?' she asked one of the waitresses.

The girl, Mexican in appearance, jerked her head towards the back of the premises.

‘His office is out there.'

Sarah walked past the kitchen and, from a quick glance, noticed that most of the kitchen hands were young women with smooth brown faces. They talked in a foreign language as they prepared the food.

The office was a desk in a room full of clutter. Amidst brooms, buckets and highchairs, the manager, a short, fat swarthy-looking man, talked on the phone. Sarah listened as he swore profusely at the unfortunate person on the other end.

‘What do you want?' he barked at Sarah when he was through.

‘A job.'

His sleazy eyes looked her up and down.

‘You must wear black, be on time and pay for all breakages.'

‘What if it's the customer's fault?' she asked.

‘Don't care,' he snapped. ‘It's five dollars for glasses, seven dollars for cups and plates.'

‘What's the hourly rate?'

He laughed nastily. ‘Zilch, zero, sweet fuck all. Your tips are what count – so you'd better use that Irish charm to the max.'

‘Is that legal?' she asked, thinking that he surely had to pay his staff a minimum wage.

‘Fuck legal,' was his reply.

Sarah was sorely tempted to respond with ‘Fuck you' but she wanted the job. Not because of the money, although her traveller's cheques were running down, but more because she was dying to experience life in mainstream New York.

‘What's your name?' he asked.

‘Sarah Ryan.'

‘I'm Lorenzo – and I take no shit. You and I will get along just fine if you remember that.'

He threw a black apron her way and that was how Sarah started work at Palazzio's. She worked from eleven in the morning till midnight, six days a week. She fetched coffees, ice creams, nachos and hoped that her big smile would earn a big tip. One day Al Pacino came in and left her twenty dollars. It went into the kitty to be shared with the other staff.

The longer Sarah worked for Lorenzo, the more she realised that he wasn't just unpleasant, he was actually a little crazy. He was having an affair with the head waitress and they would often retreat to his office to snort coke. The cops came in regularly and drank free coffee in return for turning a blind eye to
Lorenzo's illegally parked car. Their presence did not in any way deter Lorenzo from doing lines of coke out the back.

The long hours at the café, combined with the five-hour time difference, made it hard to find the right time to call Kieran. Sunday was the only day they could connect, but Kieran was usually hungover from the night before and not very communicative.

‘Where did you go last night?' she'd ask.

‘The Star – the usual.'

‘Big night?'

‘Yeah, feeling grisly this morning.'

‘No training today, then?'

‘No.'

‘Me neither. But I'm going to join a running club as soon as I get a normal job.'

Then she'd tell him funny stories about the café and New York. But he didn't show much interest. All too soon, he'd say, ‘Well, I'd better go. Have a few things to do.'

Sarah wondered what it was he had to do that was more important than talking to her.

Her phone calls to the shop were equally unsatisfactory.

‘Everything's grand,' Brendan would say when she asked how things were going.

‘Are the takings up or down?'

‘A little bit down . . . but only a fraction.'

‘Is Mary around?'

‘She's out the back.'

In truth, Sarah was uneasy about Kieran and the shop. However, she knew only too well what would happen if she didn't keep her thoughts positive.

The next morning she got up extra early and went for a jog in
Central Park. She wasn't alone, the park was full of runners, and she felt like part of a greater group. She breathed in the nature all around, the leafy trees and abundant shrubs and flowers, and the tension eased away. She felt strong again. Confident. Regardless of what was happening at home.

Sarah asked Tim about EquiBank nearly every day.

‘Still no vacancies,' he'd reply with a sympathetic shrug.

But one day he announced, ‘The manager said he's put you to the top of the list – apparently he rates persistence highly.'

‘I hope it won't be much longer,' Sarah sighed. ‘I don't think I can stick it at Palazzio's.'

Not only were the hours back-breaking and the pay woeful, but Lorenzo was snorting coke as if it was going out of fashion. When he was high, he was greasy and overfamiliar with the female staff. When he was low, he was angry and abusive. Sarah didn't know which was worse.

In the end it was a row over tips, instigated by a group of German tourists, that brought a finish to her career as a waitress.

‘They didn't leave a tip,' exclaimed Maria, the head waitress.

Sarah, already on shift for more than ten hours, shrugged wearily.

‘I smiled. I gave them good service. I can hardly hold a knife to their throats and demand a tip.'

‘Go after them,' Maria ordered.

‘What?'

‘Go! Go!' Maria waved her out the door.

Sarah ran outside. She spotted the tourists and sprinted after them, her apron flapping around her knees.

‘Excuse me,' she panted, veering in front of them, blocking their way. ‘I'm very sorry but you forgot to tip.'

Five pairs of eyes stared incredulously, making Sarah wish that she could climb into one of the nearby steaming manholes and disappear underground.

‘It's not obligatory to tip in Germany,' said one of the group, a young man with Arian good looks.

‘I know. But this is New York,' she explained, her face reddening with embarrassment. ‘If you don't tip, I don't get paid.'

An older man shook his head. ‘You shouldn't work in a job where you don't get paid.'

How could Sarah refute such logic?

‘Yes, you're right,' she said. ‘I'm sorry to have troubled you.'