The Better Woman (7 page)

She kept a close eye on her watch.

‘I think I'm going to miss it . . .'

‘You can always get a taxi,' Tim replied, already a little out of breath.

‘Not to Carrickmore – it would cost a fortune. We're going to have to run . . .'

‘You're joking.'

She giggled. ‘No.'

He caught her hand. ‘Right . . . marks, set, go!'

Laughing, they raced the rest of the way, dodging pedestrians and lampposts. When they arrived at the bus station, the Carrickmore bus was already in its bay, the engine running.

‘Well, I'll see you so,' said Sarah, feeling awkward all of a sudden.

‘Bye, Sarah.'

Tim lowered his head, his breath ragged. His kiss was gentle, hopeful. The bus's engine began to rev and Sarah pulled back.

‘You won't change your mind about going out with me?' asked Tim.

‘No.'

She got on the bus and sat on the side where she could see him. He waved as the bus pulled out of the station and she smiled the first genuine smile in a long time. At eighteen, it was perfectly normal to kiss a fellow student after a rake of alcohol. And that was all she wanted: to be normal again.

Sarah worked full-time at the shop over the summer holidays. In the first few days it became blatantly obvious how much Peggy had been struggling on her own. All too often the heavy bundles of newspapers were carried in by a kind customer from where they were left on the footpath. And if something was needed from the top shelf, the customers would climb the stepladder themselves.

Peggy sighed as she shuffled to and from the milk fridge. ‘It takes a while to get these old bones up and going.'

‘Why don't you take the mornings off?' Sarah suggested. ‘I can do them – it'll be a nice change from working evenings.'

Peggy agreed readily enough. They both knew that she wouldn't be able to resume the morning shift when the summer ended, but they could deal with that problem when they came to it.

Sarah, with a year of business education behind her, looked at the daily operation of the shop with fresh eyes and soon compiled
a list of potential improvements: the fitting of modern space-saving shelving; an extension to the weekend opening hours; and, an idea that had been forming for some time, the installation of petrol pumps at the side of the premises.

She enjoyed pulling all the numbers together. She asked the customers for their opinions. Would they come in if the shop was opened for a full day on Sunday? Would they buy petrol if it was available? She created best-case and worst-case scenarios and, after a few weeks of careful research, presented her findings to Peggy.

‘The petrol pumps have a dual benefit, Nan,' she explained. ‘Not only would they bring in profit in their own right, but they would also attract passing trade.'

Peggy's eyes widened when she saw the numbers.

‘And you say that's the worst-case scenario?' she queried.

Sarah nodded. ‘You see, there's no petrol available in Kilnock, so I've made a conservative estimate that some of the residents will come here to fill up their tanks – and spend money in the shop while they're about it!'

Peggy knew a good investment when she saw one. ‘The bank will take some convincing – we've never been more in the red. And I'm too old to be haggling with those big oil companies. If we're going to do this, then you need to manage it, Sarah – from start to end.'

Sarah agreed, secretly proud that she had managed to sell such a significant investment proposal to her canny grandmother, and very excited that success of the project was down to her alone.

After much to-ing and fro-ing with the bank and the planning office, the installation of the petrol pumps got underway. A monstrous digger excavated the side yard, and gleaming steel pipes
were laid before the area was levelled and concreted. A canopy, costing twice as much as Sarah had budgeted, was constructed to shelter both the pumps and the customers from the elements. Glass doors were installed on the side of the shop, creating a new entrance.

‘I hope it will all pay off in the end,' Peggy commented as she signed cheque after cheque.

Sarah, feeling nervous about the escalating costs, hoped so too.

The development ate up the entire summer and it was September before the pumps were ready for business.

‘Are you sure your prices aren't more expensive than the city?' asked Mr Glavin, the very first customer.

‘That's our guarantee.'

Sarah had understood right from the outset that the venture wouldn't work unless their prices were competitive. Nuala was a vital cog in the price-setting process. She worked in retail, across the street from one of the biggest petrol stations in the city, and phoned every day with the prices.

Sarah put up advertisements in Kilnock's supermarket, post office and school. With the cost blow-out on the construction, the neighbouring village's trade would play a vital role in the success of the venture.

The first week's takings were promising, the second week's even better. By the third week, Sarah's best-case scenario had been surpassed. She felt elated. As if her existence was finally worthwhile.

As September drew to a close, Sarah focused her energy on convincing Peggy to take on an extra pair of hands.

‘I'm going back to university next week. You need help lifting things, especially in the mornings, when it's so busy.'

‘But the cost –' Peggy started to object.

‘We can afford it,' Sarah cut in. ‘Thanks to the petrol pumps, we're not just getting by, we're making
profit
.'

‘But who –'

The new doors slid open and Peggy stopped midsentence. Sarah glanced over to see who had come in. Black spots danced before her eyes.

‘John Delaney,' Peggy beamed. ‘Well, would you look at you – aren't you a sight for sore eyes.'

Sarah felt herself tremble.

Oh, my God. Why didn't his mother mention that he was coming home? What can I say to him?

Peggy had hobbled around the counter and was hugging John like a long-lost son. Sarah caught his eye. Then looked away. The trembling got worse, she was shaking all over.

‘And how are you getting on?' she heard Peggy ask. ‘You must be a concert pianist by now.'

‘Not exactly,' John replied with a smile. ‘Cécile is so talented that sometimes I feel as though I'll never reach her standard. But when she's not yelling at me, she says I'm doing okay.'

‘Ah, go way outta that.' Peggy slapped him playfully. ‘There's no place in Carrickmore for such modesty.'

They laughed, and a silence followed as they both turned Sarah's way.

‘Are you busy?' John asked her.

‘No,' Peggy replied on her granddaughter's behalf. ‘It's only nagging me, she is. Take her away and give me some peace for an hour or so.'

Peggy and John laughed again. Sarah thought she would cry if she tried to join in. She moved away from the protection of the counter. Conscious of her cut-off shorts and uninspiring T-shirt,
she wished she'd known he was back. It might have helped if she was looking her best.

The park seemed the obvious place to go. Mr O'Hara had been round with his mower that morning and the scent of freshly cut grass brought back poignant memories of the summer night when she and John had first kissed. If only she could turn back the clock. If only they had left it at kissing. How much sadness they would have saved.

She glanced at him as he walked by her side across the neat grass. His hands were stuffed deep into the pockets of his beige shorts, his head bent in thought. His white polo shirt enhanced the golden tan on his arms and highlights streaked his fair hair. She almost reached out to link his arm, like old times. The realisation that she had no right to touch him was like a douse of cold water.

He's not mine – hasn't been for a full year now.

They reached the oak tree and he leaned his back against the gnarled trunk.

‘So,' he said, looking down at her. ‘Why haven't you replied to my letters?'

The old John would not have been so direct. This John was much more sure of himself. His face was longer and leaner. His eyes, staring at her, had a worldliness about them. His mouth looked ready to slip into fluent French at a moment's notice.

She shrugged. ‘Been busy. Study, the shop . . . you know how it is.'

His navy eyes narrowed. ‘Have you met someone else? Is that it?'

She grabbed at the idea, like a drowning swimmer to a floating branch.

‘Yes.'

‘Someone from college?'

‘Tim,' she improvised.

‘Is it serious?'

‘Probably no more than you and Vanessa,' she heard herself say and regretted the words as soon as they were out of her mouth. Mentioning Vanessa would entice a full confrontation. The last thing she needed.

‘How do you know about Vanessa?' he asked, his smooth brow furrowing in a frown.

She shrugged again. ‘Your mother.'

His mouth tightened until it was nothing more than an angry line. ‘She'd no right to imply that Vanessa is my girlfriend. She knows well enough that she's one of Cécile's students – a friend.'

His denial rocked everything that Sarah had believed for the last year, and undermined all the decisions she had made as a consequence.

‘
Do
you have a girlfriend?' she asked weakly.

‘Nothing serious,' was his less-than-satisfactory response.

‘Is that a yes?' she pressed, needing to know.

‘I suppose.'

So it wasn't Vanessa, it was someone else. A change of name, but the facts were still the same: John was with another girl, there was no hope of reconciliation. Sarah realised that she was relieved. It would be terrifying to love him again.

Feeling more in control, she turned the conversation to Paris and his studies.

‘Have you done any performances yet?'

‘I've played at the Conservatoire de Paris twice,' he replied. ‘The last time Cécile invited a critic without telling me. It was quite a risk – my career could be squashed by a bad review.'

‘What did he say about you?'

John grinned. ‘Don't know if I caught the guy on a good day or what, but everything he wrote was positive.'

‘I'm sure you deserved it.'

Sarah was proud of him. Putting the last few years aside, when their friendship had transformed into something else, this was the boy she used to play with in the park and sit with at the back of the school bus. It was amazing to think of him performing in a city known worldwide for its role in the evolution of music, and for its brutal critics.

‘I'd better go,' she said, her emotions on a slippery slope. She gave him a brisk hug.

‘Sarah . . .'

She didn't meet his eyes, afraid of what would happen if she did.

‘Yes?'

‘I –' he faltered.

She realised that in John's mind they were breaking up now. He lived in a fairyland where you could date other girls and still keep the one back home.

‘It's been over since you left last year,' she told him in a hard voice. ‘This is just a formality, John.'

‘But –'

‘Take care of yourself, okay?'

It took everything she had to walk away from him, to cross the road and go inside the shop, leaving him standing there staring after her.

‘How about Brendan Fahey?' she asked Peggy, picking up the conversation where they had left off earlier: the new shop assistant.

Peggy looked thoughtful. ‘I suppose he's reliable . . .'

‘And he'll be glad of the work,' Sarah added. ‘I'll ring him tomorrow and ask –'

Their conversation was interrupted by the sound of a loud engine pulling up outside: the delivery truck. Sarah was instantly busied with checking the delivery and, later on, stacking the new stock onto the shelves.

Later on that night, while they watched
Coronation Street
, Peggy proved that she wasn't so easily distracted.

‘He's looking well, isn't he?' she commented.

‘Who?' asked Sarah, her eyes frozen on the screen.

‘John, of course.'

Sarah didn't answer.

‘Is the romance back on between ye?'

‘There was never any romance,' Sarah said quickly.

‘God love us!' There was a smile in Peggy's voice. ‘You must think I'm an awful fool altogether.'

‘Look, Nan, I don't want to talk about it.'

‘Fair enough,' Peggy agreed in a reasonable tone. ‘But I've just got one thing to say . . .'

Sarah gave a reluctant sigh. ‘Go on, so.'

‘This last year has been a hard one for you – I've seen how . . .' Peggy paused, searching for the right word. ‘I've seen how
down
you were.' Sarah was inordinately relieved that her grandmother hadn't used the word depressed. ‘And now, just when you seem to have bounced back, he's turned up. I don't want to see you getting low again. Your mother . . .'

Sarah finally took her eyes off the television. ‘My mother what?'

Peggy heard the defensiveness in her granddaughter's voice and changed tack. ‘John will be away for a number of years yet. Even when he's finished in Paris, who's to say he'll ever come
back to live in Carrickmore. You must ask yourself if you have the mettle for a long-distance relationship.'

Sarah got to her feet and made a show of puffing the armchair's cushions into shape. ‘You're barking up the wrong tree, Nan. John has a French girlfriend . . . and I'm seeing someone else too.'

As she told yet another lie about Tim, Sarah resolved that she would at least go on one date with him when the term started up.

Peggy, visibly relieved, reached out for her granddaughter's hand.

‘I'm glad to hear that. I want you to be like other girls of your age: having fun, staying out late. I was happy that you didn't come straight home the day you finished your exams. I was happy that you stayed out with your friends.'