The Restaurant Read online

  I’ll be OK, she said. This is just something I’ve got to do. I’ll be careful.

  You’re sixteen years old! You’re still a minor! You’re still our responsibility!

  Still their responsibility, when all her life they’d passed her on to someone else to be looked after. Mom, I can handle this, I can look after myself. I just need you to let me do it, just for a while.

  For a while? Exactly how long are you planning to stay there?

  I don’t know, maybe a few months. Maybe forever, a small voice in her head added.

  A few months? What about your education? You can’t just stop studying!

  Of course she could, but she didn’t say that. I’ll take classes here. I’ll find someplace.

  Where will you even stay? Who will you stay with?

  I’ve booked into a hotel. It wasn’t a hotel, it was a hostel: her mother didn’t need to know that. I’ll be OK, Mom. I’ll be fine. Thanks to you and Dad I have plenty of money, so if you keep putting my allowance into my bank account, I’ll manage.

  And this is how you repay us? By sneaking off to Ireland?

  Repay them. She closed her eyes. I’ll keep in touch. I’ll call in a few days, OK? Don’t worry, Mom.

  She hung up before anything more could be said, or demanded, or threatened. She turned off her phone and collected her bags, and caught the bus to Josephine’s town with some of the euros she’d bought in London. The day was warmer than she’d been expecting, and drier. Everyone around her on the bus spoke in Josephine’s musical way. The snatches of conversation conjured up her old nanny’s face: it was saddening and comforting at the same time. It made her feel like she wasn’t quite so alone – but oh for the sight of Josephine, sitting once more in the seat beside her.

  In the town she kept asking people for directions until she found her hostel. She went straight to bed in her tiny room, even though it was the middle of the afternoon. Lying fully clothed on the thin mattress, looking at the sink in the corner with its single tap, the hook on the back of the door, the kitchen chair by her bed instead of a locker, the weird stains on the ceiling above her, she wondered what on earth she’d done.

  She was technically still a child, and thousands of miles from home, without a single friend or acquaintance. Josephine had mentioned family members in Ireland, cousins, a sister – but Heather had no names, no addresses. As long as her allowance continued she’d have enough money to get by, but her parents could pull the plug on that at any time. They could also take it into their heads to come and look for her, or hire a private eye to find her, but she didn’t think they would. As long as she kept up contact, and kept making it sound like she was OK, they’d probably leave her alone.

  But even if they kept funding her, she’d go mad with nothing to do. The problem was that she was qualified for nothing, experienced only in babysitting and dog-walking and cutting folks’ lawns.

  She decided to focus on the positive. She was in Ireland, in the town where Josephine had grown up and raised her family. She’d already walked streets that Josephine must have walked many times. She’d formed a plan and made it happen. She was where she wanted to be – and here she still is, coming up for nine years later, older but probably not much wiser. Little dreaming, that first day in the hostel, of the ups and downs that lay ahead in the country she’d chosen to live out her days.

  Good now, though. Good mostly now.

  She makes her way home with her cheesecake gift, as darkness begins to elbow the day aside.

  Emily

  ‘EARTH TO EMILY.’

  She blinks. ‘What?’

  Mike adds sliced lemons to a water jug. ‘You’re miles away. I asked if you saw the Great Irish Bake-Off last night.’

  ‘Sorry … No, I missed it. Any good?’

  She’s a mess. Running on automatic, unable to focus properly on anything. Jumping every time her phone rings, because his letter said he’d be back at the end of May, and June is two days away.

  His letter, the cause of all this upheaval. Forcing her each time she lets down her guard to wander back across the years, revisiting events she’d vowed never to think of again.

  I’m best man at a wedding, weekend after next, he’d told her the first time they’d met. The bride has warned me to get a decent cut for it.

  Nice smile, she thought. He wasn’t exactly what you’d call handsome – his face had a peaky look to it, all jutting cheekbones and long nose – but the smile was good, a small tilt to the right with his mouth, eyebrows lifting to lend it a whimsical quality. It was the kind of smile you wanted to return.

  When were you thinking? she asked.

  Early next week, anytime after four.

  She checked the appointments book, wondering what kind of job left him free at four. Teacher or shift worker, or his own boss and able to dictate his schedule.

  How’s Tuesday at four thirty?

  Perfect. He pulled a phone from his pocket, tapped keys. Reminder, he told her, otherwise it gets forgotten. Another smile: yes, definitely his best feature. She flicked a glance at his left hand and saw no ring. Not a sure sign of anything, but still.

  Name?

  Fergal Kelly.

  The first Fergal she’d come across. Where’s the wedding? she enquired, wanting to prolong the conversation, and he named a hotel, country-house kind of place, a few miles outside town. Oh, that’s a lovely venue – I was there for a birthday party a few months ago.

  Can’t say I’ve ever been myself.

  Is this your first time to be a best man?

  He nodded. Not a clue. Still have to put my speech together.

  Good luck with that.

  It was nothing, a few sentences, but she found herself looking forward to seeing him again. On Tuesday she wore the sea-green top everyone admired on her, and light grey trousers beneath. He wouldn’t notice, but she’d feel more confident.

  He noticed. Suits you, that colour.

  She felt herself blush. Thank you. She kept him in her line of vision as he sat in the waiting area, scrolling through something on his phone. At one stage it rang, and he held a short conversation. When his appointed stylist approached, Emily watched the smile that accompanied his outstretched hand, felt an answering smile form on her own face.

  What d’you think? he asked, returning to the reception desk half an hour later. Will I pass the Bridezilla test?

  Definitely. All you need is a nice suit – and a speech, of course.

  He groaned. God, the speech: don’t remind me. I’ve made a hundred starts, all equally shite – excuse the language. He took his wallet from a pocket and produced a debit card. Don’t suppose you’d like to give me a hand with it, would you?

  She felt a little hop inside her. Give you a hand?

  With the speech. I’m really clueless – I need some help. Would you do your good deed?

  She laughed. She knew, right at that minute she knew that something was beginning. Some tiny spark was waiting to burst into flame. She slipped his card into its slot, tapped keys. Well, I’m not sure I have much of a clue myself about writing speeches, she said, handing the unit to him for his PIN.

  But we could give it a go, he said.

  We. Already they were a we.

  OK, if you really need help that badly.

  Great. The smile was back. What time do you finish? If this evening is OK, I mean.

  And that was how they started, two years and three months and one week and five days before he stood her up at a church and shattered her heart.

  She snaps out of it and brings Bill his leek and blue cheese soup.

  ‘Thanks,’ he says, picking up his spoon. ‘Looks good. Smells good. All good.’

  She loves to see him coming in. He keeps her grounded, so steady, so decent – and funny too, with his terrible jokes that he knows are terrible. Bill would never abandon someone on her wedding day. He’d never be that cruel. If only she’d fallen for someone like him.

  ‘Bill thinks he might k
now someone,’ Astrid puts in, seated on his left. ‘To do my garden, I mean.’

  Emily has no memory of Astrid mentioning her garden, or anything about it. ‘Oh, that would be good.’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Bill says, shaking out his napkin. ‘She might turn it down. I know it’s been a while since she did any of that stuff. I don’t have a number for her, but I’ll ask her next time I see her.’

  No sign of Heather today. She phoned Emily as promised, the afternoon following the row she’d had with Shane. As promised, she explained the reason for it.

  You know my first job in Ireland was as a live-in home help for Gerry, who’d suffered a stroke.

  Yes, you told me that.

  And I lied about my age, told his family I was eighteen.

  That too.

  Well, Shane was his son. It was he and his wife who gave me the job.

  Ah.

  And when I got pregnant with Lottie a few months afterwards, and the father did a runner when I told him, I had to come clean to the family about the baby, and they wanted to sack me there and then.

  Shane did?

  Shane and Yvonne, his lovely wife – boy, was she a piece of work. Luckily, Gerry put his foot down and insisted I stay, but he died when Lottie was just three months old, and the day after his funeral I was given a week to find someplace else to live.

  But I thought Gerry left you the house in his will.

  He did – I found that out later – but in the meantime I was evicted.

  So where did you go?

  Back to the hostel I’d stayed in before I got the job. I tried to figure out what my next move should be. I couldn’t get another job with Lottie to care for, so I just hoped like crazy my folks wouldn’t stop my allowance until I began earning again. I’d kept in touch with them, we spoke on the phone once a week, but I’d never been back home.

  So what happened?

  Two things. First, I heard through a solicitor that Gerry had left me the house.

  How did he find you?

  I’d told Yvonne where I was going. I said it was in case mail arrived for me, but it was really to make her feel bad. Probably didn’t work – that woman was made of stone.

  So you were left the house. That must have felt good.

  Well, I was truly amazed – I mean, Gerry and I had always got on real well, but I’d no idea he was planning this huge thing – and while I was still trying to take it in, the solicitor told me Gerry’s family was planning to contest the will, so I should prepare for a battle.

  You mean …

  Exactly. Shane and Yvonne strike again.

  So what did you do?

  Nothing. I wasn’t interested in battles. I’d witnessed enough of them between my parents, and the last thing I wanted was to involve myself in a new one. I told the solicitor they could have the house, and I hung up. I stayed in the hostel for about three months after that, and then I happened to spot the house in the window of an estate agent.

  And then?

  Then I called my dad and asked him to loan me the cash to buy it.

  And did he?

  Surprisingly, yeah. He hit the roof a bit when I told him I was planning on staying in Ireland, so I may as well own property there. But when he heard the price, he totally calmed down. It was a drop in his ocean – I told you they’re stinking rich, right?

  You may have mentioned it.

  So I bought it. You’ve seen it, you know how humble it is—

  It’s lovely. It’s cosy.

  It’s all we need, me and Lottie – and it reminds me of a house I used to visit back home, full of happy Irish folk. And my dad never asked me to repay the loan, which I’d kinda figured would happen.

  Right. And when did they come over?

  Who?

  Your parents. They must have come to see Lottie.

  Emily, they don’t know about her. I’ve never told them.

  What?

  I told you Dad hit the roof when I said I was staying here: imagine what he’d have been like if he knew I’d become a single mom. They’d have disowned me.

  Oh, come on—

  No, seriously. You don’t know them, Em.

  Heather, however they might have failed you as parents, they deserve a chance to be grandparents. I can’t believe you haven’t told them. And Lottie should know them too – it’s an important relationship. I was really close with my gran.

  Yeah … I’ll probably get around to it sometime. Anyway, that’s me and Shane. Sorry for losing you a customer. Can’t see him paying a return visit anytime soon.

  Her story was a momentary distraction for Emily, no more: ten minutes after the call, her mind wandered back to the letter, and all the questions and memories it threw up. And now, a week later, she’s all over the place.

  That evening, after Mike has left and she’s finishing the last of the washing up, the call she’s been waiting for, and dreading, finally arrives. She wipes her hands on a towel and looks at the familiar number on her screen, imagining him with the phone pressed to his ear, waiting for her to pick up.

  The ringing continues.

  Answer it. Ignore it. Pick it up. Leave it.

  And then she snatches it up and presses the answer key, because ignoring him has suddenly become impossible.

  ‘Hello.’ Her voice sounds amazingly normal. Her skin prickles all over.

  ‘Hi, Emmy. It’s me.’

  Emmy.

  What has she done?

  She should hang up, cut him off. She doesn’t.

  ‘Thanks for answering,’ he says. ‘I was afraid you mightn’t. It’s not too late, is it?’

  ‘… No.’

  The same. He sounds exactly the same. With her free hand she slides a casserole dish silently into the sink, which is still full of hot, soapy water.

  ‘You’re not in the middle of anything? Are you still working?’

  ‘… No.’

  ‘Good.’ Pause. ‘How’ve you been?’

  ‘OK.’ She looks through the window at the night. He’s out there somewhere.

  ‘It’s good to talk to you,’ he says. ‘It’s good to hear your voice.’

  Maybe he’s in town, at his mother’s house. Twenty minutes or so from where she stands.

  Another pause. She can hear his breath, the familiar small asthmatic catch of his inhalation. ‘How’s the restaurant doing?’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘I was surprised when Mum told me. Big change for you. You never talked about …’ He lets the rest of it drift off, maybe sensing the danger of going back into the past.

  She shifts weight from one hip to the other. ‘Why are you calling me?’ she finally finds the courage to ask.

  He makes some sound, a kind of verbal click, a tap of teeth on tongue maybe. ‘I, er … I just … Look, Emmy, could we meet, do you think? Would that be something you might consider?’

  Could they meet? What is she to say to that? ‘I don’t know. I don’t know if I want to.’

  ‘Just for half an hour, I promise. Just a face-to-face chat. It’s … difficult over the phone.’

  Silence falls between them. She hears an animal sound outside, a low growl. Barney, maybe, defending his territory. Well able for the neighbourhood interlopers. She searches the darkness and sees nothing, no pair of shining yellow rounds to give him away.

  ‘We could meet wherever you want,’ he says. ‘I’m in town for another few days.’

  He’s here. ‘I don’t—’

  ‘How about the little park behind the cinema? It would be quiet there.’

  She presses the disconnect key, suddenly unable for any more. Why? Why has he come back into her life? Why has she allowed him back?

  She ignores the phone when it rings again. She keeps scrubbing the casserole dish, more vigorously than it needs. She’s not allowing him back. That’s not going to happen.

  But maybe that’s not even what he wants. For all she knows, he’s married with children, and just looking to touch base with h
er again, for old times’ sake. Then again, you wouldn’t be touching base casually with someone you’d treated very badly. You’d have to have a good reason, wouldn’t you, to reconnect with them? An apology then, for what he did. A clearing of his conscience, so he can finally enjoy his new life. She probably should have agreed to meet, to let him have his say, whatever it is.

  It’s good to talk to you. It’s good to hear your voice.

  And, if she’s completely honest, it was good to hear his. She imagines her friends’ horror if any of them knew that she’d spoken to him. And Daniel would be most disapproving. She told him she was going to return Fergal’s letter, but she didn’t. Hopefully he’s forgotten about it.

  Daniel has a new girlfriend. He brought her to The Food of Love for dinner three nights ago. Nuala, was it, or Noreen? A few years younger than him, like all the ones that went before her. Nice girl, though. Can I help you to tidy up? she’d asked Emily. Sweet.

  When everything has been dried and put away she checks the blackboard where she and Mike write up items as they fall into short supply, and copies the list into her notebook. Tomorrow is Monday, the first of their two closed days. Emily will spend the morning giving the kitchen a thorough clean before driving to the cash-and-carry to replenish the store-cupboard items. She’ll have lunch afterwards with two friends, and meet another later on for coffee and a chat.

  Around five her uncle will ring, the one she works for in her spare time. He likes to check in with her every week, to give her any feedback he’s received from her efforts and make sure she’s happy to go on doing what she’s doing. You’re a wonder, he’ll say, as he always does. You’re a natural. I don’t know how we’d manage without you.

  She’ll scramble eggs for dinner. She’ll stir a little smoked salmon into them to dress them up, and accompany them with a tomato and spring onion salad. For afters she’ll have some leftover bread and butter pudding from tonight’s dessert menu. She makes it with brioche, and sprinkles toasted almonds on top. Two helpings left tonight – she packaged the other up for Mike.

  Later, around nine, she’ll take the usual Monday evening call from her father in Portugal. She’ll tell him about the snapdragons in her garden that are coming up again for the third year in a row, and about the diner from Portugal a few nights earlier who told her that he comes from the same small town where her parents now live. She’ll make no mention of the fact that Daniel has a new girlfriend: let him tell them if he wants to. She’ll ask about the boat trip that they were to take with friends during the week.