Second Hand Jane (22 page)

Amy would have
been a trendsetter, too; she could tell just by looking at her.
Unlike Melanie Cox, though, Jess would have bet money on it that
Amy would have been a fair and just queen of the playground as she
delegated who got to take turns playing jump rope with her.

The other
handful of pictures were far more relaxed and candid shots. One
showed Amy kicking a soccer ball around in the garden with a young
Owen. They both looked so carefree and Jess felt her eyes prickle
at their naivety as to what lay around the corner. She’d never been
to see a fortune teller and now she knew why. It was far better to
be blissfully unaware of the cruel knocks that might be coming your
way.

“Is that Tippy
Toes?” she asked, glad of the diversion as she flicked to the last
picture. Amy was holding a mangy-looking black and white cat. She
had a look of total devotion on her face as she gazed at the cat
who, looked like she would rather be someplace else.

“Aye, that’s
Tippy Toes—not exactly a thoroughbred, was she?”

“No.” Jess
laughed. “But I can tell she would have had personality. So is it
okay if I take these?”

“Aye, but I
would like them back sometime.”

“Of course.
I’ll look after them, I promise.” Their eyes met briefly and she
felt her face flush, grateful that their food arrived at that
moment. Jess inhaled the wonderful aroma of the sea coming from her
basket and was pleased to note the generous pot of tartar sauce
that came with it—there was nothing worse than a mean serving of
sauce.

Owen’s roast
looked pretty good, too, and it came with a couple of her favourite
Yorkshire puds. She wondered briefly if there might be any chance
of swapsies but a quick glance at his hooded profile as he began
sawing into his meat made her decide he probably wouldn’t
appreciate the suggestion.

“So when will
your paper run the article?” he asked, loading his fork.

“I think Niall
thought that it would be particularly poignant were it to run on
the anniversary of…well, you know, but I’ll tell you for sure once
he confirms it and of course I’ll send you the paper as soon as
it’s gone to print. Have you told your father about it?”

“Aye. He hasn’t
read through it yet. He’ll pick it up when he’s ready like. I think
he’ll be pleased enough that Amy will be remembered, though, and
not just by us.” He changed the subject then, making small talk
about the other Ladybird books Jess had in her collection before
asking, “So why the fascination with other peoples’ cast-offs?”

It was not the
most eloquently put question and it got Jess’s back up. “Have you
not heard the saying one man’s junk is another man’s treasure?”

Owen looked
suitably chastened.

“Besides, to me
they’re not cast-offs; they are treasure. Anybody can walk into a
shop and pick something brand new off the shelf if they have the
money but where’s the thrill in that? I get so excited when I
stumble across a vintage designer label that I feel my heart
beginning to pound and my palms get all sweaty.” Oh dear, had she
just made herself sound like a werewolf? “It’s not just for the
love of a good bargain either.” She quickly carried on, “I like the
fact that I won’t see anybody else wearing what I am wearing and I
don’t know, maybe there is good reason for that.” Jess shrugged and
glanced down at her sage green ensemble.

“I think you
look great.”

“Really?”

“Aye.” Owen
looked embarrassed and busied himself with his roast taties.

“I found the
most beautiful powder blue Wedgewood box the other day in an Oxfam
shop that I am going to use as a jewellery box. It gives me such a
buzz, imagining the stories that something like that could tell. I
wouldn’t be sitting here now with you, either, if it weren’t for my
fascination with things that have been pre-loved.”

“No, I suppose
not and I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound flippant before—I was
curious, that’s all.”

“Right then,
put your money where your mouth is. I saw a thrift shop back on the
High Street with my name on it. Come and check it out with me after
lunch and you’ll see what I’ve been talking about,” Jess
challenged.

“Alright then,
I will.” He held his hand out and they shook on it before resuming
eating.

As he placed
his knife and fork down on the plate, Owen leaned back in his chair
with the contented look of a well-fed man. “Are you up for
pudding?”

“I think I may
just have a teensy bit of room left.”

“It’s good to
see a girl who likes her food.”

Unsure if that
was a compliment, Jess reached over and took the sweets menu from
him before deciding on the sticky date pudding.

Owen announced
he was going to have banoffee pie.

Jess watched
him walk up to the bar to order and gazing at his back bent over
the bar, she wondered—not for the first time—why his marriage had
broken up. The words were out of her mouth before he even got his
bottom back down on his seat.

“Why did you
and your wife split up?”

Owen looked at
her in surprise. “What brought that on?’

“I told you I
am a nosy rosie.”

“Aye, you are
that. I suppose it goes with the territory like.” He didn’t look
annoyed, though, and Jess wondered whether he would answer her.

He toyed with
his drinks mat for a moment and not looking up, replied, “I met
Sarah in London through work; she was a lawyer too. She wasn’t like
the girls I’d grown up around and I liked the fact she didn’t know
about my family’s past when we got together. It felt like a proper
fresh start.” He shrugged. “We lived together for a bit and then
decided to get married. In hindsight, we were too young and by the
time we moved into our thirties, we realised we had nothing left in
common. We weren’t the same people anymore; we both wanted
different things.” His eyes when he looked up were distant. “She
loved living in the city whereas I think I always knew that I would
go back to Ballymcguinness one day. It was a bonus that we split up
before we got to the having kids part.”

“How long were
you married?”

“Eight
years.”

“Oh, that’s
quite a long time.” It was a big chunk of his life, Jess realised,
wondering whether he was as over his ex as he made out. She was
surprised to find herself hoping he was.

Two bowls of
calorific desserts were deposited in front of them and not wanting
her pudding to get cold, Jess tucked in.

“God, that was
delicious,” she declared minutes later, leaning back in her chair
and clasping her hands round her full belly. Realising she probably
resembled a green Buddha, she quickly sat upright. Owen, too,
looked well and truly satiated as, groaning, he got up to pay for
their meal. Jess minced up behind him, getting her purse out, but
he insisted on paying, telling her in that brusque manner of his
that it had been his idea in the first place, therefore it should
be his treat. His expression brooked no argument so she tucked her
purse away again.

True to his
word, Owen allowed Jess to lead him into the thrift shop she’d
spotted earlier. It was a long, narrow shop cluttered with racks of
mismatched clothes on the left-hand side of the wall. To the right
were bookshelves filled higgledy-piggledy and bric-a-brac treasures
lined the back wall. A changing room cubicle with a floral curtain
on a rail screening it off was tucked away in the corner. Behind
the counter sat an elderly woman clacking away with her knitting
needles. Owen looked out of place as he lurked uncomfortably near
the door while Jess began rummaging through the clothes.

“Here!” she
called out triumphantly a moment later, holding a belted cream
jacket aloft.

“That looks
like something my Gran would have worn.”

“For your
information, this style happens to be all the go this autumn and if
I were to pick up a jacket like this on the High Street, I’d pay
around fifty euros easily but look, it’s only three and a half
euros.”

“Maybe there is
a reason for that,” he replied, taking a step further inside the
shop.

Jess ignored
him, peering at the label inside the collar. “Plus it’s made in
England, not India, so it hasn’t been knocked up on the cheap by
some poor underpaid factory workers.”

“And she’s got
a social conscience,” Owen muttered, rolling his eyes.

Jess was
determined not to be put off and putting the coat to one side, she
carried on rifling through the clothes. She spotted a skirt she
liked and then headed over to the shelf housing the books. There
wasn’t much there to get her excited—old Jilly Coopers and a couple
of Sidney Sheldons but no children’s books. She moved toward her
last port of call in the shop, pausing to smile at the old woman
knitting as she passed by the counter on her way to the bric-a-brac
section.

As she spied
the little green, leaf-shaped dish hidden amongst a mishmash of
seventies pottery, Jess felt a familiar roaring start up in her
ears; her heart began to race as her palms grew slippery.

Picking it up
reverently, she turned it over and almost let rip with a jubilant,
“Yes!” Its stamp declared it was, just as she had suspected, none
other than Carlton Ware and…it had a price tag of a ridiculous one
and a half euros.

“Owen,” she
hissed out of the corner of her mouth, inclining her head for him
to come over. She did not want to attract the attention of any of
her fellow shoppers or alert the knitting woman that she had
spotted a true bargain.

Owen raised an
eyebrow and came over to see what she was holding on to as though
her life depended on it.

“What’s that
you have found then?”

“Shush, keep
your voice down,” she whispered, her eyes flickering around the
room to make sure they weren’t attracting any undue attention.
“It’s Carlton Ware. I can’t believe it.” She turned the dish over
in her hands and showed him the stamp on the bottom. “It’s
collectable; isn’t it gorgeous?”

Owen looked
bemused. “It’s a dish shaped like a leaf. So what use will that be
to you?”

“I won’t
actually use it you-you-eejit!”

Jess moseyed up
to the counter and handed the dish over nonchalantly. “I’ll have
this please.”

“It’s a pretty
little dish, isn’t it, dear?” The old biddy behind the counter put
her knitting to one side and turned the dish over in her hands.

Jess sent up a
silent prayer, asking for her not to spot the stamp. If it had been
a hospice shop, she might have felt guilty enlisting God like this
but since it was a community thrift shop, she was sure he’d be okay
with it.

“That’s one and
a half euros ta, lovie.”

She flashed Owen a triumphant
I told you so
look and handed over the money
before telling the old dear not to worry about a bag. Then
secreting it away in her own bag, she walked as fast as her skirt
would let her out of the shop. To her surprise, when she turned
around, Owen wasn’t behind her. She waited a few moments until he
appeared in the shop’s doorway, toting a plastic bag. It was her
turn to raise an eyebrow.

“It was a
bargain,” he said, opening the bag and showing her a thick Aran
jersey to add to his Aran jumper collection. He had the good sense
to look sheepish.

“I think your
man the pig farmer fancies you,” Brianna said. “And I think you
fancy him too.”

“I do not and
his name’s Owen, not your man the pig farmer.” Actually, Jess
thought, she wasn’t entirely sure how she felt. Her head had been
all over the show since she’d had such an unexpectedly lovely
afternoon with him yesterday. It had been an awkward goodbye,
though, with neither of them knowing what to say. There had been no
hint on his part that he would like to meet up again, either, with
the only tenuous thread that suggested they might keep in touch
being her promise to forward him the paper when it ran “Amy’s
Story.”

She had made
him promise to keep her up to speed with Wilbur’s health, too, but
whether he would or not—well, she could only hope. Hoisting herself
with some difficulty back onto the train, she’d paused before
sitting down to look back over her shoulder, mentally playing that
childish game of “if he’s still there it means he likes me” but his
back was turned and he was already walking away. The train’s doors
had slid shut before it rumbled out of the station and that had
been the end of that.

Now, Jess and
Brianna were huddled inside their coats on a bench covered in
seagull poop down at the beach in Bray while Harry disturbed crabs
in their holes by poking a big stick down them.

“What about
Nick?”

“Oh, no
question, I definitely fancy him.” Jess nodded emphatically.

A little too
enthusiastically, in Brianna’s opinion. “Do you? I wouldn’t have
thought he was your usual type, Jess, not from what you’ve told
me.”

“That is the
point. Despite what everyone seems to think, my mother in
particular, I am capable of fancying a man who is gorgeous,
successful, and mentally stable. I don’t always go for damaged
goods.”

“Hey, I’m on
your side.” Brianna reached over and gave her friend’s hand a quick
squeeze. “And I don’t disagree with you. It’s just that from what
you have told me, your man Owen is good-looking and successful but
he has one big thing you need that I am worried Nick might not
have.”

“Brianna, if
you are talking about what I think you are talking about…”

“Get your mind
out of the gutter, girl! No, I mean he is sensitive. You need a man
who is sensitive and not some cut-throat businessman—that just
isn’t your style.”

“Huh…you mean
sensitive like Harry?”

Both girls
turned their attention to Harry, who had moved on from stabbing
crabs while they slept to beating a dead fish that had washed up
onto the pebbles with his stick.