Semi-Sweet (13 page)

Nora pretended to consider. “I suppose so…yeah, quite a few changes.” Which, of course, was a lie—apart from the odd unfamiliar
building and a scattering of boarded-up premises, the place was depressingly pretty much as she’d left it more than a decade
ago. She remembered how impatient she’d felt then, how desperate she’d been to finish school and get on a plane—any plane—and
leave behind the same old faces, the boringly familiar cafés and shops and narrow streets.

And now she’d had enough of small talk with her brother’s friend. She emptied her glass and got to her feet. “Thanks a lot,
you two—I guess my body clock is still screwed up. I’d better leave before I fall asleep on the table.”

“No coffee?” Adam asked, and Nora, imagining the instant horror she’d probably be served, shook her head. “I’ll pass, thanks.”

“Drop by anytime,” Hannah told her, “now that you know the way.”

“Yeah, I might just do that.” Both of them knowing quite well that she wouldn’t be dropping by. How ridiculous were social
conventions?

Adam walked her back to his apartment. The earlier rain had cleared, leaving the air damp and clean.

“I was thinking today, I must look up some of the old gang,” Nora said as they skirted the puddles. “That’s if they’re still
around.”

“Like who?”

“Like Francine Kelly, or Jojo Fitzpatrick. Or Leah Bradshaw.”

Adam shrugged. “Can’t say I remember any of them.”

Nora grinned. “If Francine heard you—she fancied you like mad for ages.”

“Did she? You might have told me. Any idea what you want to do otherwise?”

“You mean a job?”

“I suppose I do.”

She shrugged. “Don’t really need one, bro—the advantages of alimony.”

“I know, but don’t you want something to keep you from being bored while you’re here?”

“Yeah, maybe. Depends what’s available, I suppose.” In the States she’d worked behind the scenes in a radio station, and before
that she’d divided her time between PR and various jobs with fashion magazines. She was adaptable, if not exactly qualified.
“I get the impression work is fairly thin on the ground here right now.”

“Depends what you’re willing to do,” Adam told her. “If you don’t set your sights too high, you’ll probably pick up something.
Hannah was talking about taking on a part-timer in the shop.”

“No thanks,” Nora said swiftly. “Not my scene.” She could think of few less appealing prospects than standing behind the counter
in a cupcake shop. “I’d rather something a bit more…challenging.” Glamorous was what she meant, but he’d probably laugh.

They reached the apartment block. Adam hugged her. “Night, sleep well.”

“I intend to. Call me tomorrow.” She turned toward the door.

“Hey,” he said, “want to come out for a drink with me and Hannah on Sunday? Can’t leave you all on your own on Valentine’s
night.”

She considered. Any excuse to strut her stuff was better than none, even if they’d be surrounded by loving couples all night.
“Yeah, sure—why not? Gimme a call.”

“And do me a favor,” he said.

“Yeah?”

“Lose the Yankee accent.”

She laughed. “I’ll do my best. See you.” She turned the key in the lock and went inside, checking her watch and realizing
that she was in time for
Grey’s Anatomy
. Chances were she’d seen the episode before, but what the hell.

Hannah weighed flour and sugar and put them into the bowl of the stand mixer. Get as much done as you can the night before,
ease the pressure when you stumble, half asleep, into the kitchen at three in the morning.

Once she woke up a bit though, once she got into the routine of mixing and chopping and stirring and icing, she had to admit
that it wasn’t so terrible being up when the rest of the country was asleep. There was something peaceful about moving around
the warm kitchen, radio playing softly so Adam wouldn’t hear it, surrounded by the scents of new sponge and vanilla and roasting
nuts.

Not that she wouldn’t choose to be tucked up in bed, given the option, of course, but someone had to produce the cupcakes
for the shop—and until her fairy godmother appeared and waved a wand, that someone was going to be Hannah.

The front door opened and closed, and Adam put his head around the kitchen door. “I’m back—and I’m off upstairs. I have stuff
to do for the morning, so see you when I see you.”

“Okay. By the way, I should warn you that my mother has her heart set on you marrying me—now that we’re living together and
all.”

He considered. “Well, I’d hate to disappoint Geraldine—we’ll discuss it on Sunday night, when we’re painting the town red.”

Hannah shook her head. “I told you, count me out. I have work on Monday.”

“We’ll see. I can still have you home by ten.” He vanished, and a few minutes later Hannah heard Neil Young’s voice drifting
faintly downward.

She opened the fridge and took out butter and eggs and left them on the worktop. She filled the cups of four muffin trays
with pink paper liners decorated with red and white hearts. She refused to dwell on the fact that Sunday was Valentine’s Day,
and that whichever customers bought one or more of her special sweetheart cupcakes tomorrow (strawberry center, white chocolate
icing, sugar-paste heart on top) would in all likelihood be spending Valentine’s Day with someone they loved, and who loved
them back.

She especially didn’t think about last year’s Valentine’s Day or the man she’d spent it with, didn’t torture herself thinking
about how he might spend the day this year. She didn’t dwell on the breakfast of warm croissants and
chocolat chaud
in bed last year, the film in the darkened French cinema that evening, the shared bath afterward. No, not for a second did
any of that cross her mind.

And while she wasn’t recalling any of that, Neil Young was telling her that only love could break her heart. What, he asked,
if her world should fall apart?

She tipped what was left of Nora’s wine into her glass and concentrated on how overly made-up Adam’s sister had been, how
bored she’d seemed all evening, how ridiculous her American accent had sounded. How relieved Hannah had been when she’d left.

Much safer to keep on thinking about Nora, as she assembled strawberries and chocolate chunks and little pink hearts in bowls
on the counter.

And when she’d finally made all the preparations she could, she took off her apron and filled the kettle for her hot-water
bottle. Then she went into the sitting room and sat on the floor beside Kirby, who was slumped in his usual spot beside the
radiator, his head resting on his paws. She bent and put her arms around his warm neck and buried her face in his smooth black
coat, and listened to the soft thump of his tail on the carpet.

“Quiet tonight,” Adam said. “Thought you’d be busier on Valentine’s Night.”

The barman shook his head. “All the loving couples are out to dinner,” he said. “Be in later, I’d say.” He tilted his head
in the direction of the musicians. “The band is here special tonight. Normally they only play Saturdays.”

“Is that so? I hadn’t noticed,” Adam replied, pocketing his change and turning his attention to the female musician. Her hair
was completely hidden, swathed in some kind of black turban. Below it she wore a black turtleneck sweater and a pair of black
tailored trousers over shiny black ankle boots. Her legs were thin, her knees pressed together. Her feet were slightly parted,
toes turned inward.

She made eye contact with nobody, as far as Adam could see from where he sat, apart from the keyboard player, who stood more
or less in her line of vision. She didn’t smile between numbers. Occasionally she pushed her small, round glasses farther
up her nose. During the livelier tunes, one of her feet tapped along sporadically. Her back was hunched a little. Now and
again a frown creased the skin between her eyes.

She was his own age, or close enough. As far as he could make out, she wore no rings—did musicians take rings off before they
played? Her fingers flew over the keys of her clarinet. The backs of her hands might be freckled—the pale tone of her skin
suggested freckles—but from this distance, and in this light, it was hard to be sure.

Adam couldn’t for the life of him figure out why she fascinated him. She didn’t remotely resemble any of his previous girlfriends.
There was nothing he could put a finger on, nothing charming about her. Nothing he could point to and say—

“Hey.”

He turned to see Nora walking toward him. “There you are. What’ll you have?”

“I might chance a vodka martini, if they can manage it.” She glanced around. “No Hannah?”

Adam shook his head. “Couldn’t persuade her. Work tomorrow—but I think it’s really that she’s still cut up about the ex.”

Nora shrugged. “She needs to get back in the saddle—no point in moping around.” She scanned the room. “Not a bad little place.
About time Clongarvin got a wine bar. Let’s grab a couch while we can.” Her gaze fell on the musicians in the corner. “Get
the secret agent with the clarinet,” she said.

Hannah lay back, closed her eyes, and breathed in the scented, steamy air. From the attic above her came the faint, comforting
sound of water gurgling through pipes as the tank refilled. In her bedroom next door, Seal sang soulfully of love and loss.
She lifted a hand languidly and watched its coat of bubbles sliding slowly from her skin.

This had become the new high point of her week, this hour or so of pampering she allowed herself on a Saturday or Sunday night.
A bath as hot as she could bear it, piled with foam. A face mask, a hair-conditioning treatment. No phone, no book, the only
light a soft, flickering glow from two fat, white candles that sat by the taps.

Thoughts drifted lazily into her head as she lay there—and annoyingly, despite her best efforts, a lot of those thoughts still
concerned Patrick Dunne.

Almost six weeks after his departure, and the loneliness and regret hadn’t gone away. But the pain was slowly dulling, her
tears less frequent these days, and the world continued to turn. She hadn’t laid eyes on him since that first encounter, the
day she’d opened the shop—which was hardly surprising, given that most of her waking hours now were spent stuck behind the
counter.

Business had been brisker than usual yesterday, and the sweetheart cupcakes had sold well. She’d thought of her profits and
smiled determinedly at the customers, refusing to feel an ounce of self-pity, refusing to dwell on the fact that nobody would
be buying her any kind of Valentine gift this year.

And now the bathwater was beginning to cool, so it was time to rinse off her masks, put on pajamas, and sit in front of the
fire that Adam had lit earlier until her hair dried. She’d watch an episode of his box set of
The Office
, share a bag of Aged White Cheddar Kettle Chips with Kirby, and be in bed by half past nine—and probably asleep minutes later.

Not exactly the Valentine’s night of her dreams, but not the worst in the world either.