Semi-Sweet (16 page)

“Nora O’Connor is back in town.”

It was something to say, another sentence to cut through the disapproving silence that rushed to fill any gap in their lunchtime
conversation these days.

“Who’s Nora O’Connor?” Fiona wasn’t happy with her tagliatelle today—too much sauce—which didn’t help.

“You remember Nora, we hung around together at school. She was often in the house. She went to the States straight after doing
the Leaving. She hasn’t been back since—or rather, she’s been back the odd time just to visit her parents…You don’t remember
her?”

“Can’t say I do. So she’s home for good?”

“She’s not sure. Her marriage just broke up.” As soon as the words were out, Leah regretted them. “She’s thinking of staying
in Clongarvin for a while,” she added hurriedly. “She’s looking for a job. I said I’d keep an eye out.”

Leah hadn’t told Nora that Patrick was looking for a PA. She had instinctively kept quiet about it. Nora O’Connor had looked
after herself in America. Her skin was clear, her body toned and smooth. Leah, remembering Nora’s teenage single-mindedness
when it came to getting a boyfriend, had decided there was no point in inviting trouble.

Not that she didn’t have complete trust in Patrick—those people who said that if a man is unfaithful once he’ll do it again
didn’t have a clue what they were talking about.
You’re the one,
he’d told her.
You’re my soul mate. I need you like I need food.
It wasn’t Patrick she didn’t trust, it was Nora O’Connor.

Fiona pushed her half-eaten lunch aside. “Your face is puffy,” she said to her daughter. “It’ll get worse. I went the same
way on you.”

“My ankles are swollen too,” Leah said, grateful that her mother was at least acknowledging the pregnancy. “And I’m getting
heartburn a lot.”

And I’ve gone up a bra size, and I can’t close the zip on my jeans, and for the past fortnight I haven’t been able to keep
my hands off Patrick,
she thought.
And my breasts have become incredibly sensitive—he has only to look at them.
Leah felt a ribbon of desire flutter through her and took a hasty mouthful of lasagna. Not the time, not the place—and certainly
not the company—for such confidences.

“What’s going to happen to the salon when you have to stop working?” Fiona asked abruptly.

“I’ll get someone to keep it ticking over until I can go back,” Leah answered. “Just for a month or so.”

“Can you afford to pay someone?”

“Oh, yes,” Leah said. “Part-time anyway.”

Preferably someone who’d work for peanuts and not lose all of Leah’s remaining customers. The salon hadn’t been doing much
more than ticking over for some time now, but there was no need to admit that here.

“And who’ll look after the baby when you go back?”

Leah decided that a joke about Fiona’s taking on the role of child minder wouldn’t go down too well. “We’ll find someone,”
she said. “There are plenty of young girls who’d welcome the job, I’m sure. And I’ll just be downstairs.”

Fiona raised her hand, and immediately a waiter appeared. Leah’s mother had always been good at attracting the attention of
waitstaff. “I’ll take an espresso,” she told the waiter. “And kindly let the chef know that my tagliatelle had far too much
sauce.”

The waiter took her plate, murmuring apologetically and glancing at Leah.

“Nothing more for me, thanks,” she told him, laying down her fork. She and Patrick often ate here when neither of them felt
like cooking in the evening. The food was good and not too pricey, the chef first-generation Italian. You’d think Fiona would
have kept her mouth shut, allowed them one little slipup.

“Seen any good films lately?” Leah asked. “Any new books?” Stick to the safe topics, avoid the personal.

Fiona shrugged. “A couple of interesting Booker nominations,” she said. “I’ll pass them on. Nothing worth mentioning at the
cinema—I lasted twenty minutes at the one that got the Oscar for best director. Can’t imagine why, complete rubbish.”

She didn’t acknowledge the waiter as he put her coffee in front of her. “So,” she said, dropping a sugar lump into the tiny
cup, “have you any plans to marry this man?” Looking impassively at Leah, as if she’d asked her for the time.

The heady smell of the coffee wafted toward Leah. She resisted an impulse to fan it away as she searched for the least incendiary
answer. “We’re taking things slowly,” she said eventually. “One step at a time.” Under the table she crossed her swollen ankles.

“Slowly?” Fiona’s eyebrows raised. “You weren’t with him a wet week when you got pregnant.”

“You know very well,” Leah said tightly, “that we didn’t mean it to happen.” She pressed her feet together. “And I’d hardly
call ten months a wet week,” she added—and immediately realized her mistake.

Fiona frowned. “Ten months? You told me you met him in October.”

Leah forced herself not to look away. “We met last May, actually. I didn’t feel it was something you needed to know.”

“So you lied to me. I see.” Her mother sipped coffee. “Your little affair was going on for—what?—eight months or thereabouts.
You were the mistress all that time, with him going home to Hannah Robinson every night.” She dabbed her mouth. “No wonder
you were so evasive anytime I asked if you’d met anyone new.”

“I
couldn’t
say anything. How could I?” Leah asked angrily. “It’s not exactly something you share with your mother.”

She wished she’d ordered green tea—the pasta was sitting uncomfortably in her stomach—but it was too late now. All she wanted
was to leave.

“I wonder how long it would have taken him to finish with her if you hadn’t got pregnant,” Fiona said then in the same bland
voice, her eyes on Leah’s swollen, blotchy face.

Leah scanned the room for their waiter and of course didn’t find him. “I need to get back,” she said, her voice quivering.
She rummaged in her bag.

“There’s no need for you to be like that,” Fiona said. “I know I sound unsympathetic—”

“You sound bitchy.” Leah found her purse and pulled it out. She’d just called her mother a bitch. Her fingers shook as they
fumbled with the clasp.

“I’m only telling it like it is.” Fiona reached across the table and grasped Leah’s hand. “How do you know he’d ever have
left her? How do you know he wasn’t just stringing you along, saying what you wanted to hear?”

“He
loves
me,” Leah said angrily. A couple of heads at the nearest table swung in their direction. “We love each other,” she said more
quietly, pulling her hand from her mother’s grip. “He left Hannah, he’s with me now, and we’re having your first grandchild,
whether you like it or not. Nothing you can say will change that.”

She pulled a twenty-euro note from her purse, but Fiona waved it away impatiently. “I’ll pay—you paid last time. I’m only
looking out for you. I’m only trying to make you see—”

But Leah was gone, hurrying past the tables toward the door, the money fluttering onto the white tablecloth.

Fiona watched her only child rushing away from her. Then she lifted her cup and calmly finished her espresso, oblivious to
the furtive glances from adjoining tables.

“Remember to take off the gloves when you’re handling money. Maybe I mentioned that already…Did I show you where the spares
are in the back?”

Una nodded. “You did, yeah.”

“Not that you’ll need them, but just for future reference. Oh, and if anyone looks for the apple-cinnamon, make sure you tell
them that they’re made with organic apples.”

“Okay.”

“And don’t forget to mention the nuts if anyone goes for the chocolate–peanut butter or the coffee-pecan. I know it’s on the
sign, but I always say it, too, just to be on the safe side.”

“Yes.”

“And will you make a note if anyone looks for a variety that’s not here? Tell them we rotate the stock but that you’ll let
the baker know what they were asking for.”

“Okay.” Una smiled.

Hannah stopped. “Am I fussing too much?”

“No, you’re just making sure I get it right—but you’ve already used up ten minutes out of your two hours.”

“Right, I’m off.” Hannah walked toward the door. “You have my mobile number.”

“I have.”

“Don’t be afraid to use it for any reason—I won’t be far.”

“Okay. See you later.”

Ridiculous how reluctant she was to leave Cupcakes on the Corner in anyone else’s hands. Una was well able, and she had a
lovely manner with the customers—after just a few days she was as confident as Hannah behind the counter. What was the worst
that could happen?

And as if waiting for its cue, her imagination instantly supplied all the options. An armed robbery, someone who’d taken note
of the cash drawer and come back to help himself. Someone who might be watching the shop right now and seeing a young girl
left in charge.

Or a fire in the launderette next door—how ancient were those machines? Imagine the state of the wiring, a disaster waiting
to happen, if ever there was one.

Or a burst pipe, water cascading down the walls, ceiling collapsing—

With a major effort of will, she kept walking in the direction of the coffee shop where she’d arranged to meet Adam. She pushed
the door open, and there he was.

“Welcome to the world.” His cup was half empty.

“Sorry, I know I’m late.” Hannah perched on a chair opposite him. “I shouldn’t be here.”

He laughed. “Let me guess. You’re feeling guilty for deserting your ship. For leaving your baby with a stranger.”

“Don’t make fun—what if something goes wrong? What if there’s a…a burst pipe or something?”

“A burst pipe—Jesus wept. You should bottle your imagination and sell it along with the cupcakes.”

“Well, a robbery, then.”

“A robbery is always possible, I suppose. But let’s assume, just for fun, that it’s not going to happen today.” He turned
to the waitress who had appeared. “A large brandy for my friend here please, and a couple of horse tranquilizers.”

“Very funny. This is my livelihood I’ve just left a twenty-year-old in charge of. Just a pot of tea, please,” she added to
the waitress.

“You said Una was well able,” Adam pointed out. “You were singing her praises the other night.”

“She is well able—when I’m standing beside her.”

“And how will she be less able when you’re not there? She can still put cupcakes in a box and tote up the bill, can’t she?”

“Yeah, I know…” Hannah unbuttoned her jacket slowly.

“She can still take money and make change.”

“I know, I know. You’re right.”

“And I assume she has your number in case anything does come up.”

“Yes, of course she has. Everything’s under control.” She took off the jacket and laid it on the chair beside her. “Any chance
of a packet of Kettle Chips with that tea?” Since she’d become the proprietor of a shop that sold nothing but confectionery,
Hannah had developed a craving for all things savory.

As Adam walked toward the counter, she took her phone out of her bag, checked again that it was on and charged up, and set
it beside her on the table.

Just in case.

“Now, Geraldine,” Maureen Hardiman said, lowering her voice and leaning in, “there’s something I think you should know, and
I’d rather you heard it from me.”

Geraldine’s heart sank. Bridge was over for the night, and they’d been shepherded into Aoife’s kitchen for tea and nibbles—Aoife
didn’t like getting crumbs on the Axminister. Maureen had made a beeline for Geraldine as soon as she’d walked in, which was
never good. Geraldine armed herself with a chocolate macaroon from a nearby plate, stifling the inner voice that reminded
her of the navy dress. “What is it?”

No point in saying she’d rather not know—with Maureen that was never an option. And anyway, she
did
want to know, whatever it was.

“Well, of course,” Maureen went on, brushing imaginary flecks from her green cardigan, “it shouldn’t make much difference
really. I mean, things have moved on, haven’t they?”

Geraldine noted with satisfaction that the broken veins scattered across Maureen’s cheeks were especially vivid in the fluorescent
light of Aoife’s kitchen. “What is it?” she asked again, staring pointedly at Maureen’s roots, which were overdue for a touch-up
by at least a fortnight.