Two For Joy (43 page)

‘Come and visit at weekends,' Ruth urged as she deposited her sister at the bus stop on the quays, where Neil had picked her up that fateful night before Christmas.

‘I will,' Heather promised. ‘And thanks for being there for me.'

‘Don't be silly,' Ruth snorted. ‘You'd do the same for me.'

As the bus pulled away from the bus stop, Heather felt tension curl around her insides. What was she going to do now? If she stayed in Kilronan she ran the risk of bumping into Neil at any time. Could she deal with that? She'd have to if she wanted to stay living at home. A car horn beeped loudly beside her and she looked out through the grimy bus window and saw a driver shaking his fist at a motorcyclist. A car was being clamped further along. If she came back to the city, she'd have to get a flat on her own. She wouldn't impose herself on Ruth and Peter. People living together for the first time needed to be on their own to get used to each other. She didn't want to come back to Dublin, she thought unhappily as the bus lurched forward, coming to a stop half a minute later as the traffic lights ahead turned red.

As the week passed by she got more agitated. It was horrible getting up in the morning with nothing to do and no job to go to. She hadn't left the house, reluctant to walk through the town, apprehensive of seeing Neil, and hating the idea of people talking about her. Her mother's cake box was a constant source of temptation and one evening when dusk had fallen she decided she had to go for a walk. All her trousers and skirts were getting tight at the waist and because she hadn't gone to basketball training or played any matches she was rapidly losing tone.

Head bent, muffled up in a scarf, she walked along the main street. Further ahead she could see the bright halogen lights illuminating Neil's forecourt. She paused, reluctant to go that far. Neil would have the showrooms open. She didn't want to see him. Since that one bitter message there'd been no contact, but she kept her mobile switched off most of the time, just in case. She wondered if he'd gone to New York for his weekend with Lorna. It tormented her to think of them in bed together. Couldn't he see that she was only using him and that when someone better came along she would drop him like a hot potato? It wasn't Lorna Neil should have been going to New York with, it should have been her, she thought bitterly, hating her cousin with a viciousness she didn't know she possessed. She blinked the tears from her eyes, raging with herself for being such a weeping willow.

Fred's Fast Food Emporium looked bright and cheerful and she suddenly got a longing for a comforting, piping hot single of crispy chips, drenched in vinegar and smothered in salt. She pushed open the door and felt a welcome wave of warmth. ‘A single, please, Tom,' she said to the gangly youth behind the counter.

‘I just put in a fresh batch, it will take a while,' he informed her grumpily.

‘I'll have a coffee while I'm waiting,' she said.

She took her coffee to a small alcove. A noticeboard hung on the wall, filled untidily with a variety of leaflets and posters. Babysitters wanted. Reflexology and aromatherapy available. Typist wanted to type thesis. She could do that, she supposed. It would be a bit of income. She noted down the number and then saw a notice saying: STAFF WANTED. APPLY WITHIN. Impulsively, she marched over to Tom. ‘See the notice, staff wanted? Are you still looking for staff?'

‘Yep.'

‘Who do I talk to?'

‘You!' He looked surprised. ‘Don't you work for Neil Brennan?'

‘Not any more,' she snapped.

‘Oh. Well, Fred's in the back if you want to go in.' He pointed to the door that said Staff Only. Heather took a deep breath, walked behind the counter, knocked on the door and went in. Fred Kelly, the owner, sat watching a gardening programme, a pint of beer in one hand, a cigarette in the other.

‘Hello, Heather,' he said in surprise. ‘What brings you here?'

‘Staff wanted, apply within,' she said dryly. Fred looked at her in surprise.

‘What about the job in—' he looked at her shrewdly. ‘Aahh, I heard a rumour all right.'

Heather blushed.

‘He's a bloody idiot,' Fred said kindly. ‘Get a white coat out of the press there and go on out to Tom. He'll show you the ropes. The salary won't be what you're used to. But it's the going rate and I fancy you won't be staying with us that long,' he said astutely. ‘You better stick a hat on your head. They're real sticklers for the health regulations.'

‘Now!' Heather exclaimed.

‘Might as well. I'll be out to help at the rush when the pubs close. You're in charge of seating areas. Keep the tables clean and set. Serve the meals promptly. And if you're helping behind the counter don't be mean with the chips. Fill the bag and a few over. Punters don't like to be short-changed on their chips. And Fred's are proper chips, not like those thin stringy yokes they serve over in that burger place,' Fred said proudly.

‘Thanks, Fred.' Heather smiled at him. She knew him from her time working in the accountant's. He was well liked in the town for his decency.

‘Make me proud,' Fred chuckled wheezily.

What in the name of God am I doing? Am I mad?
Heather was heartily regretting her impulse as she pulled on a white coat and a little white cap with a red braid. A small cracked mirror showed her face to be as red as the braid and she closed the door hastily.

‘Go on and don't forget … Clean tables and plenty of chips.'

Tom surveyed her warily. ‘Staff can't eat on the premises,' he said bossily.

‘Just give me my single, Tom, and then you can show me the ropes,' Heather retorted. Tom Foley was at least five years younger than she was and she was taking no nonsense from him.

‘Well, it's not allowed,' he said sulkily as he handed her a single.

She'd lost her appetite and didn't finish them, feeling a right prat in her hat.

‘What do I do?' she asked the expert as politely as she could.

‘If all the tables are clean you can make up some boxes, I'll show you how and I'll show you what to do with the bags. Always make sure there are bags and boxes ready,' Tom instructed her, bristling with importance as he demonstrated the art of making snack boxes and puffing out chip bags.

Two of her team-mates from basketball pushed open the door.

Oh no!
she groaned silently.

‘Heather!' Imelda Cooney exclaimed. ‘What on earth are you doing here?'

‘Well, I could hardly stay working at Neil's,' she retorted defensively.

‘I suppose not,' Imelda agreed. ‘Err … Could we have two snack boxes please?'

‘I'll deal with it,' Tom interjected bossily. ‘To eat here or take away?'

‘Err … er … take away, please,' Imelda said hurriedly.

‘Are you going to come back to the basketball? We lost our last match,' Caitriona Walsh said kindly.

‘I will, yeah.' Heather puffed open some bags the way Tom had shown her. He was bustling around shaking the chips out of the oil, all business.

‘Is everyone talking?' she asked hesitantly.

‘Ah, you know, today's gossip is yesterday's news. It will be something else next week. I wouldn't take any notice,' Caitriona assured her.

‘Lorna, though! That must have been an awful shock,' Imelda butted in. Heather didn't like her much. She was the type who would enjoy another's misfortune.

‘That's men for you. Remember when Terence Nolan did the dirt on you?' she riposted spiritedly. Caitriona grinned and gave her a supportive wink.

Imelda went puce. ‘At least he didn't sleep with my own cousin,' she retorted swiftly.

Heather kept silent.

‘This job won't be great for basketball practice,' Caitriona tried to lighten the atmosphere.

‘It's just until I get something more suitable,' Heather said quietly.

‘Wrap the boxes in paper after you've asked if they want salt and vinegar,' Tom ordered. Heather cringed. This was
so
embarrassing. She must have been off her rocker to set herself up for such humiliation.

‘Salt and vinegar?' she asked crisply, trying to appear normal.

‘No thanks,' both of them echoed, and she foostered with the paper until Tom showed her how to fold it just so.

She couldn't get any more humiliated, she decided, as she watched Imelda and Caitriona walk out the door. She might as well stay. It couldn't get any worse.

Over the following weeks there were plenty of dropped jaws as people she knew did a double-take when they saw her behind the counter.

‘Don't ask,' she'd say firmly, not engaging any of them in discussion. Fred was kind to her and Tom thawed when he saw that she was more than prepared to pull her weight. It meant less work for him.

One day Neil walked in. ‘I heard you were working here. You made a right mess of my office – you're a spiteful bitch,' he blustered.

‘You shut up and get out of here. Go get your chips somewhere else,' Tom said belligerently, much to Heather's amazement.

‘Yeah, well, look at you, serving in a chipper, good enough for you,' Neil taunted.

‘At least I'm working with decent people who have some code of honour,' Heather retorted, stung. How dare he take the offensive after what he'd done to her? ‘And don't you dare even speak to me, Neil Brennan. You're the lowest of the low.'

‘Out!' ordered Tom, pointing an imperious finger.

‘Shut up, ya little nerd,' Neil exploded.

Tom raced out from behind the counter. Heather nearly fainted. It all happened in the space of a few seconds. One minute Neil was standing in front of her, the next he was manhandled out of the door. ‘I'd stay out if I were you. I'm a black belt in karate,' Tom warned.

Neil paled, and trying his best to reclaim his dignity walked back towards the garage.

‘Nobody calls me a nerd and gets away with it and I didn't like the way he was talking to you,' Tom said gruffly.

‘Thanks very much, Tom.' Heather's heartbeat started to return to normal. It had been horrible when Neil had marched in. Her stomach had flip-flopped with dismay and then when he'd started calling her names it had made her feel sick. A sadness that they had come to such a pass had swept over her as she watched Neil walk away, shaken. Tom had astonished her with his reaction. Behind the surly gruffness he wasn't a bad old stick, she thought fondly.

‘Are you a black belt?' she asked, adjusting her cap which was always falling down over one ear.

‘Naw!' Tom smiled sheepishly. ‘I'm only a yellow, but he wasn't to know that.'

Heather smiled at the memory as she sat driving to Wicklow with Ruth. Tom had stood up for her and she was very grateful to him. He was a decent sort, something Neil could never claim to be, she thought angrily as Ruth took a sharp right at a signpost that said Kilcoole. ‘I don't want to go to this fortune-teller,' she moaned.

‘I told you, she's not a fortune-teller. She's a psychic and you need to get off your ass and go to
someone.
How long are you going to work in Fred's for heaven's sake? That's a cop out. Are you not mortified knowing that little shit is only down the road looking down his nose at you?' Ruth burst out, unable to contain herself a moment longer.

‘Ah, don't be giving out to me,' Heather snapped as the car bounced up and down over the hilly road. ‘Are we nearly there? What's this one's name?'

‘Her name is Anne Jensen and you're lucky to be getting an appointment, so stop whinging.' Ruth indicated left and then drove right into an attractive tree-lined estate. She pulled up outside a neat semi-detached house and looked at her sister. ‘Go in, she'll give you a sense of direction at the very least. You need it, Heather.'

Heather swallowed. She felt fluttery and nervous. In her heart of hearts she wanted to go back to Neil, although she'd never admit that to Ruth in a million years. Her loneliness and misery were greater than her pride. She missed her life with Neil. She was tormenting herself imagining him emailing and talking to Lorna. Surely he couldn't see a future for them? Couldn't he see that Heather was the one he should be with? They were a great team. He couldn't love Lorna the way he loved her. Maybe when all the bitterness had eased, they'd get back together. Maybe this Anne woman would give her good news.

She knocked at the door. A little dog started to bark. A tall, slender woman with soft ash-blonde hair opened the door and smiled. ‘Hi,' she said. ‘I'm Anne, don't mind Precious barking, she's very friendly. Come in and sit yourself down in the kitchen.' She waved out at Ruth. ‘You're not peas in a pod, that's for sure,' she remarked as she led Heather into a large, bright, airy kitchen.

‘I've never been to a fortu— a psychic,' she amended, ‘before.'

‘Nothing to worry about,' the woman said matter-of-factly. ‘Sit down and relax and let me do the work.'

Heather sat down, palms sweaty. The little dog licked her hand. It was comforting somehow. Her heart was racing.
Please let her tell me that Neil loves me and wants me back,
she prayed as Anne handed her a pack of well-used tarot cards and told her to shuffle them.

35

Neil pulled off his overall and ran a comb through his hair. One of his mechanics was out sick and there was a backlog of cars waiting to be serviced. Having to do ramp work at this stage of his career wasn't on, he thought crabbily as he got a whiff of BO. He had a client coming at nine on the dot, he wouldn't have time for a shower. He yanked his T-shirt over his head, applied some deodorant, rooted out a clean shirt and buttoned it up. He splashed some aftershave on to his hands and rubbed it over his face.

Heather couldn't have left at a worse time. He'd been working his butt off to get a franchise, he was practically ready for the sign-up, but everything was getting on top of him. The office was a shambles, Larry was out sick, there were three cars still to be serviced. Vince, the other mechanic, was working flat out, and Neil was thoroughly browned off.