Something Like Love Read online

  For Shirley Stewart, Literary Agent

  with thanks for a decade of patience, faith

  – and a lot of fun

  Contents

  Prologue

  PART ONE

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  PART TWO

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  PART THREE

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  ROSE PULLS OPEN the heavy outer door that is already slick with rain.

  She pushes her foot against the jamb, balances briefcase and handbag, and struggles to fold her umbrella. She almost has it when the wind gusts, slamming down hard against the metal ribs. The fabric suddenly inflates: gaudy pink and yellow roses widen, distort, strain angrily away from her. She tries to get a firmer grip on the wooden handle. At the same time she can feel her bag begin to slip from her shoulder, the briefcase slide from her grasp. It can’t be helped: the gaily patterned umbrella wrenches away from her, flails its way across the car park. It bounces occasionally against the puddled tarmac. Rose watches its overblown, full-bellied bid for freedom. She knows that there is no point in chasing it. And so, she lets it go. She is reminded, once again, of this April day, this morning, this time, eight years ago. Her husband stands before her in the kitchen of their home. Eggs boil in a saucepan; she wipes away the splashes. Ben’s face is vivid now, his words bubbling just underneath the surface of her memory.

  ‘I don’t love you any more,’ he is saying. And then he’s gone, bag packed with twenty years of marriage. Buggers off, just like that. Rose doesn’t think about it much these days. She certainly doesn’t try to remember. But once every year she allows herself that one indulgence.

  She closes the door behind her now, shrugs out of her damp jacket, hangs it up in the hallway. Sarah appears, keeping the inner door open against her hip.

  ‘Morning, Rose. Foul day. You okay?’

  Rose nods and rummages in her handbag. ‘Morning, Sarah. Fine, thanks. Just lost my umbrella, though. The wind took it while I wasn’t looking.’

  Sarah grins. ‘Yeah – we saw it leave! Looked impressive in full flight, I have to say. Do you want any of us to chase it for you?’

  Rose smiles. She knows how much Sarah hates the rain.

  ‘Nah – I’d say it’s blown inside out by now. But thanks.’ She looks in the mirror and begins to brush her hair. ‘Probably high time I got a new one, anyway.’

  Sarah waits while Rose touches up her lipstick. ‘Remind me: are you up to full capacity today?’

  Rose shakes her head, snaps her bag shut. ‘Nope. I’m taking tomorrow and Monday off, remember? I’m mostly fiddling about with paperwork this morning: I’ve to see Sam later on.’

  ‘Betty or Angela due in?’

  ‘I gave them the day off. Why?’

  Sarah looks at her archly. ‘Our birthday party for tonight has just increased by yet another twenty. We’re already out the door. Can you help? Just for a couple of hours before lunch?’ She stops and grins. ‘And maybe an hour or so after?’

  Rose sighs in mock exasperation. ‘You’re a slave driver. Did I ever tell you that?’ She follows her into the spotless kitchens. ‘Bring it on: kill the willing horse.’

  Sarah smiles her thanks. ‘You’re a star. This always happens when you’re doing someone a favour, doesn’t it? They dump stuff like this on you at the last minute. Let’s grab a cup of tea first and then we’ll get started.’

  Sarah’s sisters, Claire and Katie, are already absorbed in their work, standing behind a phalanx of canapé trays. Serried ranks of tartlets, brioches and tiny croquettes line the stainless steel counter to either side. Spice of Life never cuts corners, never compromises. Rose feels that she has learned a lot from Sarah and her sisters over the years: they have done their market research, kept up with food’s changing fads and fashions, kept their costs down.

  Claire looks up as Rose passes. ‘Morning, Rose,’ and then her head is bowed again. Katie waves distractedly. She is chopping and grating as though her life depends upon it. The three sisters always work with speed and great economy of movement: perfect teamwork, Rose has often thought, with a twinge of guilty envy.

  ‘My expertise will cost you, of course,’ Rose says calmly, pulling the large white teapot towards her. She makes sure to catch Sarah’s eye before the younger woman reaches for her mobile. Sarah looks over at her, waits.

  ‘Go on, then,’ she says cagily.

  Rose pours boiling water, stirs, gives the teabags a final, thoughtful squeeze.

  ‘How about a new umbrella?’

  PART ONE

  Chapter One

  EVEN AFTER FIVE YEARS, Rose still got a small thrill of ownership every time she saw the signs above the door: ‘Bonne Bouche Catering’ and ‘Spice of Life’. She liked it, too, when Sarah and her sisters arrived in the mornings before she, Rose, did. Their presence warmed up the industrial drabness, made her feel almost as though she was coming home.

  She sipped at her tea now, flicking through the previous day’s invoices. ‘How come tonight’s birthday party has suddenly got so much bigger – again?’ she demanded, as soon as Sarah finished her call.

  ‘Oh, you know how it is,’ Sarah was trying not to smile.

  ‘A severe attack of the TFGs?’

  ‘The very one. The “intimate family celebration” has now tripled in size since last week. They’ve cousins coming out of the woodwork and everyone has to be invited or one side won’t speak to the other for the next ten years. If it was my family, I’d consider that a bonus.’

  ‘Well, bless ’em all, every one,’ said Rose, stuffing papers into her briefcase. ‘It’s great for business. Don’t know where we’d be without Traumatic Family Guilt.’ She put on her white jacket, tied back her hair. Quickly, she scanned the list that Sarah had just handed her.

  ‘That’s fine,’ she said. ‘We have most of this in the cold room already. I’ll give you a shout if there’s anything missing. Which do you want me to get stuck into first – the salmon roulade or the beef tagine?’

  ‘The roulade,’ called Sarah, and lunged across the kitchen as her mobile shrilled again. ‘Nobody does it better!’

  Rose pulled a fish kettle off the stainless steel hook above her head and caught sight, briefly, of her own distorted reflection, waving and shimmering across the metal’s cloudy surface. She hardly recognized herself.

  Katie’s face suddenly loomed beside hers. Rose jumped.

  ‘I’m nipping out for a smoke. Big Sister Sarah is putting us all under pressure.’ Katie grinned, tapping on the slim metal box in her pocket. ‘Down to two cheroots a day from ten. Not bad, is it?’

  ‘Not bad at all,’ Rose agreed. ‘You’re becoming a paragon of virtue.’

  ‘Don’t worry: I won’t get carried away. Claire and Sarah have enough virtue for all of us.’ And she was gone, rolling her eyes up to heaven. Rose smiled as the back door slid quietly closed behind her.

  Claire looked up from her chopping board across the room and caught Rose’s eye. ‘I’m doing the first run and the set-up around midday. Will you come with me? That means Sarah can stay and finish the desserts with Katie.’

  Rose nodded. ‘Of course. I’ll be well finished with the roulade by then – and I’ll leave the tagine on low. It can look after itself while we’re gone. Just give me a shout when you’re ready, and we can load the van.’

  Claire smiled her thanks.

 
Three hours later Rose manoeuvred her van as close to the kitchen door as possible. Then Claire began to pass her boxes of plates, bowls, cutlery, ticking each one off her list as she did so. ‘I hate this bit,’ she said, with a vehemence that surprised Rose. Claire was normally the quiet one, the non-complainer. ‘Loading and unloading the van’s a killer on the back, it really is.’

  ‘I know. I have to confess, I usually get Betty and Angela to do it. There have to be some compensations for being their boss.’

  Claire laughed, her good humour restored. ‘They’re not that bad.’

  Rose made no comment.

  ‘That’s the last of the white wine – that’s got to go in the fridges as soon as we get there: remind me in case I forget.’ Claire consulted her list once more. ‘Just the tablecloths and napkins and all the usual party paraphernalia left. At least they don’t weigh much.’

  Rose looked at her, alarmed. ‘We don’t have to decorate the place and blow up a million balloons, do we?’

  Claire shook her head. ‘No – we’re just supplying the bits and pieces. The birthday girl’s friends are supposed to be meeting us there in half an hour. The marquee was set up last night, and they’ve already started on the balloons.’

  ‘Oh, thank God for that,’ said Rose. ‘Okay, let’s go. Let’s see if we can beat our record for set-up.’

  Claire finished counting. ‘That’s fine – twelve trestle tables, each seating ten. Let’s give the surfaces a rub-down and then we can begin to get them ready. The cleaning stuff is in box number ten, the last one to go in the van.’

  ‘I have it here,’ said Rose, ‘along with the cloths, napkins and centrepieces.’

  Claire grinned at her. ‘Now you see why I wanted you with me!’

  They worked quickly and with concentration, pausing only to corral the balloon-blowing girls into the furthest corner of the marquee. Quietly but firmly, Claire insisted that they stay where their raucous good humour would not interrupt the work in progress. ‘It’s that, or come back at seven tonight,’ she told them. ‘We can’t have you under our feet.’

  ‘They can sure shriek, can’t they?’ remarked Rose, reminded of her own teenage daughter, Lisa, and her high-pitched friends.

  They smoothed the white tablecloths, made sure the settings were spaced adequately, even made allowances for awkward table legs. Claire consulted her seating plan, matching place cards to her numbered list. Finally, she nodded, satisfied.

  ‘Okay, let’s do a walk-around and make sure there are no hazards for the waitresses.’

  ‘I think this is pretty tight,’ said Rose, indicating a group of tables in front of the stage. A young man with very long hair and arms crowded with tattoos was setting up the sort of disco equipment that Rose knew would make her ears bleed.

  Claire frowned. ‘It’s a very difficult angle for turning. We’d better get the most sylph-like girls to serve this end of the marquee.’ She made a note on her floorplan. ‘Okay, I think that’s it for this run.’

  ‘Wine,’ said Rose suddenly. ‘White wine – in the fridges here. You said to remind you.’

  ‘Done and dusted,’ said Claire, putting her pen in her top pocket. ‘And,’ she paused, looking at her watch theatrically, ‘I think we can say our record remains unbroken. Let’s head for the hills.’ She looked at Rose archly. ‘That’s only because you don’t need to slip away for a secret smoke every half-hour.’

  Back at the Bonne Bouche, Rose took a chair outside into the early afternoon sunshine. Without a word, Claire brought her a mug of tea. ‘That’s it, Rose,’ she said. ‘We’ve caught up with ourselves. We’ll bring your roulade and the tagine when we’re on the last run tonight. Thanks a million. You really made a difference.’

  ‘A pleasure,’ said Rose, smiling up at her. She sipped at her tea gratefully, and Claire disappeared back inside.

  What I used to do for love I now do for money.

  The sudden thought surprised her. She hadn’t felt like that in a long time, not for years, not since the early days after Ben left. Back then, her life had been filled with loaves, bread rolls, pizzas: all that leavened dough rising steadily in the heady, emotional heat of her own kitchen. Her days had become a steamy routine of mixing, kneading, proving. All around her, while everything else rose and grew and doubled in size, she watched herself shrink and shrivel, disappearing onto the sidelines of her own life. After almost two years she’d had enough; she needed to be somewhere else, somewhere she could breathe. She’d grasped at the first straw that floated her way: premises for rent, somewhat run-down and ill-equipped, to be sure, but close to home, cheap and just meant to be hers. She knew it; she could feel it.

  ‘I have to get out, Pauline.’ Rose remembered the way she’d paced the floor of her solicitor’s office. It had been a long, discouraging meeting. ‘I can’t stand being cooped up inside my own four walls any longer. I’ll go mad. There’s no distance – no dividing line between home, work, kids, life. I feel like one of those horrible gerbil things on a treadmill, just manically going round and round and getting nowhere. Besides, the Health Board regulations are getting tougher. I need a proper place.’

  Pauline had been calm, professional, just like her father. ‘I understand that, Rose, but these premises you’re considering just aren’t suitable. Think about it for a minute: why are they so cheap? Why have they been on the market for such a long time? As your solicitor, it would be remiss of me to let you sign this lease. There are more holes in it than a colander.’

  Rose had flung herself into the old-fashioned armchair then, angry, defeated. Pauline was right, of course. And that was just one of the many things that made everything feel so much worse. They’d sat in silence until Rose’s impotent fury had crackled and fizzled its way to nothing, like a child’s cheap sparkler at Halloween.

  Pauline had waited her out, and then remarked mildly: ‘If Lisa sat there with a face like that, you’d kill her.’

  ‘How come you’re never wrong?’ Rose had demanded, laughing in spite of herself at the thought of her daughter’s bright, open face.

  Pauline smiled at her, looking over the tops of her glasses. ‘That’s what you pay me for. Let this one go, okay? Trust me. There’ll be others.’

  Rose had given in, not without a show of reluctance. But had she been really honest, she would have had to acknowledge that relief had already begun to take the place of frustration. She couldn’t allow herself to be cheated, not then, not ever. She’d already had enough betrayal to last her a lifetime.

  Pauline’s voice had remained quiet, reassuring. ‘Let’s draw up a list of what you need, and a budget. Then you can do some systematic searching. Right now you don’t know what you want. All you can think about is escape.’

  It had taken almost twelve months, but Rose eventually did it: she found what she’d been looking for.

  ‘It’s perfect, Pauline. This time I’ve got it just right, I’m sure of it.’

  Then she’d been unable to sleep, lying rigid throughout the anxious nights, waiting for Pauline to close the deal. Attention to detail, she’d kept insisting every time Rose phoned her, tried to hurry her. ‘It’ll pay off in the end, I promise you; it’ll be so watertight you’ll hear it squeak. But these things can’t be rushed. Now just get back to work and let me do my job.’

  Finally, they’d sat together in Pauline’s office once again, Rose perched on the edge of the old leather chair. Her arms were folded; she hugged her elbows close to her body, trying to contain her excitement.

  ‘You’re right: this one’s the business.’ Pauline was looking very pleased. ‘It’s the first let, a great location, plenty of private parking.’ She leafed through the pages of the lease, referring to her own pencilled notes in the margins. ‘After a bit of horse-trading, we’ve got nine years nine months with no breaks, and the rent is reasonable. I think it’s good you’ll be sharing, too. Keeps costs down all over. The only thing we haven’t yet considered—’

  Rose looked up
at her, concerned.

  ‘—is how you’ll get on with the other tenants.’ Pauline took a sip of her coffee, watching Rose steadily as she did so.

  ‘I think it’ll be okay, I’ve already spoken to them.’ Even to her own ears, Rose’s voice sounded too eager, almost childlike. She caught Pauline’s look. ‘I’ll be careful, don’t worry. I know that sharing could be a minefield. And if I’m not happy about something, I’ll get in touch with you straight away – before it becomes a problem.’

  Pauline raised her cup. ‘Well, here’s to you, then: new premises, a full order-book and a few quid in the bank for a rainy day. Go get ’em, girl.’

  Rose could still recall the first morning she’d arrived at the new premises in Santry, apprehensive, excited, terrified all at once. Sarah and the others had arrived before her on that occasion, too, their van parked right outside. Spice of Life, it proclaimed, the words unfurling across its side like an old-fashioned banner rippling in the breeze. The letters were cinnamon-coloured on a cream background, shaded by paintings of tiny nutmegs, allspice, cardamoms.

  Rose had felt instant dismay. Their name was so much more professional, so much catchier than hers. Bonne Bouche Catering had seemed tired, somehow, almost cumbersome, old-fashioned by comparison. Even her van looked discouraged: grimy, rain-streaked, in need of a good wash.

  I can’t just stand out here all morning looking at vans, she’d thought finally. I’ll have to go inside sometime. She took a deep breath, settled her bag more firmly on her shoulder and went for it.

  When she opened the door, she’d been met by a blizzard of activity. Tiny white nuggets of styrofoam – thousands of them – had launched themselves onto the stainless steel counters, the floor, even into the sinks. The draught from the open door seemed to give them a life of their own and they took sudden flight, scattering everywhere on Rose’s entrance. She looked around her, surprised. Whatever she had expected, it certainly wasn’t this.

  Three women were unpacking cardboard boxes with a speed that reminded Rose of the rapid, jerky movements of old home movies. They were calling out to one another at the same time, opening and slamming cupboard doors, answering mobiles. There was a cloud of energy in the room so intense that Rose could almost taste it.