Something Like Love Page 2

  One of the women looked up, as though sensing Rose’s presence. She wiped her hands quickly on a paper towel and made her way down towards the door, smiling. Rose had felt a sudden wave of relief. The other woman’s hand was extended in greeting, her face open and friendly.

  It’s okay, thought Rose. We’re going to get along.

  ‘You must be Rose Kelly. I’m very pleased to meet you. I’m Sarah Greene. We spoke on the phone.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you at last, Sarah. I’ve just been admiring your van – and your logo: what a great name!’

  ‘Yeah, well, the name’s ours all right, but that’s about the only thing. All the rest belongs to the bank! Come and meet the other Lifers.’

  Rose shook hands with Katie and Claire, momentarily confused at the similarities between them: the same dark hair, fine angular features.

  Katie grinned at her. ‘It’s all right – everybody thinks we’re triplets.’

  ‘Here, steady on,’ objected Claire. ‘I’m the youngest – less of this triplets business.’

  ‘And I’m the eldest,’ said Sarah sternly, ‘so these two do what I tell them.’

  Rose had looked from one lively face to the other. ‘In your dreams,’ she’d said.

  All three laughed.

  ‘I can see we’re going to get on just fine,’ said Sarah. ‘We’ve the kettle on. Cuppa before we all get stuck in?’

  ‘Yes, please,’ said Rose.

  ‘Have you others starting today?’ Katie asked, as she rummaged for mugs in the box in front of her.

  ‘Yes, two part-timers – Betty and Angela.’

  As though on cue, the door opened and two young women entered. Betty hovered uncertainly by the door. Angela pushed past her and made her way towards Rose. Her small face was bright, confident.

  ‘Morning, Ms Kelly.’

  ‘Morning, Angela,’ said Rose. ‘Meet Sarah, Katie and Claire. They call the shots around here. This is Angela, everyone.’

  Rose looked around. Betty still hadn’t moved. The girl looked uncertain, almost frightened. ‘Come and introduce yourself, Betty,’ Rose called. Awkwardly, the younger girl made her way into the kitchen. She’s like an unmade bed, Rose had thought, filled with sudden misgiving. She’d taken a chance on the girl, moved by her air of eager thoroughness, her willingness to please. Now she wasn’t so sure.

  ‘Hello,’ said Betty, looking down at her scuffed shoes. Her voice was barely audible.

  ‘O-kay,’ said Katie briskly, after a small silence. ‘Let’s have this first, then we can all muddle about together.’ She handed around the mugs of steaming tea.

  Sarah lifted hers in mock salute. ‘Right, everyone, here’s to the start of a beautiful friendship.’

  ‘Amen,’ said her sisters.

  I’ll drink to that, Rose had thought.

  Now she felt that these days, more often than not, she hovered somewhere on the margins of cautious happiness. She’d kept the roof over her children’s heads. And she’d plenty of work for the next six months.

  Not a bad place to be, eight years later.

  She could only hope that Sam had no nasty surprises waiting for her that afternoon.

  ‘Okay, Sarah, I’m off. Katie, Claire, see you all on Tuesday.’ Rose called out to the various corners of the kitchen as she hung up her white jacket, searched in her handbag for the keys to the van.

  Sarah emerged from the cold room, her arms laden with vegetables. ‘Half four already! God. Where does the day go?’ She grinned at Rose. ‘I know, I know, I sound just like my mother. You have a great weekend – and thanks a million for the roulade. It looks wonderful.’ She dumped scallions, peppers, tomatoes onto the counter in front of her.

  Rose reached out quickly and caught a large red bell pepper just before it fell.

  ‘No problem. Don’t forget to check on the tagine. It dries out if you take your eye off it.’ She looked at Sarah slyly. ‘Enjoy the celebrations this evening, won’t you?’

  Sarah snorted. ‘I’ll be out of there just as fast as I can. Friends of the family can be very dangerous animals: they’re always the first ones to complain, even if there’s nothing wrong.’ Grimly, she began tearing the outer leaves off the lollo rosso. She looked up at Rose for a moment. ‘It’s their way of keeping you in your place, you know? In case you’d get above yourself.’

  Rose smiled. ‘You have my sympathy. I’ll spare you all a thought this evening as I read my book – with my feet up, sipping a glass of good red wine.’ She started to make her way towards the door. ‘Just the one thought, mind you,’ and she waved, theatrically, over her shoulder. ‘Bye, now! I’m off to rediscover weekends!’

  ‘Have a good one!’ Sarah called after her.

  ‘See ya, Rose!’ called Claire and Katie. In unison. As ever.

  Rose pulled out into the late-afternoon traffic. A passing motorist flashed his lights and slowed down, allowing her into the long line of cars ahead of him. She waved, surprised at this small courtesy. Such gestures were thin on the ground in Dublin, these days.

  She glanced at her watch. Half an hour with Sam, collect Lisa from swimming, pick up a few things in the supermarket and then home. Shoes off, feet up.

  No baking. No brewing. No boiling. No cocktail parties to cater. Just peace and quiet.

  She could hardly wait.

  Rose made her way carefully up the steep flight of granite steps. At the top she paused and combed her hair energetically with her fingertips. She pushed open the door. As she did so, watery afternoon sunlight glanced briefly across the glass and she suddenly saw herself again: a little wind-blown, a little startled this time. What is the matter with me? she thought. That’s the second time today. As soon as she stepped inside, her reflection disappeared, slipping away into the hush of the closing door. She couldn’t help grinning to herself. Now, what sort of an omen was that?

  A young woman looked up as Rose approached, smiling at her, too brightly, from behind a vast mahogany desk. Must be new, Rose thought. Haven’t seen her before. ‘Good afternoon,’ she said firmly. ‘I’ve an appointment to see Sam McCarthy at half past three. My name is Kelly; Rose Kelly.’

  She waited while the receptionist consulted her screen. The young woman’s face was a mask, a smooth palette of perfectly applied make-up. Rose wondered where she’d got that shade of lipstick.

  ‘That’s fine, Ms Kelly. Please, take a seat. Mr McCarthy will be with you in just a moment.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Rose sank into a comfortable armchair, glad of the opportunity, finally, to do nothing. But Sam was there instantly, smiling warmly, his hand already extended in greeting.

  ‘Rose – good to see you!’

  She stood up and shook hands, wondering what this sudden display of formality was all about. He seemed a little nervous this afternoon, almost flustered, as though she had just caught him off guard.

  ‘Hi, Sam. Keeping well?’ She had to say something, to dispel the sudden awkwardness she could feel hovering like a fine mist somewhere above their heads.

  ‘Fine, fine,’ he replied. ‘Come this way.’

  She followed him across the blue carpet and into his office. Once he’d closed the door, he seemed to regain his composure.

  ‘Would you like a cup of tea, or coffee?’

  ‘No thanks, Sam. I’m okay. A bit pressed for time, to be honest.’

  ‘Have a seat – this won’t take long.’ He eased his large frame into the swivel chair opposite, and looked at Rose inquiringly. ‘So, how have things been at the Bonne Bouche?’ He began to rummage on the desk for his reading glasses, still looking over at her.

  Rose grinned at him, wrestling a sheaf of papers from her briefcase. ‘I thought you were going to tell me!’

  He pulled a thick manila file towards him, opened it and handed her a couple of pages stapled together. ‘That’s the account summary for the past few months. I think you’ll see lots of room for optimism.’ He smiled at her as she took the pages and scanned them quickly. �
�There’s no need to look so terrified – you’re making good money again. The bad old days are over.’

  Rose ran a finger rapidly up and down the neat rows and columns. She could hardly believe what she was seeing. Almost a year ago she had come to Sam, looking for advice. His prescription had been brisk, blunt, no-nonsense.

  ‘Stop all these dinners for ten and twelve people,’ he’d told her. ‘Your profit margins are way too small, particularly when you look at all the work involved, and the fact that your overheads stay the same no matter what size the party is. Go for the bigger events: weddings, corporate entertaining, trendy food.’

  Rose had looked at him in dismay. ‘But I’ve never done that sort of work – I couldn’t possibly handle that kind of volume on my own, with just two part-timers.’

  ‘I agree, but hear me out. First of all, let’s look at the current situation. The market is changing, Rose: you’ve told me so yourself. You’ve already seen that your kind of home entertaining is becoming less fashionable – people are eating out more.’ Sam had leaned back in his chair, watched her carefully.

  Rose hadn’t answered at once, but she couldn’t deny the impact of his words. The past five or six years had seen an explosion of restaurants all over Dublin: all fashion and fusion, and all stuffed to the gills with impossibly beautiful people. Rose hardly recognized her native city any more. It had had some sort of a designer makeover while she wasn’t looking, become a place for the dotcom wünderkinder with brash cash in their pockets and an appetite for some serious spending.

  Nobody seemed to want her First Communion lunches any more, her budget birthday parties, anniversary buffets for friends and family.

  ‘You might be right,’ she’d admitted, finally. ‘I’m not sure what sort of change I can bring about, but I can’t just go on as I am, with money leaking away as if there’s no tomorrow.’

  Sam had raised a cautionary hand. ‘Don’t get too despondent – you have the basis of a very healthy business here, still. You just need to do some tweaking. Why not see if Sarah and the others would be interested in joining forces, particularly for the bigger events?’

  Sam had drafted some rough figures on the page in front of him. ‘I think it could be profitable for everyone. If you wanted to, you could still retain a measure of independence by holding onto some of your own, more profitable clients as well.’

  Rose had nodded thoughtfully. ‘That’s a very interesting suggestion. It could well be the best of both worlds.’

  As it happened, Sarah had been more than pleased to have Rose join forces with her and the other Spice of Lifers. It was an arrangement that quickly grew to suit everybody. Rose did decide to hold onto some of her loyal, more long-standing clients, but more and more, she and Sarah worked as a team. Now, almost a year later, it seemed that the strategy was finally paying off. She looked over at Sam, who was watching her intently.

  ‘You’re sure I’m really out of the woods?’

  He nodded. ‘Positive. You’re back on track – in fact, you’re ahead of yourself. Your contracts are solid and your cash flow is very healthy. You’ve really turned things around. Congratulations.’

  Rose sat back in the chair, conscious of a powerful wash of relief. ‘You’ve no idea how glad I am to hear that. I mean, I knew I was getting there, but I wasn’t sure I’d done enough. I was afraid I might have run out of time. Of course, I should never have let it happen in the first place.’

  She shifted a little, uncomfortably aware once more of the sneaky proximity of financial failure. She should have been able to see it coming: it had stalked her once before, in the wake of her husband’s departure. She couldn’t afford to hope that it would never do so again.

  ‘Stop beating yourself up,’ Sam said gently. ‘Business isn’t an exact science, you know. Losses happen to the best of us.’

  ‘Maybe.’ Rose inclined her head, only in half-agreement. ‘But I certainly took my eye off the ball. And with three hungry mouths at home, I was in no position to make mistakes.’

  ‘“A woman of genius makes no mistakes. Her errors are volitional and are the portals of discovery.”’ Sam was grinning at her widely now.

  She looked at him in astonishment. ‘What? Who said that?’

  Sam tried to look offended. ‘I just did.’

  Rose laughed at his expression. ‘I know, but who said it before you? And I bet they weren’t talking about a woman, either!’

  Sam sighed. ‘It was James Joyce, actually. Someone once quoted it to me after I’d lost my shirt. I took a small measure of comfort from it. And you’re right.’ He rubbed both hands through his shock of greying hair. ‘He did say “man of genius”, meaning himself, I suppose. But what would you expect? It doesn’t mean that it can’t apply to you.’

  ‘Well, well, what do you know?’ Rose teased him. ‘A literary and philosophical accountant: whatever next?’

  ‘A self-forgiving mother and businesswoman?’ Sam shot back.

  They both laughed. Rose put the stapled pages into her briefcase, folding them carefully first. When she looked up, she was aware that the room had grown suddenly still. She spoke quietly, her words carefully measured out and weighed beforehand.

  ‘I haven’t ever thanked you properly for all you’ve done over the last few months, Sam. I couldn’t have got through them without your help.’

  He spread his hands, palms upward: an expansive, inclusive gesture. ‘It’s all part of the service. You did the donkey work yourself, you know. Don’t ever forget that.’ He pointed towards the bundles of pages in Rose’s hand. ‘Is that more paperwork for the bookkeepers?’

  She slid them across the desk to him. ‘Yes. I checked everything earlier today and there’s nothing missing. Things are looking very solid for the next six months. They’re even verging on the hectic. We’ve no big events on until next week, though, so I’m taking a long weekend off while I still have the chance.’

  He nodded in approval. ‘Good for you. You deserve it. Any particular plans?’

  Just then, the phone rang, startling them both. With an exclamation of irritation, Sam answered it. ‘Yes?’

  Rose was surprised at his tone. It was brusque, almost curt. She busied herself needlessly with her briefcase, checked her watch, looked out of the window.

  ‘I asked not to be disturbed. Tell him I’ll call him back within the hour.’ He hung up abruptly. There was something in his expression that Rose had seen once or twice before, had failed to read. Whatever it was eluded her this time, too. She stood up. Time to go. The man was under pressure: so was she.

  ‘Must fly. Thanks again, Sam. See you next month?’

  He pushed his chair back. ‘Same time, same place. Keep up the good work. You know what to do.’

  Rose began to itemize, using her fingers. ‘One, write everything down, no matter how small the transaction; two, daily internet bank balance reconciliation; three, keep on top of credit control; four, keep on top of credit control. It’s my Wicca-word, my morning mantra.’

  Sam looked at her, puzzled. ‘Wicca? Isn’t that some sort of old crone?’

  Rose shook her head in disapproval. ‘Modern, Sam, modern. No such thing as an old crone any more. Witches are young and vegetarian these days. “Wicca” is how I remember my homework: Write, Internet, Credit Control, and then Credit Control all over again.’

  ‘What about the final “a”?’

  ‘Can’t you guess?’

  He shook his head.

  She looked at him, trying hard to be serious. ‘You’re in the wrong profession, then. It’s “a” for “Be anal” about it.’

  He laughed. ‘I can see I’ve taught you well. I can relax now, my duty is done.’ He opened the door for her. ‘Drive safely.’

  ‘I will.’ Rose made her way back down the steps towards the street, feeling lighter, happier.

  No matter what, it was always a relief to have your survival confirmed by somebody else.

  ‘Mum? Is it okay if I go over to Carly
’s?’ Lisa was at the kitchen table, texting frantically, her long fingers whizzing around the keypad of her mobile phone.

  Rose was trying to fit too many vegetables into the bottom of the fridge. She looked up, surprised. ‘I thought you said you had a load of homework to do. You were grumbling about it all the way home from the pool.’

  Lisa’s phone beeped. She began texting again almost at once.

  ‘Lisa – I’m speaking to you.’

  ‘I know, I know. I was just in a bad mood. None of it is for tomorrow.’

  ‘Lisa . . . ?’ Rose’s tone had an edge of warning to it.

  ‘I’m serious, Mum. Look, I’ll show you my homework journal, if you like.’ Lisa leapt up from the table and dived onto the sofa, where she began rummaging at once in her schoolbag. Rose knew the routine. Soon, her daughter would produce incontrovertible evidence of no homework. She’d fill the kitchen with her energy, circle her mother, move in for the kill. Rose sighed. Sometimes she didn’t know whether she had the stamina for yet another fourteen-year-old.

  She looked at the blank page her daughter now waved in front of her.

  ‘See? I told you. There’s nothing due for Friday.’

  ‘So, how long do you need to spend studying over the weekend, then?’ Rose demanded. She felt it was time to seize the advantage. ‘Let’s agree it now, in advance, so that there’s no argument. Don’t forget, you’ve three tests next week – you told me so yourself.’

  Lisa opened her mouth, took one look at her mother’s face and closed it again.

  ‘I mean it, Lisa. It’s my first long weekend off in ages and I’ve no intention of spending any of it fighting with you.’

  ‘Okay, okay – don’t go off the deep end,’ said Lisa crossly. She tossed her long hair back from her face, grabbed a pen off the kitchen table and scribbled something in her homework journal. She thrust it at her mother.

  Rose looked at it quickly. ‘“Saturday morning, eleven to one; afternoon, four to six. Sunday, provisionally, eleven to one.” Why provisionally?’