Coming Home for Christmas (8 page)

‘God, you’re awful,’ Alison snorted, laughing.

‘So how about I put this stuff away, get the number of the Oriental Orchid for you, bring down the wine, and we order dinner. The house-special chow mein is particularly good.’

‘OK. I haven’t been bossed around this much since I left home,’ she retorted, feeling she should make some sort of a stand.

‘It’s good for ya, Dunwoody. Stick on the kettle while we’re waiting, I’d murder a cuppa.’

‘OK, Connelly, I’ll let you away with it this once,’ she warned as he finished tying his laces and stood up.

‘Leave the teabag in the mug for me, I don’t want wishy-washy tea’ was his parting shot as he left with his tool kit.

Alison stood under the arch shaking her head. Her life had taken on a peculiarly surreal quality. This time yesterday she was surrounded by boxes in a building where she knew no one, in a
strange part of town and feeling absolutely isolated and alone. And in the space of twelve hours, her little studio was cosy and comfortable, if somewhat bursting at the seams, and she was hungry
and going to have a meal with a tall, good-humoured Irishman who bossed her around like nobody’s business – and she’d had a long afternoon nap to boot. It was one of the strangest
days she’d had since she’d come to New York, but for the first time since she lost her job the terrifying flutters of panic and apprehension she’d been experiencing had faded
somewhat.

She ran a brush through her hair, squirted on some 212, slipped into her loafers, straightened the bed and went out to the kitchen to organize plates, glasses and cutlery. The kitchen had a
small counter that doubled as a worktop and two stools sat against it. They could eat there or in on the sofa, side by side. She decided to set places at the counter. Side by side on the sofa was
too intimate with a relative stranger, although she had to admit JJ was very easy company and she felt relaxed with him for some odd reason. Probably because she was a bit vulnerable at the moment
and it was nice to be with someone from home, she decided. She boiled the kettle, stuck a teabag in the mug and filled it with water.

His sharp rat-a-tat-tat on the door made her smile. JJ wasn’t a doorbell man, it seemed. ‘Here’s the menu, see what you want. I’m having the spring rolls and the
house-special chow mein.’ Her guest handed her the menu. ‘Give me a corkscrew and I’ll open the wine to let it breathe while you’re making your mind up.’

‘How high
exactly
would you like me to jump?’ she said tartly, and he laughed.

‘Don’t mind me, my dear woman. I had three older sisters and I had to stand up for myself. Old habits die hard.’

‘Is that right? So you’re spoilt rotten then,’ Alison observed. ‘Do you still want the tea if you’re having wine?’

‘If it’s no trouble,’ he said with pretended docility. ‘I love the tay, as they say at home.’

‘Oh God, I’ve no sugar,’ she suddenly remembered.

‘I brought my own,’ he said smugly, handing her a bag. ‘You might as well keep it here in case I pop in for the odd cuppa!’ He put three heaped spoonfuls into the
mug.

‘Hey! That’s way too much.’ She was shocked.

‘But lovely sweet tay.’ He grinned, pouring in some milk and taking a slug. ‘There’s nothing in the world to beat a decent cup of tea. Hurry on and pick something –
the stomach’s falling out of me.’

He opened the wine as she perused the menu; she decided on some prawn toast and the shredded duck. ‘You order and give your number and then you’ll be on their computer,’ he
advised, sitting on the stool across from her, long legs stretched out in front of him.

‘I don’t intend staying here for long,’ she retorted. ‘I want my apartment back and I want a job.’

‘What’s for you won’t pass you by,’ he said calmly.

‘My mother says that to me and my sister all the time.’ Alison smiled at the old saying as she picked up the phone to call in the order.

Two hours, a Chinese takeaway and half a bottle of red wine later, she was sprawled on one end of the sofa, with JJ at the other end, and they were both yawning their heads off.

‘God, woman, you’re contagious. Stop yawning, for heaven’s sake. I’m going to my bed, I’ve to be up at six.’ He hauled himself up off the sofa and stood
looking down at her. ‘Very nice evening, neighbour.’

‘Enjoyed it myself,’ she reciprocated, standing up to let him out.

‘Good luck on the job-hunting front,’ he said as he stood at the door.

‘Fingers crossed. Sleep well in your new gaff.’

‘I’ll do my best.’ He smiled. ‘Goodnight, Dunwoody.’

‘Goodnight, Connelly, and thanks,’ she said warmly.

‘See ya around,’ he said, and then he was loping down the landing and taking the stairs two at a time. Alison closed the door and put on the three locks. She’d really enjoyed
her evening, she mused as she carried their dishes to the sink and put the takeaway cartons in the refuse bin. They’d chatted, mostly about home, and the time had gone by so fast she
couldn’t believe it was almost eleven. She heard the front door opening downstairs, and a door on the ground floor opening a few minutes later. The tenant above her had had a bath and the
water was gurgling down the pipes. Last night she’d been tense and agitated when she got into bed. Tonight was different, and it wasn’t just the wine, she reflected as she switched off
the lights in the kitchen and sitting room, swiftly undressed, pulled on her PJs, slid into bed and heaved the duvet up over her ears. Tonight she was more relaxed because she knew JJ was upstairs,
and it was nice to have someone she knew in the building. She’d made a new friend today. Someone she felt very comfortable with. Why had his marriage broken up? she wondered. Had he done the
dirty on his wife, or had his wife done the dirty on him? He seemed a very decent bloke, the type of man her mother would like. Alison smiled in the dark. Esther hadn’t been too taken with
Jonathan when she’d met him for the first time on her last visit.

‘He takes a lot of care over his appearance, doesn’t he?’ she’d remarked when Jonathan had apologized for keeping them late for drinks because his manicurist had been
running late.

Somehow or other, Alison couldn’t imagine JJ Connelly going to a manicurist, although she’d noted that his nails were cut short and were very clean. No, she decided, there was
nothing of the metrosexual about her neighbour upstairs. He was a real, solid, down-to-earth man with a great sense of humour and a tasty ass in his blue jeans. And handy to have around, which was
more than could ever be said for her non-exclusive boyfriend, who wouldn’t know one end of a hammer from another, she thought in amusement, wondering why he hadn’t phoned.

Five minutes later, she was fast asleep, and she slept so well she never even heard the front door downstairs close at six the following morning, as a tall, lean, blue-eyed man glanced up at her
window with a hint of a smile before getting into his jeep and heading off to work.

‘It’s an eggbox!’ Jonathan Bailey gazed around studio 1A, a mixture of dismay and disdain darkening his fine-boned, thin, angular face.

‘It’s not that bad,’ Alison exclaimed defensively.

‘I’ve been in bigger hotel rooms!’ he scoffed, peering into the tiny kitchen. ‘God, look at the size of your fridge, you wouldn’t fit half a dozen bottles of
champers in there.’

‘Oh, give it a rest, Jon,’ Alison said wearily. ‘I know it’s small, but it’s all I can afford – I’m jobless, remember. No nice fat salary coming
in.’

It was the day before she was due to fly home, and her boyfriend had arrived back from LA looking tanned and rested. He was going to bring her to dinner in Tsar Ivan’s, one of her
favourite Russian restaurants, and then they were going clubbing in Recession, a new hip club on the Upper East Side. He had a Town Car waiting outside. He was dressed in a grey Armani suit with a
ruby-red shirt open at the neck. A real LA playboy outfit, she reflected as she slipped on a black cashmere coat that had cost an arm and a leg and picked up a cream-silk hand-painted scarf to wrap
around her neck. She was wearing cream Jimmy Choos and carried a cream diamanté-studded clutch. Her hair was piled up on her head, with loose tendrils falling around her face, and her
make-up was impeccably applied, the dark, smoky eyeliner emphasizing her wide green eyes. A familiar rat-a-tat-tat at the door made her jump.

‘Hey, Dunwoody, open up,’ a deep voice called.

Jonathan looked around, startled. ‘Who the hell is that?’

‘My upstairs neighbour,’ Alison murmured, amused at the look of shock on his face.

‘Bit loud, isn’t he?’ he remarked, as Alison moved past him to open the door.

‘Fry-up in 3B, including Clonakilty pudding and Superquinn sausages. Are you interested?’ JJ asked, thumbs hooked in his jean pockets. His eyes slid slowly down over her as he took
in her appearance. ‘Going out?’ he enquired, glancing over her shoulder to where Jonathan was standing, frowning.

‘Ah yeah. JJ, this is my boyfriend, Jonathan Bailey. Jonathan, this is one of my neighbours, JJ Connelly.’

‘Hello, pleased to meet you,’ Jonathan said with polite disinterest.

‘Likewise,’ JJ said, gripping the other man’s outstretched hand in a firm handshake. ‘One of the lads I work with came back from Ireland this morning with enough rashers,
sausages and puddings to feed the state. Frankie and Fintan are upstairs, and we thought you might fancy a bite to eat with us,’ he explained.

‘We’re going out to dinner,’ Jonathan drawled.

‘So I see. Just a thought, Alison. Enjoy your evening.’

‘It’s a pity, I wouldn’t have minded a few Superquinn sausages,’ she said regretfully. ‘I haven’t had them in yonks. I’m always afraid to bring stuff
like that back in case I get caught.’

‘Ways and means,’ JJ said lightly.

‘Well, thanks for thinking of me, and enjoy it and tell the lads to enjoy it too,’ she said, thinking she wouldn’t have minded going upstairs for a fry-up with the gang.

‘Any time. Enjoy your evening. Good to meet you.’ He eyeballed Jonathan, who looked taken aback at the flinty stare.

‘We should go. The car’s outside, and our reservations are for seven thirty. The maître d’s got us a table as a favour, this place is booked up weeks in advance,’
Jonathan said loftily.

‘Don’t let me delay you,’ JJ said and sprinted up the stairs with panther-like ease.

‘How did you meet him and get so friendly?’ Jonathan said grumpily as she locked the door behind them and they began to walk down the stairs.

‘He moved in the day after I did. I met him and two other Irish chaps on the stairs moving his furniture up. It was nice to talk to someone from home.’

‘He calls you by your surname. He called you Dunwoody – isn’t that rude?’ he sniffed.

‘Oh no, not at home, not in the west of Ireland. It’s a form of—’ She had been going to say ‘endearment’, but stopped herself. ‘It’s an Irish
thing,’ she explained.

‘Who are they? Builders?’ he said contemptuously.

‘They’re three really nice guys, Jonathan,’ she said sharply, in no humour for his snobbery.

‘If you say so,’ he retorted, opening the door for her.

‘I do,’ Alison snapped.

‘Any luck on the job scene?’ he asked after a while, as they drove around Times Square and headed uptown.

‘I had an interview this morning in a stockbroker’s in Wall Street – along with a few hundred others, I’m sure.’ Alison sighed.

‘We let go twenty-five personnel in the West Coast division. It was a rough couple of weeks,’ he moaned.

For them, not for you
, she thought sarcastically. Every time he’d phoned her, he’d been socializing. ‘Poor you,’ she said dryly, but he didn’t even
notice.

‘I got you a present, babe,’ he said, handing her a small bag.

‘Thanks, Jonathan,’ she said warmly, suddenly ashamed of her nasty thoughts. It was a small bottle of Nina Ricci eau de toilette. He’d got it in the airport, a rushed buy, a
last-minute better-get-her-something sort of a gift, she surmised, and not even the perfume at that. Jonathan was very careful with his money, unless he was splashing out on himself. ‘My ex
bleeds me dry’ was his favourite line.

The driver pulled up outside the Russian restaurant and opened the door for her. It was a bitingly cold night and she shivered as the chill wind wrapped itself around her. The restaurant was
warm and dimly lit, all red damask and gilt. It was only half full. What a spoofer Jonathan was, trying to impress JJ with his talk of the maître d’ holding the table for him as a
special favour.

They ordered Nostoykas – fruit-flavoured vodkas – and read the menu in silence. She chose blinis and stuffed cabbage rolls; he ordered Siberian pelsemi and the Tzyplenok.

‘You look great,’ he said slowly as the waiter moved away.

‘Thanks,’ she responded coolly.

‘I’m looking forward to our reunion,’ he said huskily, reaching out to caress her hand. He leaned across the table and kissed her.

‘Later,’ she chided. She thought it was crass to kiss in restaurants. It was strange, but the idea of having sex with him later on was a somewhat uninviting prospect, despite the
fact they hadn’t seen each other for almost three weeks. She doubted very much he’d stayed celibate in LA. And the awful thing was, she suddenly realized she didn’t really care.
Jonathan had been no help to her at all in her hour of need. He hadn’t offered her a room in his four-bed duplex, he hadn’t offered to help her find a place to live, and the best he
could do was to buy her a tacky little bottle of eau de toilette at LAX.

But that was Jonathan! She knew what he was like. Why should it make a difference to her now? she mused gloomily as the waiter laid their first course in front of them. It must be because she
had lost her job and was feeling out of control and vulnerable. Suddenly she wished she was snug in her little studio, listening to the wind whistling outside or, even better, upstairs in 3B with
JJ, Frankie and Fintan, having banter and craic and tucking into a fry-up.

‘. . . So Yvette said to me that she thinks Gloria is seeing this Goulandris guy, and he’s loaded. She’s such a bitch, looking for more alimony . . .’ Jonathan was on his
favourite subject, his ex-wife.