She hadn’t touched the box for years, but now she carried it over to the bed and, settling herself against her pillows, took off the lid.
On top of the pile of memories inside was a grainy colour photograph of a girl with wide, laughing eyes and tawny hair rippling around her shoulders. Very like Amber, in fact. She was sitting in the middle of a group of smiling people, captured mid-laugh, frozen in time. Behind them was a wall of leatherette from a curving banquette; in front of them, a bar table spread with bottles, glasses, cigarette packs, ashtrays.
Faye didn’t remember the names of everyone in the picture, but she could hear the music that had been playing when Jimi had taken it - Led Zeppelin, something dark and moody, the mahogany darkness of ‘Kashmir’, perhaps.
She wondered where Jimi was now. Then, he’d been a sweet guy with spiky punk hair and a lost puppy-dog expression who hung around the fringes of the gang. He was probably unrecognisable now, working in a strait-laced office job with a tie, lace up shoes and normal hair. But then, she was hard high street navy suit and her neat little earrings could imagine her as the girl in that picture, the one who’d been swaying sexily to the music moments before the photo had been taken.
When she moved the pile of photos, a faint scent of perfume rose from the box. YSL’s heady Opium, she remembered. She closed her eyes, and it was as though she was there once more in her former life. She could almost smell the atmosphere of The Club. Smoke, marijuana, the full-bodied reek of Jack Daniel’s, perfume and sweat. And excitement.
The excitement of not knowing what might happen next.
The mixed-up girl she’d been then was no more, but Faye would never forget her.
That girl represented both the great tragedy and the triumph of her life, a former life she’d never been able to share with Amber.
Keeping it all a secret had been an obsession with Faye because if Amber knew, she’d never understand and their relationship would be destroyed. Except that somehow, her relationship with Amber was fracturing more every day anyway.
Faye was beginning to wonder if things might be better if Amber actually knew the truth.
Hi Shona,
How are you? Is all still well on your planet? I miss you, Paul and Ross and the fun we had.
So much, Maggie thought. How come you only realised how great your friends were when they weren’t around?
No news here at all. I am sitting in my bedroom at my dad’s ancient laptop on Friday morning and I keep getting this weird feeling that it’s a Sunday night and I’ve got school in the morning. If Hart to Hart was still on the telly, it’d be like nothing has changed.
Did I ever tell you that I wanted to be Jennifer Hart? She was always so nice, so beautiful, had a rich husband and never had grow up to be her and I’d have a gorgeous Mercedes-driving husband who happened to be a multi-millionaire and my hair would look fantastic, auburn rather than carrot, and there’d be a Max around to do stuff. Where have all the millionaires gone? I might sign up to a class to find one. Ooops, can’t. I couldn’t keep up the act: the long nails, the long blonde hair or the giggling at my chosen millionaire’s stupid jokes - which is what all the magazines say is vital. I am also at a loss in the boob department. Millionaires seem to like women with tiny waists and big boobs who simper that they only eat grilled fish and nothing but nuts after six o’clock. My chest and my waist are the same size and I like a proper dinner, plus dessert and maybe a bar of chocolate or two after six. I would not fit in.
Anyway, I hate men. Except for Ross and Paul, and they don’t count. And Dad. Nice men who don’t hit on me don’t count, either.
Not that any men are hitting on me, Shona. So no mad phone calls about how I should put mascara on and wear flat shoes so I’m shorter than them because men like short women, OK? Summer Street is a date-free zone, like wildlife preserves where hunters can’t go after ducks. Men around here are Like my parents’ friends, the nice dad sort
And when did men fling themselves at me anyway? Like, never.
Elisabeth had been on the phone a lot from Seattle telling her to get out and get a life.
‘Please don’t say that the only way to get over a guy is to get under another one,’ warned Maggie, which was what Ross had said to her on the phone, adding that if he left it too long between dates, both he and Nureyev got depressed.
Maggie got depressed just thinking about having sex with another man. That electric attraction she’d felt for Grey could hardly be found twice in a lifetime.
All she wanted was him and she couldn’t have him, mustn’t have him.
‘That’s old-fashioned drivel about getting another man,’ Elisabeth said, ‘and I’d never give advice like that. A man’s the last thing you need. I mean go out with co-workers, friends. Go to galleries, take up charity work, try a new sport, have fun.’
Maggie didn’t think she knew how to have fun any more.
Don’t know if the boss told you but they’ve let me extend my unpaid leave. After that, I have to put up or shut up. Get another job or come back. Don’t know if I can face the college again.
Mum’s librarian friend who gave me my first job years ago has asked me to do a few shifts in the local library as a huge favour. One of her people is pregnant and has had to go off early because of back pain. So I’m filling in and it’s great, actually.
Almost a relief, which sounds unkind to Mum and Dad, but you know what I mean.
She hadn’t worked in a public library for years and it was quite nice to get out of the house for a few hours, to escape from the claustrophobia of home.
I’m in the children’s department and I really like it, actually. The kids are gorgeous and no, I’m not broody, so don’t even go there. Kids say the funniest things. They’re so blunt, it’s hilarious. Plus, I get to flick through the books I loved as a kid. I’m rereading the Narnia series. I can’t believe I haven’t read them for years.
Have you seen Grey? No, don’t answer that. Yes, do. And as for that blonde piece, put a note on her file. ‘Slept with librarian’s long-term boyfriend’ should do it. ‘Known for ripping pages out of books’ might be even better.
I don’t know what her name is. Probably something like Flower or Petal or Butterfly, stupid bitch. He must still be with her. It’s been two weeks and I haven’t heard anything from him since the first day. Some boyfriend he turned out to be.
Not that I’m bitter. I am better off without him.
Love Maggie.
She logged off. The last bit was untrue. She was bitter and right now, no, she didn’t feel better off without Grey.
Since she’d been home, her mother had perked up no end having her daughter around, while Maggie herself felt strangely adrift. She was living in the house she’d grown up in with her parents - whom she loved, even if they did occasionally drive her mad - and yet the sense of belonging had gone.
All the remaining remnants of her younger self - the furry cushions on her bed, the Holly Hobbie dolls on the shelves - only made her feel more alone, more isolated.
In this bedroom, she’d cried with misery over the hell of school and dreamed of a wonderful future, where she would be wise and successful.
Now she was back, futureless and feeling not a lot wiser.
‘Bean!’ her father yelled. ‘We’re going to the cafe for lattes and paninis. It’s the Friday-morning special. Want to come?’
Sense of belonging wasn’t the only thing to change. When had her parents started having lattes and paninis? What was wrong with a coffee and a bun, which was what they used to sell there.
Home had moved on without her, Maggie thought, almost childishly. It wasn’t supposed to change. It was supposed to stay exactly the same so she could come back and refresh. Still, latte and panini was better than sitting in her bedroom.
‘OK, coming.’ At least in the cafe, there couldn’t be too many probing questions about Grey.
Breakfast in the cafe ended in a cholesterol inducing flurry at eleven when eggs done every which way came off the menu, and wraps, paninis and ciabatta bread sandwiches went on. Henry was painstakingly writing the day’s lunch specials on the blackboard outside the cafe when the Maguires arrived, first Una, regal with her crutches, and then her people-in-waiting, Maggie and Dennis, bringing up the rear, carrying Una’s handbag and a cushion so she could rest her leg on a hard chair.
‘Henry, love, how are you?’ asked Una.
Henry, a fatherly balding man in cords and a checked shirt, stopped writing to greet Una, who was one of his favourite customers.
‘How’s the poor leg?’ he asked solicitously. ‘Sore but what’s the point of complaining?’ said Una. ‘If that’s the worst thing that happens to me, won’t I be fine?’
They went in and arranged themselves at a table by the window, Una swivelling herself until she was comfortable before handing her crutches to Maggie. Xu, the petite Chinese waitress, appeared with a silent smile and gave them menus. Maggie smiled hello back at her. There was something that fascinated her about Xu. Imagine coming all that
way to a country where you knew nobody. Yet Xu didn’t appear lonely or sad, just grateful for this chance of a new life in Ireland. Her life must have been hard before, Maggie surmised, but she didn’t want to offend Xu by asking intrusive questions, so she settled, Maggie-style, for smiling a lot at her.
Henry finished working on the blackboard and came inside.
‘Tell me, Henry, what’s good today? We’re trying to feed poor Maggie up or she’ll go home to Galway and Grey will think we starved her here. Grey’s her partner,’ Una added in her version of sotto voce, which meant only half the street heard.
Maggie managed the required polite smile at this. Had her mother always mentioned Grey this often or was it noticeable only now that he was gone?
‘Great soup, wild mushroom,’ said Henry, who had come in after them. ‘Jane’s trying out this new cookbook and herself and Xu were slaving away all morning at it.’
‘Let’s have that, then,’ said Una. ‘We love trying new things, don’t we?’
She beamed at Maggie who was trying to make herself think cheerful thoughts so she could join in this happy family lunch instead of looking like a shrivelled old misery guts. But what was a cheerful thought?
the truth than to suffer endless public comments about how wonderful Grey was.
‘Grey and I have split up,’ she blurted out.
Her father immediately looked concerned and laid a hand on hers, while her mother bit her lip.
‘Oh, Maggie, love,’ Una sighed. ‘I wish you’d told us before, you poor pet, instead of bottling it up. We love you.’
There it was: the most simple and most poignant thing any parent could say. They loved her and it didn’t matter if she was single or about to be married to the planet’s most eligible bachelor, they loved her.
‘I didn’t mean to cry,’ she said, crying. Honestly, what was wrong with her? It was like being sixteen again, tearful at the drop of a hat. ‘We broke up just before you had the accident and I thought you had enough to deal with without my worries as well. I - well, he - it wasn’t working.’ She couldn’t tell them about the blonde. It would be too humiliating.
‘He
wasn’t good enough for you,’ snapped her father, angry wolf circling his precious cub. ‘Should have asked to marry you. I said that all along, didn’t I, Una? What sort of a man goes out with a girl for five years and never wants to make an honest woman out of her?’
‘Dennis,’ warned his wife. ‘This is not the time for recriminations.’
it, but it wasn’t good enough for me bucko, no sirree …’
‘Dennis!’ ‘Dad, Mum, it’s OK. I’m OK about it all,’
Maggie lied. ‘Really, we both knew it wasn’t working.’ She was glad she hadn’t mentioned Petal, or whatever her name was. Her normally mildmannered father might run off to purchase a gun and remould Grey’s intestinal tract with a bullet.
Who could tell?
‘You’d had enough of him?’ asked Dad, suddenly concerned with getting a speck of dust from his eye. ‘That’s my girl. Dump him and move on, that’s the ticket. You always knew how to take care of yourself.’
It was almost too much for Maggie. She’d never known how to take care of herself. She’d spent four years of hell in school for that very reason.
But inexplicably her dad believed otherwise. She wasn’t sure whether to laugh or sob. Did he and Mum not understand what sort of a mess of a person she really was?
The next morning, Maggie was on her knees in the library playhouse tidying up books when she heard her name called.
‘Maggie!’ Tina, the other librarian in the children’s section, hissed urgently. ‘You’ve got a visitor.’
It was hard for a tall person to squash down enough to get even half of themselves inside the library’s red wooden kiddie zone, so Maggie figured that unless Bill Clinton was outside exuding charisma and charm, whoever it was could wait until she’d finished tidying up the picture books that small kids loved to take into the house.
‘Maggie!’ hissed Tina again.
‘Keep your knickers on!’ Maggie hissed back as she grabbed The Very Hungry Caterpillar, and instantly wished she’d said nothing. It had only taken one day of being under the watchful gaze of wide-eyed primary school kids for her to realise that children loved saying things to their parents like: ‘The lady behind the desk said “crap”, Mummy. That’s a bad word. Is she going to get into trouble?’
Books still in her arms, she wriggled out of the small space and sat back on her knees. There were no kids in hearing range, thankfully. But standing beside Tina, who looked intrigued, was Grey, particularly drop-dead gorgeous in his serious business outfit of dark brown jacket, collar and tie. It was his meeting-with-the-boss outfit, and today, it seemed, Maggie merited boss treatment.
It was strange how easily she’d managed to forget the effect Grey’s physical presence had on her. Away from him, it was simple to think him ordinary, a man who left beard scum in the bathroom sink, upturned his cereal bowl to drink the milk, and snored like an asthmatic pig in bed. Now that he was here, arrestingly handsome, her stomach flipped, remembering.