The Shoestring Club (8 page)

‘Thanks. And I never meant to be so useless.’

‘You’re not useless. You’re just—’

A customer walks in the door and Rowie stops mid-sentence and then says, ‘Go home, Jules, take a rest. You looked wrecked. But keep in touch, you hear?’

I nod. I take one last look around and then walk out. As soon as I’ve taken a few steps away from the door, I burst into tears again.

Bird leaves it until Thursday before she strides into my room, whips back the curtains and clatters open the shutters.

‘Up you get, darling,’ she says. ‘No point in moping in bed. You need to work on your CV. Chop, chop.’

‘Leave me alone,’ I mutter, rolling over and pulling the duvet over my head. Next thing I know she’s yanked it off the bed and is holding it out in front of her like a matador’s cloak.

‘I’ve left you alone for three whole days. You know how I feel about self-pity, Julia dear.’

She sniffs the air.

‘It’s very musty in here. Were you drinking last night?’

‘I had a couple of glasses of wine in front of the telly, it’s not a crime.’ OK, I finished the bottle, but I’m not telling her that, she’ll only overreact.

‘With Pandora?’ she asks.

‘No, on my own.’

Bird says nothing for a moment, just looks at me, her bright blue eyes piercing my very soul. Then, without losing eye contact, she sits down on the side of my bed and strokes the side of my head.

‘I know you think the world’s out to crush you, darling, but it’s really not. And drinking’s not going to make you feel any better about yourself. You get out of life what you put in. Rowie was quite right to sack you in the circumstances. It might be just the wake up call you need. You were always running late for work, and often hungover to boot.’

I open my mouth to protest but she gets in first.

‘Don’t deny it,’ she says. ‘I’ve seen you popping the painkillers every Sunday in Shoestring, and I can only presume it happens on Fridays and Saturdays too.’

Don’t forget Wednesdays and Thursdays, I feel like adding, but I don’t. I’m not stupid. Honestly, what is it with everyone these days? Don’t they know how to enjoy themselves?

‘Occasionally,’ I say mildly. ‘But what’s the big problem? I’m twenty-four, I’m supposed to be out having a good time.’

‘Does it always have to involve drink, darling?’

Is she mad?

‘Yes!’ I say.

Bird sighs. ‘Pandora is quite able to go out and enjoy herself without feeling the need to come home legless.’

‘Enjoy herself?’ I give a wry laugh. ‘The last time Pandora kicked up her heels was in Paris. And look what happened then – Iris.’

Bird winces. ‘Julia! Please!’

‘Sorry.’ Sometimes I forget Bird is nearly eighty. ‘But it’s true. She never goes out these days, except to that stupid karaoke bar and choir practice.’ Pandora and Bird are both in the same choir. Dad calls it the Proddy lady choir as it’s affiliated to the local church and mainly consists of old biddies – he calls them strong ladies of a certain age, but I know he means old biddies. Pandora fits in beautifully.

‘Your sister enjoys a good sing-song, nothing wrong with that. Helps her unwind. And she has a lovely voice.’

‘Belting out hymns helps her unwind?’

‘Choral pieces, and stop being so sniffy, young lady. Your sister works very hard . . .’ I zone out for the work ethic lecture, my heart sinking. No job, no friends, and my family all think I’m a worthless layabout. Fantastic! I press my head against the pillow.

‘Are you listening to me, Julia? Unless you get a job by the end of the month you’ll have to move out. I’m sorry, but it’s for your own good. And before you get it in your head to go off gallivanting around the world again, you’ll pay back every penny you owe both me and your father before you leave the country, understand? I have your passport under lock and key, plus all the copies of your birth certificate in case you go getting any ideas about replacing it.’

I feel faint with shock.

‘You can’t do that,’ I protest. ‘It’s illegal. I’ll get a lawyer.’

‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous, you couldn’t afford one. No, you’ve been coasting for years and it’s time to stand on your own two feet. And while you live under my roof, you’ll do what I say, understand?’

Her eyes are cool and unflinching. God, she can be scary sometimes. It’s not the first time she’s threatened to throw me out. But this time she sounds serious. I sit up, fold my legs against my chest and wrap my arms around them. I guess she does have a point, it is her house and it’s not as if I pay rent or anything. And to be honest I am getting rather sick of my own company.

I sigh. ‘I want to work, Bird, I’m just not sure what I want to
do
exactly. I liked working in Baroque but most of the boutiques are closing down, not hiring. Maybe I should try something different. I did find it a bit boring sometimes.’

Bird stares down at her hands, then lifts her head again. ‘You just clocked in, did your time and clocked out again. No wonder you found it boring. You have so much potential, darling, you just need to apply yourself. Make more of an effort. Show people how clever you are.’

‘But I’m not clever. I got kicked out of college, remember?’

‘You got in in the first place though, didn’t you?’

‘After repeating in that grind school. And it was only a Business Diploma.’

‘Nothing wrong with that. But I am sorry that your father didn’t encourage the whole Art College thing. He should never have left it up to you to finish that portfolio on your own. Pandora offered to help you get organized, remember? But you pushed her away as usual, and then wouldn’t let any of us help you after that.’

I wait for it.

‘And then you missed the deadline.’ She shakes her head. ‘Crying shame. Such a talented artist.’

‘Even if I had gone to Art College, I still wouldn’t have a job now,’ I point out. ‘Ireland’s unemployment figures are at an all-time high, and emigration figures are through the roof.’

She looks at me delightedly. ‘You’ve been reading the papers?’

‘Got it from a taxi driver on Saturday night,’ I say a little sheepishly. ‘He was having a bit of a rant.’

‘Ah.’ Bird pauses and looks around my room, taking in the heaving pile of clothes on my chair, the mountain of dirty washing spilling out of my wash basket, my dressing table heaped with magazines.

‘Julia, dear, you must treat your clothes with more respect. And please tell me that’s not my jacket?’ She runs towards the chair and pulls a pink tweedy jacket from the middle.

Oops.

‘Julia, what were you thinking? This is Chanel, darling. Chanel!’

She brushes out the creases with her hand.

‘I didn’t wear it, honest, I was just trying it on.’

‘What am I going to do with you?’ She hangs it over the bed knob and grabs my arm.

‘Come on, up!’

She pulls, hard. She’s surprisingly strong for someone so tiny.

‘Out of that bed, right now, young lady,’ she says, ‘and into the shower. I’m not too old to spank your spoilt behind.’

I give a horrified laugh. ‘You wouldn’t dare.’

She raises one slim wrinkled hand, her eyes glittering. ‘Try me.’

Ten minutes later, I smell bacon frying and my stomach lurches. I haven’t eaten since yesterday lunchtime – the Pringles I washed down with wine hardly count – and I’m ravenous. I run downstairs in my dressing gown, damp hair tied back with another of Iris’s hair elastics.

‘Dad?’

But it’s Bird, standing beside the hob, wearing a black apron (she’s allergic to gingham, flowers or polka dots), a Hermès scarf tied over her hair.

‘Your father’s still in Kilkenny, finishing off that playground,’ she says. ‘Said he’d see us for dinner this evening. Have you told him about Baroque?’

‘No, I’ll talk to him later. What’s with the Queen Mother’s head gear?’ I ask, changing the subject. She’d asked me to ring Dad on Tuesday to break the news, but I’m in no rush. I know he’ll only be disappointed and make me feel even worse about it.

She touches the silk gently. ‘Don’t want my hair smelling of grease, do I, darling? Now how many rashers? Do you want them in a sandwich or with an egg?’

I look at her suspiciously. A few minutes ago she was threatening to spank me. What’s with the change of heart?

‘In a sandwich, please.’

She nods, slaps bacon between two slices of bread and hands me the plate. I drizzle the meat with ketchup and start eating.

‘I’ve been thinking,’ she begins.

Ah, here it goes, round two.

‘You just need to find your vocation, and I’d like to help.’

I swallow and wrinkle up my nose. ‘You want me to be a nun?’

She gives a tinkling laugh, like glass breaking.

‘Hardly, darling. No. A
raison d’être
, a reason to live. Something you’re passionate about, something to make you bounce out of bed in the morning with a spring in your step, just itching to get back to it. For me, it’s the shop. And the news, obviously. I can’t wait to find out what’s happened in the world while I’ve been sleeping. I find the news endlessly fascinating. And the choir, the shop, and my bees, obviously.’ Bird keeps two hives at the end of the garden.

I look at her doubtfully. Bees, news, work and choir? None of them sound appealing.

‘Come on, darling,’ she says to my blank face. ‘There must be something you adore.’

I think for a minute.

‘I like music,’ I begin slowly. ‘And I like art, but I wouldn’t say I’m passionate about it. I know – origami! I love origami.’

‘Good, that’s a start. But I can’t really see there being many job opportunities in the origami field.’ She gives me a gentle smile.

‘And cycling,’ I say, warming to the theme. ‘I love bikes. Maybe I could design cool bike frames.’

‘Maybe,’ Bird says slowly. She doesn’t look convinced. ‘What about working in a bike shop; isn’t there one in Dun Laoghaire?’

I nod. ‘Rick’s Rides. But Rick seems to spend most of his time fixing punctures. Not very creative.’

Bird cocks her head. ‘Creative? So you’d like a job where you could be creative?’

I consider this for a second. ‘I guess. I like making things. And don’t let on to Pandora, but I love doing the windows in Shoestring.’

Bird smiles encouragingly. ‘That’s it, a window designer.’

I sigh. ‘It’s a closed shop, Bird. I did try all the department stores a few years ago but they all have their own in-house teams. And there are only two window-design companies in Ireland. I approached them both but they were looking for people with Art degrees or at least five years’ experience.’ I stare down at the table glumly and roll some crumbs around under my fingers.

Bird walks behind me and starts to massage my shoulders with her strong hands. ‘You’re very tense, darling. You should really get more exercise. I do find yoga wonderful for tension. And your posture is slipping. All those years of expensive ballet classes practically wasted.’

She takes her hands away, and props her bum against the kitchen counter. ‘Now, back to your job hunt,’ she continues. ‘What about staying in fashion, but trying to stretch yourself a bit? You have acres of experience, Boolie. And even though some of the outfits you wear are rather odd, you are rather gifted at throwing clothes together for other people. And you spend hours studying all those French and Italian magazines you can’t even read.’

I decide to ignore the ‘rather odd’ insult.

I shrug. ‘I do like dressing people I suppose.’

Bird tilts her head. ‘And it makes you happy, doesn’t it, darling? Seeing their faces light up when you’ve made them look stunning. Even idiotic creatures like that Sissy girl.’

‘Sometimes.’ I get the feeling this is leading somewhere.

‘I’ve got it!’ Bird says, clapping her hands together. ‘A stylist. Lots of the stylists who come into Shoestring look just as strange as you do. One of them has dreadlocks for goodness’ sake.’

This is getting out of hand. ‘Bird you can’t just
be
a stylist. You have to have clients or work for a shop or something. And let’s face it, who’d hire me? I have zilch experience.’

‘You’ve been working in boutiques for years.’

‘As a sales assistant, not a stylist. Thanks, Bird, I know you’re only trying to help, but I’ll find something. Maybe I could work in a shoe shop for a change.’

She takes my chin in her hand, her fingers thin and dotted with age spots.

‘You listen to me, Julia Schuster, and you listen good. Work in a shoe shop if it makes you happy. But I want you to be the best sales woman in Dublin, understand? Life is short, darling. One day you’ll wake up and look in the mirror and see nothing but wrinkles.’ She takes her hand away. ‘I don’t care what you do, just put your heart into it, girl. Stop coasting.’

‘I could always find myself a rich husband,’ I suggest, only half joking.

‘And what happens if he dies or leaves you? No, you must have your own career, Boolie. It’s vital. Now go and wash your hair again. Can’t have it stinking of sizzling pig, can we? And then we’ll work on your CV together.’