travellers, see if there had been any changes in design since he’d developed his own backpack. Maybe getting out and about would set the ideas flowing again, spark some inspiration, help him decide whether or not he wanted to go to Canada. And then in a few days he’d go to South Australia. He picked up the travel brochure he’d collected at Melbourne airport and looked at the section on the Clare Valley again. There were two pages of photographs - glossy green rows of vineyards curving over hills under bright blue skies, sunwarmed stone cottages surrounded on all sides by vines and gum trees. Photos of laughing couples sitting by fireplaces, toasting each other with wine, plates of fine food close by. More couples walking hand in hand down tree-lined paths, bottles of wine tucked under their arms. Was this how his father lived? Roaming over hills with a bottle of wine in one hand and a basket of food in another? Merrily building log cabins? What else had his mother said? That Lewis had a small vineyard, some olive trees? He started to form a mental picture based on the photographs in front of him. His father outside, working in a garden. Looking up as Joseph walked toward him He stopped his thoughts right there and picked up the telephone. Forty minutes later he had spoken to three travel agents and knew all his options. He could drive all
the way to South Australia, or fly to Adelaide and hire a car there, or take the overnight train. He liked the idea of the train. Something about arriving there slowly appealed to him.
He went over to the window. The clouds were disappearing, leaving behind a deep blue sky. Now he could see a great swathe of the city. Where there had been mist before there were now parks and gardens. On the horizon he could see the glint of the ocean. The grey buildings were starting to dry off, their natural warm stonework shining through. Even the trams seemed brighter, he thought, looking down to the street below. Stylish young people were stepping out of the designer boutiques, confident and self-conscious all at once.
That was more like it. He thought back to the English backpacker’s comments about Melbourne and Sydney. It seemed the dowdy older sister had just put on a very bright dress.
He was just on his way out when he remembered the phone number Dave had given him of a financial journalist friend who’d moved from Sydney to Melbourne. ‘Aaron’s a nice bloke,’ Dave had boomed. ‘You’ll like him. He’ll be able to give you some Melbourne holiday tips. Take you out for a beer or something. I’ll let him know you’re coming.’
Joseph rang the number and introduced himself.
‘Oh hi, Joe. Dave said you might call. Welcome to
Melbourne.’ He had quite a distinctive voice. A cool sounding drawl, somewhere between an Australian and an American accent. ‘Listen, I’m actually going to a party tonight, at a friend’s house in Brighton. Do you want to drop in and meet a few people? It’s all pretty caj.’ ‘Pretty caj?’ ‘Yeah. Caj. Casual. Got a pen? I’ll give you the address.’ Joseph wrote it down and then repeated it back. 34 Warner Street, Brighton. ‘That’s it. Sorry, I’m right on deadline, can’t talk. But we’ll see you at the party? Nine-ish? Okay, bye.’ ‘Thanks, Aaron. See you then.’ Joseph threw on his coat and went downstairs.
I
A FEW kilometres away, Eva let herself into Lainey’s apartment and put down her bag and umbrella. This morning’s downpour was the first rain she’d seen in days. Coming from Ireland, that was some going. It was blue skies and sunshine every day in Brisbane, Lainey had told her on the phone the night before. And her work was coming along very well, she’d said in answer to Eva’s questions. But she hadn’t rung to talk about work, she’d rung to see if Eva was coping all right without her. ‘So far, so good,’ Eva had laughed. ‘But you’ve only been gone two days.’ ‘Well, I’m just a phone call away, darling, remember that.’ The phone was ringing as Eva walked into the living room. She picked it up before the answering machine clicked into action. ‘Hello, Lainey’s house,’ she said.
‘Hi, is that Niamh?’ Wrong number, Eva nearly said. Then something in the voice sparked a memory. ‘Yes,’ she said tentatively. It sounded like ‘Niamh! I thought I recognised that beautiful accent. This is Greg. Lainey’s friend from the dinner party the other night.’ ‘Greg, how are you?’ ‘I’m just grand, as you would say.’ He gave a long chuckle. He was still calling her Niamh. Of course he was. She was about to speak, to somehow find a way of telling him that the whole story had been complete fiction, when he spoke again. ‘It’s very late notice, I know, but I wondered if you might like some company while Lainey’s away. I could take you out to dinner tonight, perhaps. And to a party at a friend’s house in Brighton afterwards? If you haven’t got any other plans.’
‘I don’t have any plans at all. That would be lovely, Greg, thank you.’ A date with a real live Australian man. What a treat. And she could tell him the truth about the Niamh story then. Face to face. He sounded very pleased with himself. ‘I’ll look forward to it, Niamh. And all my friends are looking forward to meeting you, too.’ ‘Are they?’ she said, surprised. ‘Why?’ ‘Well, many of them are well-known artists and designers themselves, of course, so they’re always
interested in meeting someone as internationally successful as you. I’ve told them all about your sculpting and your singing. U2 and Enya are very popular here in Australia too, you know.’
‘Are they?’ Uh oh.
‘Well then, I’ll come and collect you at about seven-thirty, would that suit?’
‘Perfect,’ she said, her mind working at a million miles. Quick, tell him now, tell him now, one part of her said as the other part of her kept talking. ‘And is it a formal restaurant? Dress-wise, I mean?’
‘Oh, absolutely,’ Greg said proudly. ‘Dress to impress. See you tonight.’
Eva hung up. Dress to impress? And tell him the truth about Niamh? All on one date? What had she got herself into? She checked the time. It would be fine, she told herself firmly. She had hours to get ready. Hours to worry about what to wear. And in the meantime she had coffee to make and important work to do.
Out on the balcony she opened her notebook and wrote in firm letters across the top of a fresh page: ‘The shop and what I would do with it’. It was like a child’s essay. ‘By Eva Kennedy, aged thirty-one’, she added to amuse herself.
Ambrose had told her it would be her place, that she could do whatever she wanted with it. Since Lainey had gone to Brisbane, she’d been out visiting
every delicatessen and food store she could find in inner-city Melbourne and gathering ideas. She’d visited small Italian delis, fragrant with the smell of rich cheese and spicy sausages. Brightly lit Asian grocery shops, their shelves crammed with pungent goods that she couldn’t begin to name. Sleek, modern food stores boasting the latest in modern Australian cuisine, everything from wattleseed pasta to bush tomato salsa. Tiny shops selling only coffee or only fruit and vegetable juices or only spices. Warm, crowded bakeries filled with every kind of bread, from white loaves to olive-studded focaccia, ciabatta to heavy rye-grain rolls. Continental butchers. Vegetarian shops.
She’d picked up a few good ideas for her window displays and for new product lines. But then another, different idea for the shop had started playing in the back of her mind. Something Meg had said a week or two back had sparked it. Something about serving soup on cold winter days. About opening a little cafe in the back of the delicatessen.
It would take some renovations, of course. More than some, they’d need to install a small kitchen, probably get some sort of building approval. Redecorate. And they couldn’t serve just soup, people would expect other food too. She’d need a chef, but maybe Meg would know someone. Maybe Meg would even be interested in doing it herself. She’d had the training, after all. Ardmahon House was one of the top cooking schools in Ireland.
But would a cafe work? Could it work? Eva felt like her mind was slowly stirring after a long nap. God forbid, perhaps Dermot had been right. Maybe she had been drifting along a bit, going into work, serving the customers, stuck in a routine … But what if all that changed? If she started doing things her way, putting her own ideas into action? She pictured the sign above the door. Camden Street Foods and Cafe. Manager: Eva Kennedy. Chef: Margaret Delaney. Or …
Maybe she wouldn’t call it Camden Street Foods and Cafe. Ambrose had said she could do whatever she liked with it. What would he think about a name change? Eva started to smile. Now wouldn’t that be a great name for a shop serving delicious cheeses, spices, breads, coffee and lunches … She could see the sign already: ‘Ambrosia’. Nectar of the gods, indeed.
There was just one minor problem to sort out. How in God’s name did she run a cafe? Running a delicatessen was one thing, but how would she decide on menus? Sort out an ordering system? Find staff? What she really needed was a crash course. A couple of weeks in other cafes, watching and taking notes, working out what to do and what not to do.
Looking over the balcony, she smiled at the thought of sitting in cafe after cafe for days, drinking so much coffee her hair stood on end and her eyes started spinning in her head …
Then her attention was distracted - something about the way the breeze was twisting and turning the leaves of the trees in front of her caught her eye. One moment they were silver coloured, as the breeze flicked up the underside of the leaves. The next moment they were all a deep, vibrant green. Through the branches she could see a glint of water as the river flowed past.
Tentatively at first, she started to sketch what she could see in front of her. The darkness and lightness of the tree trunks. The lattice effect of the leaves. The moving shadows. Almost thirty minutes passed before she stopped drawing, coming to as if out of a dream. She hadn’t felt like that in years, completely absorbed in what she was drawing, forgetting everything around her. She had exactly captured the view in front of her. Her trained eye told her that. The perspective was perfect, the shading was assured, the leaves on the paper almost seemed real. But…
She pulled the page out of the book, screwed it up into a ball and threw it behind her into the apartment. ‘Who are you fooling?’ she said under her breath. Enough thinking about that. Enough thinking about the shop too. She stood up. She had a date to get ready for.
By six thirty Eva was in a complete state. She’d pulled all of her clothes out of the cupboard. Her bright
Tshirts and cardigans. Her skirts. Her favourite faded jeans. Several shift-style dresses, made from beautiful material. They were now all spread over the floor of her room. But there was nothing there that would impress an eight-year-old chimney sweep, let alone Greg’s scary-sounding friends. She glanced at the clock. He’d be here in an hour. There was only one thing to do. Ring Lainey for help.
She caught her on her mobile just as Lainey was on the way out to dinner with the new staff of her company’s Brisbane office. Eva quickly filled her in on the sudden date.
‘Good old Greg, I told you he was smitten. But don’t panic about the clothes, help yourself to anything of mine.’
‘Thanks a million,’ Eva said, hoping something would fit. She’d hold her breath, stand on tiptoes or stay sitting down all night if she had to. ‘Unfortunately, the clothes aren’t my only problem.’
“What else is?’
‘He’s still calling me Niamh.’
Lainey roared laughing. ‘Of course, of course! I hadn’t thought of that. Fantastic. You’ll keep it going, won’t you? Even without me there?’
‘Lainey, I can’t!’
‘Of course you can. Why ever not? Who’s it hurting? You haven’t said you’re an Irish businesswoman looking for investments, have you? You’re not about to con him out of all his money?’
‘No.’
‘Well, where’s the harm then? It’s just a joke. And Greg will find it really funny when I eventually tell him the truth, I promise you.’
‘It’s not just Greg, it’s Greg and his friends. He’s taking me to a party. He’s told them all about me. About the sculpting. About Galway. Enya. Even Bono.’
‘This just gets better and better. Eva, stop taking it all so seriously. Sorry, I mean, Niamh, stop taking it all so seriously. Enjoy yourself. Enjoy all the attention. It’s good for you, it’s funny.’
‘Oh, sure. It’s all right for you, safely up in Brisbane.’
Lainey laughed again. ‘Got to go. Ring me tomorrow, first thing. I’ll want a full match report.’
Eva finally managed to find something in Lainey’s wardrobe to wear. Thank God for little black dresses, she thought. This one was made from a beautiful fabric, dingier than she normally wore, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. And it was a gorgeous dress.
Hair tied back or loose? She’d worn it down the past few days, badgered into it by Lainey, who insisted it really suited her like that. ‘If you want to jazz it up, use some products too,’ she’d said. ‘I’ve got loads of them in the bathroom cupboard, just help yourself. And don’t forget the silk flowers too that one looked great the night of the dinner party.’
Eva tied it back, then left it loose again. Tied back, loose again. She actually felt different when it was untied. She associated her businesslike work personality with the plait, so if she was going to be pretending to be the creative Irish sculptor living in the wild west of Ireland, she may as well look the part. Tipping her head down, she shook it vigorously, her hair flying around. She laughed at her reflection - her hair was a mass of black waves around her face. Wild west, indeed.
How to keep it looking like that, though? Ah, Lainey’s hair products. The new name for hairspray, apparently. She went into the bathroom and gathered up an armful of them from the cupboard. She read the labels. Mousse. Gel. Styling cream. Fix lacquer. Finishing spray. Imagine that, Eva thought. All these years she’d just been tying her hair back in a long plait, when she could have been applying thousands of hair products in dozens of different ways - massaging, rubbing, distributing evenly, applying to damp or dry hair, spraying lightly …
She took a gloopy handful of mousse from the can and scrunched it as directed into her hair. She read the words on the side of the can: ‘Adds shine and texture, extra confidence and body’. All that in a handful of white foam, she thought. Who needed drugs? She finished it off with a quick blast of super-extra-firm-hold hairspray. Nuclear-hold, more like it, she decided, moving her head vigorously. Her hair stayed still.