Eva was a little consoled. ‘Thanks, Lainey.’
‘No worries. Just be patient, okay?’
In London the next day, Rosemary picked up the final page from the printer. Number after number was listed on the pile of pages.
She knocked on the door of Joseph’s office. ‘Excuse me, here are those numbers you’re looking for - every art gallery in Ireland, is that right?’
‘That’s right, Rosemary.’ He took the pages. ‘Thank you very much for doing that, I really appreciate it.’
‘You’re welcome,’ she said. She waited, half hoping for an explanation, but Joseph had turned back to his computer screen.
Puzzled, she walked back to her own desk. She’d never known him to be interested in art or sculpture before. And he’d certainly never mentioned Ireland. It was all very odd.
In the delicatessen that afternoon, Eva stood back as Meg dragged the sample table and chair across the wooden floor. She and Ambrose winced as the metal tips of the chair legs screeched. ‘I’m sure we could fit in another table, Evie. Look, if we squashed this one up against the wall here. And moved these chairs in tight here. Plenty of room.’ ‘No, I don’t think so. There’d hardly be room to move. And no-one wants to sit tight up against someone else, feeling their every word is being overheard. Let’s stick to seven tables and that’s it. Now, how are your menu ideas coming along?’ Meg beamed at her. ‘Well, I’m definitely sure about soup. Several different varieties every day, I thought, served with crusty white bread. And what about big thick sandwiches with plenty of fillings. And some hot dishes, of course. Like That chicken curries or vegetarian lasagnes. Gourmet pizzas, perhaps, with smoked salmon, fetta cheese and spinach leaves. And what about salads, with lots of crispy vegetables and fresh herbs? And shall we have some really good desserts as well? Like rich chocolate mudcakes? Or caramelised apple tarts? I love making cherry almond biscuits. And pancakes are quick and delicious - What? What did I say?’ Meg stopped and looked back and forth between Eva and Ambrose, who were both openly laughing. Eva reached over and tousled her hair. ‘What you said was brilliant, Meg. Just brilliant.’
That morning Eva had told Ambrose the whole story. Explained to him the real reason she’d left art school four years previously. She’d waited anxiously for his reaction. ‘Do you really think it matters, Evie? Because it doesn’t change a thing as far as I’m concerned.’ She’d looked at him. Then she’d smiled in relief. ‘You’re right, Ambrose, I don’t think it does matter any more.’
The following day, Joseph put the folder of business papers to one side and turned his attention back to another pile of paper on his desk. He picked up the phone and dialled a number in Ireland. ‘Oh, good afternoon,’ he said politely when a young woman answered, ‘I wonder if you can help me. Do you happen to represent a sculptor by the name of Niamh Kennedy? No? Are you sure? Do you happen to know anyone who does? No? Well, thank you anyway.’ He drew a line through that name, then dialled the next number on the list.
Two nights later, Eva knocked on the door of the rehearsal room at the back of a big house in Mount Joy Square. Jillian answered. She beamed at Eva. ‘The
prodigal daughter returns. Welcome back, Eva. Come in.’ Eva followed her into the room. The floor was crowded with instrument cases, packing crates doubling as stools, boxes of sheet music and a few small speakers. Six people smiled at her. She smiled nervously back. ‘Okay,’ Jillian said in a businesslike tone when the introductions were over, ‘let’s get cracking. Eva, you might as well throw yourself right into it. We’re really playing for the tourists these days, I should warn you. Cover versions of everything from The Corrs and The Pogues to Van Morrison to U2. Even Boyzone at a pinch. Can you cope?’ She nodded. ‘Can I just check one thing? You don’t do Enya covers, do you?’ ‘No. Why, would you like to?’ Eva shook her head. ‘No. No, I wouldn’t.’ ‘Okay, let’s go. “Dirty Old Town”, on the count of three. One, two, three …’
Joseph put down the phone yet again, mystified. Who was she, the Scarlet Pimpernel? She seemed to have disappeared without trace. In between meetings with the auditor and hours of paperwork, he had been ringing the galleries on the list Rosemary had given him. He’d had no luck there either. He’d discovered there was a well-known potter
in Ireland called Shauna Kennedy. And an up-and coming tapestry artist called Niamh Brogan. But no-one had heard of a Galway-based sculptor called Niamh Kennedy, even when he described the work she did, based around ocean and beach images. One of the owners had thought it sounded very interesting. She’d actually asked Joseph to get this Niamh to phone her, to perhaps come in and show some of her work.
Niamh’s friend Lainey had disappeared as well. He’d tried her number at all different hours, morning in Australia, night-time in Australia, lunchtime in Australia. But there was never any answer, not even the answering machine. He didn’t understand it at all. It was as if they had both just disappeared off the face of the earth.
He tried Lainey’s number again now, just in case she was there.
Lying on the couch in her parents’ living room, Lainey called out to her brother in the kitchen. ‘Hugh, can you make that two slices of cake, please? I’m a bit peckish tonight. It must be part of the recovery process.’
‘Recovery process? Lady Muck-itis, more like it,’ Hugh said, coming into the room carrying a tray of coffee and cake.
Meanwhile, in her flat across Melbourne, the phone started to ring again.
Eva lay in bed, trying to get to sleep. It was a little difficult with all the noise Meg was making packing downstairs.
She couldn’t begrudge her. It was all very exciting, and very generous of Uncle Ambrose to offer the first-floor flat to her, rent-free, while she worked as the chef at Ambrosia.
‘You might want to wait until the cafe is up and running before you move in,’ Eva had suggested. ‘You’re welcome to stay with me until then.’
But Meg was too excited to wait. ‘It’s been great with you, Evie, but I’m going to move in as soon as I can. Furniture or no furniture. My own flat, this is incredible!’
Eva turned over in bed, wincing as she heard something go crashing downstairs. Holy God, was Meg ripping the cupboards off the walls and taking them with her?
The house finally fell quiet but Eva still lay there, looking up through the skylight at the night sky. She was too anxious to sleep. Not just about the cafe. Slowly but surely, it was coming along, but there was still such a lot to get done. More than she’d expected. Tables and chairs to order. Kitchen equipment to buy, install and test. Final menus to decide on. Extra staff to interview. And the delicatessen to keep running in the meantime. Oh yes, she had every right to be a bit anxious about the cafe, but that was nothing compared to how she was feeling about Joe. It had
been ten days now since she’d left the message on his machine.
And it was starting to seem that he was never going to ring her back. He’d found out she’d lied to him and now he didn’t want to know her. It was as simple as that.
Joseph put down the last pile of paperwork, then stood up and walked to the window. The Hoxton bars and restaurants below were filled with people as usual, designers, artists, writers, computer programmers, all making deals, discussing plans.
He’d been part of it all once, when he’d started his own company. It had taken ten years to set it up. Ten years of long hours, late nights, risks, hard work, to get it to where it was today. He looked back at his desk. And it had just taken him less than half an hour and several signatures to officially close it all down.
He’d expected to feel something. Regret. Disappointment. But he hadn’t felt anything like that. Just relief. And optimism. He hadn’t felt that for a long time.
It had been surprisingly simple. A friend with a graphic design business two offices down had already offered Rosemary work. But Rosemary wasn’t even sure if she wanted it. She’d started to think seriously about retirement, she’d told Joseph.
Or a long holiday, at least. He’d make sure she received all her entitlements, either way.
The designers were just days away from completing their projects. They all had plenty of other work lined up, too. A website design company was happy to take over the lease on this building. He’d contacted all his other clients and explained that he was closing Wheeler Design down but would still finish the designs he was contracted to do. He just wouldn’t be working from London.
He went back to his desk and picked up the brochure again. He’d spoken to a few people about it and they’d all agreed this was one of the best art schools in Europe.
He turned to the section on jewellery design and started reading it again. It sounded good, better than good. He pictured the designs in his head - they were coming thick and fast these days, despite everything going on around him. And then he tried to picture Niamh again. In Galway somewhere. On a coast, maybe. Or the beach, perhaps. The wind in her hair. Working on her sculptures …
She had to be there somewhere, he knew that. He was determined to find her.
Eva sat at her dining table, surrounded by architects’ drawings and builders’ quotes, nearly pulling her hair out in frustration. How could one carpenter
charge four hundred pounds and the other only ninety-five? Either the expensive one was trying to rip her off, or the cheap one was terrible and was planning on using substandard material.
As for the council approvals - there was so much red tape. She was planning on opening a small cafe, not the Taj Mahal.
Oh God, maybe she should have become a sculptor after all. It would have been a lot simpler than this.
The following morning, Joseph looked at his phone. He was sick of the damn thing. He was beginning to feel it had been grafted onto his ear. But he’d had a flash of inspiration during the night. This was the last person he wanted to call, the last person he wanted to ask, but things were getting desperate.
He checked his watch. It would be late afternoon in Melbourne. It might be a good time. He dialled the number.
A well-modulated Australian voice answered. ‘Four Quarters, St Kilda, Lisa speaking. Can I help you?’
‘Could I speak to Greg Gilroy, please.’
‘Who’s calling, please?’
‘Joseph Wheeler. Of Wheeler Design. I’m calling from London.’
‘Just one moment, sir.’
He waited, listening to the funky hold music. Then a brusque male voice cut in. ‘Greg Gilroy.’
‘Greg, hello. This is Joseph Wheeler speaking. From London. You might not remember me ‘
‘The Pommie kitchenhand who left me in the lurch? I remember you very well.’
Joseph kept his temper in check. He needed Greg’s help, no point getting him off side. ‘I’m hoping you can help me with something. I’m trying to contact Niamh Kennedy or her friend Lainey, but I’m not having any luck with the phone numbers I have.’
‘Aren’t you?’ Greg said in a pleased tone of voice. ‘That’s a shame. Can’t help you, mate. Sorry.’
‘You don’t have a mobile number for Lainey? Or an email address?’
‘No, mate, sorry.’
Greg was smiling. Joseph could hear it in his voice. He knew without doubt that the bastard did have a mobile number for Lainey, and that there was no way he was going to give it to him. He spoke again, in a different tone of voice. ‘So Greg, I understand you’re opening a new cafe soon, is that right?’
Greg sounded suspicious. ‘Yes. Yes, I am.’
‘Got a name for it yet?’
‘I’m sorry?’
Joseph was relaxed. ‘Names are so important, don’t you think? What do you think of the name Cats, for example?’
‘Cats? What are you talking about?’
‘You could call your new cafe Cats. Your food has nine lives, after all.’
‘What the hell are you talking about, mate?’
Joseph’s tone was chatty, even conversational. ‘It was extraordinary, Greg. Before I worked those few days in your cafe, I had no idea prawns could be recycled like that. Or that chicken could be served three days after its use-by date. I’m sure the Melbourne health authorities will be just as fascinated too, when I give them a ring. Just as soon as I hang up from you, in fact. Thanks for your help, Greg. Goodbye.’
Joseph hung up. Would he ring the Melbourne health authorities? No. But Greg would never know that.
At home, Eva put a cushion on top of the phone. Then a newspaper. Then a rug. She just couldn’t bear to look at it any more.
Lainey was being carried up the stairs to her apartment by Brendan and Hugh. Perched on a makeshift seat formed by their linked arms, she was having a big fit of the giggles. ‘Never join the fire and rescue service, will you?’ she said, shrieking again as they nearly tipped her over the side of the stairs.
They finally reached the landing on the third floor. She stood on one foot as she scrabbled in her bag for her keys.
Brendan was looking out of the landing window at the pub just down the street. ‘Fancy a beer, Hugh? While Lainey gets her stuff?’
‘Oh, you two. I’m just picking up some clothes and some of Rex’s toys. I won’t be a minute.’
Hugh rolled his eyes. Lainey was sick, the way she treated that cat. Like it was her child or something.
Brendan knew his sister well. ‘Your minute is an hour in normal human time. We’ll just have the one. Anyway, you’d be surprised how quickly we can drink a beer.’
‘No, I wouldn’t,’ she said wryly as she unlocked her front door.
Joseph made a decision. He’d try Lainey’s number one more time, for the last time. He would drive himself mad otherwise. He dialled the number. He knew it off by heart by now.
Lainey had just hopped into her living room when her phone started ringing.
Joseph almost fell off his chair when the ringing stopped and a breathless voice answered. ‘Hello, Lainey speaking.’
‘Lainey! Hello. This is Joseph Wheeler and I’m looking for ‘
‘Joe? Backpacker Joe? That Joe?’
‘Yes, that Joe. Lainey, I’m looking for Niamh. A phone number, can you help me?’
‘Phone number? But haven’t you got one already? She left them both for you, didn’t she? On her message.’