Who hasn’t made you feel, well, womanly ?’
Marek, she thought – and almost said it out loud.
‘No.’
That unusual name with its soft opening and its whiplash final syllable had popped up like a mole from her subconscious, after just five minutes’ exposure to a dark and quiet man who should mean nothing to her.
‘Who sent you flowers?’ Bogna circled the roses on the counter, popping her gum.
‘None of your beeswax.’ Orla played with the long-stemmed beauties, trying to muss them up, failing. Such haughty blooms could do nothing but look stiff and expensive. Reece’s tastes were grand: Sim had known to send her posies.
‘Arthur used to send me roses,’ said Maude, halfway up a ladder, dusting the foreign language section. ‘Always red. Like those.’
Arthur! Orla pounced on the unsolicited nugget of Maude’s autobiography and squirrelled it away. That there’d been a Mr Maude was obvious: according to the post Orla picked from the mat each morning, Maude was a Mrs, and double-barrelled at that, but her husband was never mentioned, nor alluded to. If a conversation threatened to trespass on Maude’s romantic history, however obliquely, Orla felt the air between them thicken and become gelid.
As an Irish woman, Orla was accustomed to the specialatmospheres generated by her elders. Weaned on Ma’s trademark atmospheres surrounding menstruation, intercourse and homosexuality – Breda Cassidy’s holy trinity – she knew when and how to step away from discomfort.
Another one of Maude’s no-go areas was any conversation about her financial set-up. Coming from a family that had always lived close to the bone, Orla was fascinated by the wealthy. She’d been perversely impressed by Sim’s ability to spend money – his unerring choice of the most expensive items on any menu, be it a Harvester’s or the Ritz. Likewise, Lucy’s habit of arranging for the tiniest pot of Crème de la Mer to be delivered from Brown Thomas, instead of popping it in her handbag, had left her dumbstruck.
The economics of the rich was beyond her. How, Orla had puzzled, did a job – even one as high profile as Senator Quinn’s – generate sufficient money to fuel a Dublin town-house, an underground garage quivering with cars, a dependant son and a high-maintenance wife? And mistresses don’t come cheap.
Similarly, though, how could an elderly woman with no visible means of support own three floors of central London real estate? Orla was savvy enough to know that even in this edgy postcode, flanked by pound shops and bookies, Maude’s house was the financial equivalent of an entire street in Tobercree. But still, the middle flat was let out at a cut-price rate, and the shop was a drain, not an asset. Presumably Maude had what Ma referred to reverentially as ‘old money’ – cash that had tumbled down the generations to land in her pocket.
‘Arthur?’ asked Orla warily, concentrating on the roses.
‘Orla’s flowers are from a friend to celebratea wonderful development in her life.’ Maude turned to Bogna, drop-kicking Orla’s timid cross into the long grass.
‘Yeah?’ Bogna was careful not to look interested. She hoisted her bra strap with her thumb, manoeuvring one breast so it sat up and begged beneath her slash-necked tee.
‘She’s accepted a full-time job at the college.’ Maude beamed: her plan had come together. ‘From September the tenth Orla will be a TEFL tutor to adult students. That stands for Teaching English as a Foreign Language. Her contract’s for one year. After that,’ said Maude mysteriously, ‘we’ll see.’
‘Why does she do this?’ Bogna looked disgusted, as if Orla had belched. ‘College is rubbish and boring.’
‘Not to me,’ said Orla patiently. ‘I love teaching.’ She noticed that the roses were stripped of their thorns.
The bell above the door sang and Maude scurried over to greet the customer, wafting talc in her wake. Orla leaned on the counter and recalled
Marek, she thought – and almost said it out loud.
‘No.’
That unusual name with its soft opening and its whiplash final syllable had popped up like a mole from her subconscious, after just five minutes’ exposure to a dark and quiet man who should mean nothing to her.
‘Who sent you flowers?’ Bogna circled the roses on the counter, popping her gum.
‘None of your beeswax.’ Orla played with the long-stemmed beauties, trying to muss them up, failing. Such haughty blooms could do nothing but look stiff and expensive. Reece’s tastes were grand: Sim had known to send her posies.
‘Arthur used to send me roses,’ said Maude, halfway up a ladder, dusting the foreign language section. ‘Always red. Like those.’
Arthur! Orla pounced on the unsolicited nugget of Maude’s autobiography and squirrelled it away. That there’d been a Mr Maude was obvious: according to the post Orla picked from the mat each morning, Maude was a Mrs, and double-barrelled at that, but her husband was never mentioned, nor alluded to. If a conversation threatened to trespass on Maude’s romantic history, however obliquely, Orla felt the air between them thicken and become gelid.
As an Irish woman, Orla was accustomed to the specialatmospheres generated by her elders. Weaned on Ma’s trademark atmospheres surrounding menstruation, intercourse and homosexuality – Breda Cassidy’s holy trinity – she knew when and how to step away from discomfort.
Another one of Maude’s no-go areas was any conversation about her financial set-up. Coming from a family that had always lived close to the bone, Orla was fascinated by the wealthy. She’d been perversely impressed by Sim’s ability to spend money – his unerring choice of the most expensive items on any menu, be it a Harvester’s or the Ritz. Likewise, Lucy’s habit of arranging for the tiniest pot of Crème de la Mer to be delivered from Brown Thomas, instead of popping it in her handbag, had left her dumbstruck.
The economics of the rich was beyond her. How, Orla had puzzled, did a job – even one as high profile as Senator Quinn’s – generate sufficient money to fuel a Dublin town-house, an underground garage quivering with cars, a dependant son and a high-maintenance wife? And mistresses don’t come cheap.
Similarly, though, how could an elderly woman with no visible means of support own three floors of central London real estate? Orla was savvy enough to know that even in this edgy postcode, flanked by pound shops and bookies, Maude’s house was the financial equivalent of an entire street in Tobercree. But still, the middle flat was let out at a cut-price rate, and the shop was a drain, not an asset. Presumably Maude had what Ma referred to reverentially as ‘old money’ – cash that had tumbled down the generations to land in her pocket.
‘Arthur?’ asked Orla warily, concentrating on the roses.
‘Orla’s flowers are from a friend to celebratea wonderful development in her life.’ Maude turned to Bogna, drop-kicking Orla’s timid cross into the long grass.
‘Yeah?’ Bogna was careful not to look interested. She hoisted her bra strap with her thumb, manoeuvring one breast so it sat up and begged beneath her slash-necked tee.
‘She’s accepted a full-time job at the college.’ Maude beamed: her plan had come together. ‘From September the tenth Orla will be a TEFL tutor to adult students. That stands for Teaching English as a Foreign Language. Her contract’s for one year. After that,’ said Maude mysteriously, ‘we’ll see.’
‘Why does she do this?’ Bogna looked disgusted, as if Orla had belched. ‘College is rubbish and boring.’
‘Not to me,’ said Orla patiently. ‘I love teaching.’ She noticed that the roses were stripped of their thorns.
The bell above the door sang and Maude scurried over to greet the customer, wafting talc in her wake. Orla leaned on the counter and recalled
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