The phone trilled bright and early the next morning—ridiculously early for a Saturday, in Jess’s opinion—but nevertheless she forced herself to get out of bed and stumbled through to the living room to answer it.
“Hi, honey, it’s Brie—okay if Harry and I pop round shortly? Because there’s something I think you need to see.”
Jess’s brain gave itself a feeble kickstart. Bloody Brianna—what was she doing phoning at such a godforsaken time of the morning? Honestly, just because Harry always ensured she was up at sparrow’s fart didn’t mean everybody else had to be. “What’s so important you’re ringing me at the crack of dawn then?”
“It’s actually after eight but never mind that. I will show you what it’s all about when I get there.”
“I thought you had your Save our Playgroup meeting this morning?”
“I did but I cancelled. See you in an hour.”
She’d hung up before Jess had a chance to quiz her further and wide awake now, she padded through to the kitchen, puzzling over what it was she wanted to show her. Whatever it was, it had sounded like something worthy of an extra strong caffeine fix, especially if Brianna was missing one of her meetings in order to pop over.
***
It was something worthy of a triple shot of vodka but Jess didn’t drink in the morning. “Sweet Mary, Mother of Jesus!” After nigh on ten years living in Ireland, she had at last grasped the lingo. She screeched, staring in horror at the open newspaper Brianna was holding up under her nose. All the while, Harry puff-puff-puffed his Thomas train up and down her kitchen tiles.
“You’re not allowed to say that!” His five-year-old voice was outraged.
“You’re entitled to sweets under the circumstances. Don’t mind Harry; he’s just begun religious instruction at school. Ignore him. I do.” Brianna shot her son a look that would silence the most evangelical of preachers.
Jess’s own face loomed back at her from the Dublin Central newspaper’s weekend colour celebrity supplement.
“It’s not that bad, really,” Brianna lied. “And your dress is gorgeous. It’s a lovely one of Nora, though, don’t you think?” she finished rather lamely.
“I don’t care what bloody Nora looks like and it is that bad. Nobody will give a rat’s arse about my dress either because they’ll be too busy laughing at my teeth—God! How will I ever show my face in public again?”
There were more shocked noises emanating from the kitchen but Harry wisely kept his thoughts on blasphemy and swearing to himself this time round.
“Ah, nobody will notice except your nearest and dearest like me and Nora. The general public will be far too busy wondering who it is Ewan Reid’s dating now to wonder who your woman with the bad teeth is. I mean, look at the heading—‘Ewan’s Reid’s Mystery Blonde.’ There’s no mention of you or your man—Nick, was it? He looks tasty, by the way.”
“He was and there weren’t a pair of handcuffs lurking in his back seat nor did he have a nervous disposition due to some trauma or other—not that he’ll ever want to see me again, not after this.” Jess stabbed at the photo depicting the foursome leaving Juan’s the night before. The photographer had caught her with her gob hanging open gormlessly as she laughed in what she had thought was a coquettish way at Nick’s little joke. Nora and Ewan, looking glamorously furtive, were bringing up the rear. Ordinarily, she’d have been quite chuffed to have made the celebrity pages but not with the dodgy set of gnashers she was flashing in the photo.
From over her shoulder, a little voice chirruped, “Aunty Jess, you are supposed to brush your teeth in the morning and before you go to bed. Mummy sings the ‘Happy Birthday’ song and I am not allowed to stop until she’s finished.”
This time it was Jess who shot him a look. Enough was enough and grabbing her phone, she punched out Nora’s number. “Oi, have you seen it? I am holding you responsible, you know.”
“Morning, hun,” she sang cheerily down the line. “I take it you’re talking about the Dublin Central pic?”
“Why didn’t you tell me my teeth were black from all the red wine?”
“You were rather knocking it back, now that I think about it. Mind you, can’t say I blame you. It was a nice little drop, I thought—quite cheeky…”
“Shut up, Nora!”
“Alright, alright. If you must know, I was too busy staring at Ewan to notice your teeth—so sue me. I’m seeing him again tonight, by the way.”
“Humph. It’s alright for some.”
“Listen, I’m sorry, Jess, I am—but hey, nobody will notice and if they do, they will have forgotten all about it by tomorrow, especially if you don’t smile at them and jog their memory.” There was a little snort down the phone before she added, “Anyway, nobody reads the Dublin Central.”
“I heard that snort! You better not be laughing at me, Nora Brennan, and for your information, forty percent of Dubliners read that newspaper. I’m officially mortified!” It was the Express’s rival paper and she wouldn’t have put it past the paper’s weasel-like editor, Jimmy Mulroney, to have put the photo in just to spite her. He was known to hold a grudge and she had turned him down flat when he’d tried to poach her from the Express. As far as she was concerned, she’d definitely made the right decision and he had just cemented his reputation as a mean git who suffered from short man’s disease.
“It’s not fair,” she whined. “I really liked Nick but I’ve no chance of hearing from him, not now! Bloody hell, choking on my wine was bad enough but this… this is…”
“Enough to send a gal off for her annual check-up at the dentist’s?”
“Shut up Nora!”
“Look, if that’s what you’re really worried about, rest assured—I saw the kiss Nick planted on you last night. You’ll hear from him again. Trust me.”
***
He rang on Sunday night.
“Hey, Jessica, it’s Nick Jameson. How are you?”
Her stomach did this funny sort of a flip-flop somersault at the sound of his voice and she sat up straighter on the settee, turning the television down.
“Hi, I’m good, thanks, Nick. How are you?” She hoped her voice didn’t betray how wobbly her tummy felt.
As the conversation moved swiftly on to the weather, she steadied her nerves. It was a subject they didn’t mull over for long. They did live in Ireland and it was mid-September after all. There was only so much you could say about rain.
Jess was unwilling to mention the photo in the paper just yet, happy to let Nick make small talk about a hailstorm he’d gotten caught in earlier that day.
She’d only left the apartment once over the weekend and that was out of desperation. She’d needed to get a carton of milk and a loaf of bread, so she’d donned a hoodie and dark glasses. Nevertheless, she’d expected to be on the receiving end of cat calls along the lines of, “Hey, Jessica, when are you auditioning for the Pogues!” as she’d scurried down to her local Spar shop. As it was, nobody had looked twice at her, so perhaps she had overreacted after all. Chewing on her nail, she decided it was no good; she’d just have to bite the bullet and put herself out of her misery. It was that or she’d start talking about squally showers and drizzle. She cut him off just as he was saying something about the hailstones being the size of golf balls. “So, um, Nick, did you happen to see the Dublin Central yesterday morning?”
“Nope, I’m an Express man myself. There’s a column in there I never miss on a Saturday.”
A smile spread involuntarily across Jess’s face and she was glad they weren’t on Skype because she knew she’d look like a dippy fool.
“Besides, I don’t like all that gossip fodder in the middle of the Central: most of it’s a load of shite. Some of the crap that gets written about Ewan is unbelievable and who cares where so-and-so has their lunch or where the latest place to be seen is. Why do you ask?”
Jess allowed herself to exhale. Thank goodness he hadn’t seen it! Somebody upstairs was looking out for her after all. She’d have to apologise to Harry next time she saw him and from now on, she promised, looking heavenward, she would never blasphemy ever again. “Oh, um, just a bit of a survey my boss asked me to conduct—you know, to see who reads what.” It sounded pretty lame and she cringed but thankfully Nick didn’t seem to pick up on it as he got to the point of his call.
“Oh, right, well, I’m heading over to London on a late flight tonight for business back on Thursday and I was wondering whether you’d be free that evening? I’ve been invited to the opening night of Esquires. It’s a new cocktail bar on Dame Street.”
Jess decided not to reflect on the irony of his inviting her to a cocktail bar opening after his “who cares where the latest place to be seen is?” spiel. Nope, it didn’t matter if she had an interview with the Queen of England next Thursday evening. She’d cancel, because for Nick super hottie Jameson, she’d be free. Hoping she didn’t sound too eager, she told him that yes she would love to catch up next Thursday and so he arranged to pick her up at nine before ringing off.
Jess sat on that couch for an age, hugging herself, and every time she recalled that ever so soft kiss good night, her tummy did that funny forward roll thing. It had been ages since a man had given her butterflies like the ones she had flittering around at the thought of their next date. What did one wear to cocktail bar opening nights? she mused. Should she dig out her 1970s black wool Anne Klein dress? It was classy and elegant but not what you’d call sexy. Nora would know the look she should go for, she decided, picking up the phone to ring her with her news. It clicked straight on to her answerphone, which Nora’s mobile only ever did when she didn’t want to be disturbed. Hmm, she thought, eyes narrowing; perhaps she was up to no good with Ewan. Nora was a firm believer in trying before buying so it wouldn’t surprise her. She’d make sure she got the lowdown tomorrow. She’d try Brianna instead. The same thing happened—God, was everybody at it? Her new-found piety was short-lived as a naughty smile played at the corners of her mouth. Who knew? If she played her cards right, she might be in the club soon too—no, not literally of course. God no!
Flicking the television off and opening her laptop, she decided she couldn’t sit here dreaming about Nick all night and she certainly didn’t want to dwell on the fact her two best friends were more than likely having sex. There was nothing else for it—she’d have to do some work.
Leaning away from the screen, with her fingers forming a steeple she was holding to her lips, Jess pondered the best way to handle her humiliation at the hands of the Dublin Central. The more she thought about it, the more it became clear that she should make light of it—turn it into a bit of a joke. Show that it didn’t bother her. It was with that thought in mind that her hands began flying over the keys as she tapped out an article bound to make the most pokerfaced of Express readers crack a smile—at her expense, of course. She had just begun writing about how close she had come to having the “hymen” manoeuvre performed on her by a Manuel from Fawlty Towers lookalike (naming no names, of course) when the phone jangled into life, disturbing her flow. Jess felt a surge of irritation; it was ten o’clock and there was only one person who rang at this time on a Sunday night. Stretching over, she answered it with a lemon-lipped hello.
“Well, if there was ever a tone to frighten potential suitors away, it’s that one, my girl.”
“Hey Mum.” She sighed, having guessed right. “I was just about to do some work.”
“Yes, well, work can wait. It’s Sunday night over there, isn’t it? Frank, you did work out the time difference properly, didn’t you?” Marian called out.
Jess held the receiver away from her ear, a mental image of her father seated in his favourite Lazy Boy chair forming. “Yeah, it is but…”
“Well, you shouldn’t be working on a Sunday night, for goodness’ sake, so put whatever it is you were doing down. It can wait until Monday, surely? We can have a nice little chat instead. So how are you, sweetheart?”
Jess frowned, hating the way she stressed the “how,” inferring she couldn’t possibly be happy. Her complete lack of interest in Jess’s work stung too. She would have loved to have told her Mum about the black teeth debacle or her plans for finding Amy but there was no point. She closed her laptop with resignation, knowing full well there would be no fobbing Marian Baré off when she was in this mood. Still, she thought, on the bright side, at least this time she had some news that would definitely please her. “Actually, Mum, since you ask. I’m good. Really good, in fact…I’ve met someone.”
There was a split second’s silence broken by a scream and followed by, “Hallelujah! Frank, turn the telly off! She’s met someone!”
Jess could picture her dad hitting the mute button, a tiny act of rebellion, on the telly as he flicked his favourite armchair upright. It might have been a Sunday morning at home but there would still be some form of sport on the box and it would take a major world disaster for him to forfeit his fix. It had been the happiest day of his life when he had gotten the Sky Sports channel.
“Oh, that is fabulous, Jessica, just fabulous. But first things first—any issues? Is he normal?”
“Mum!”
“I have to ask, darling. You can’t blame me worrying, not with your track record.”
She couldn’t really argue with that one. “He is tall, blonde, and handsome.”
“So was Ted Bundy.”
“He had dark hair and he’s not a serial killer, Mum; he’s a successful property developer and he drives a convertible.” She added this last bit to prove her point. It worked.
“Frank, he drives a convertible!”
She heard something muffled in the background.
“Your father wants to know what kind of convertible.”
It had sounded more like her father had said something along the lines of bully for him to Jess, which seemed a far more likely response from the laidback Frank.
“How should I know? But you can tell Dad that it was shiny and grey, oh and it went quite fast.”
“It was shiny and grey, Frank, and it went fast.” She paused for a moment. “I hope he wasn’t speeding. So come on, then, what’s his name?”
“Nick Jameson.”
“Jessica Jameson. It has a nice ring to it. Jessica Jameson—Frank, what do you think? Your dad’s nodding, sweetheart; he likes it too.”
God, with Darby and Joan for parents, was it any wonder she was still single?
“How old is he?”
“Er, I’m not sure. He is an old school friend of Ewan Reid’s, so I guess he must be around thirty-eight.”
“Ewan Reid? As in Ewan Reid the actor?”
“Yes, Nora’s just started dating him.”
There was another eruption as Marian shrieked this trivia across the living room to Frank, who gave an unimpressed sounding grunt, and then her voice grew suspicious. “Hmm, thirty-eight, you say, and he keeps the company of celebrities? Has he been married before?”
“I’m not sure.”
“She’s not sure, Frank—didn’t you ask him?”
“It didn’t really come up, Mum.”
“Well, it should have. Have I taught you nothing over the years? Be sure to ask him next time you see him. If there are children from a past relationship involved, you won’t have an easy time of it, my girl, so think on.” She drew breath, not ready to give up on her potential son-in-law just yet. “What exactly does he do?”
“I already told you he’s a property developer.”
“Yes, I got that but what property is it that he develops? I hope he’s not one of these rogues we’re always reading about here that turf old people out of their homes to make a quick buck.”
Jess shook her head. “Of course he’s not.”
“So what does he develop then?”
“Um, I don’t know…expensive property?”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake, Jessica, what on earth did you talk to him about all night? Where does he live? Tell me that at least.”
Jess cringed. “Ah, not sure,” she squeaked, realising she didn’t know much about Nick Jameson after all.
“Well, when are you seeing him again? Think very carefully before saying I don’t know, my girl.”
“Thursday night, actually. He’s taking me to the opening of a new cocktail bar.”
“Oh, thank goodness for that. Thursday night, Frank—she’s going to a cocktail bar with him.”
Her suspicious tone returned. “He doesn’t have a drink problem, does he?”
“Mum!”
Marian ignored her. “What are you going to wear? Please tell me you won’t be donning one of your weird and wonderful thrift shop creations.”
“I don’t know yet and for your information, some of my weird and wonderful creations are actually designer vintage collectables.”
“If you say so, dear, but in my opinion that’s just gobbledegook for old. Take it from your mother, the voice of experience: you can’t go wrong with a little black dress.”
“Well, I do have an Anne Klein black wool dress I was thinking of wearing.”
“I’m not sure about wool sending the right message and for goodness’ sake, don’t you go wearing any of those awful big knickers that come in packs of six I found in your drawer that time. Decent knickers with lots of lace, my girl, if you want to land yourself a decent man. I could get some couriered over express if you don’t have any.”
“Mum!”
“Marian!” She heard her father protest in the background.
It was no good, though; she was not suitably chastised. “I’m not naïve, Jessica Jane. I know what you girls get up to these days but whatever you do, don’t let him hit a home run. Are you listening to me? First base maybe but a home run so early on in the piece is a no-no.”
She had made the excuse she was desperate for the loo after that and had gotten off the phone quick smart, determined not to listen to any more of her mother’s sex education class.
***
Peering into the darkness to where the red digits of her alarm clock glowed, Jess saw that it was gone three a.m. and she was still wide awake. Talking to her Mum always gave her a good dose of insomnia and left her feeling wound tighter than a pair of knickers two sizes too small. She gave a long, drawn-out sigh because she knew she was wasting her time tossing and turning in bed when she could be doing some work. She’d managed to finish the piece she’d been working on earlier and despite the interruption halfway through thanks to her mother, she was pleased with the way it had turned out. It would definitely get her into Niall’s good books, she thought, stretching with satisfaction.
Whenever she wrote something, though, she liked to leave it at least twenty-four hours before going back over it. It was amazing the mistakes that jumped out glaringly when she cast a fresh eye over her work. So there was no point working on her brief brush with celebrity life anymore tonight. She could get ahead of her game, though, she thought, tossing the duvet aside and sitting up, by making a start on tracking little Amy Aherne down.
Dragging the duvet into the lounge behind her, she dumped it on the couch and switched her laptop on before padding into the kitchen to make a cuppa.
The problem was, she mused, setting the steaming mug of tea down on the coffee table next to her computer, Little Amy—as she had begun thinking of her—wouldn’t be so little now. In fact, she’d be a middle-aged woman of forty-six and had probably been married for years. Plonking down on the couch, she flexed her fingers and then let them hover over the keys as she pondered what she should begin to search under. Unless she had decided to become a nun, keep her own surname or hyphenated it, it would be a waste of time searching under Amy Aherne. Still, she had to start somewhere.
As she’d expected, she got no hits—just a whole lot of stuff to do with the Troubles, as the sectarian fighting spanning the late 60s to the mid-1990s in Northern Ireland was referred to. She didn’t want a gloomy history lesson, so maybe she would be better off doing a Google search for the brother Owen and seeing where that got her. A moment later, something about W.B. Yeats cropped up, as did a genealogy website with Ahern listed minus the e on the end and oh dear, she thought, as her eyes scanned the list and settled on a death notice. She double clicked and closer inspection revealed that this poor soul had lived in Tipperary—opposite ends of the country. Just like the song, Ballymcguinness was a long way from Tipperary, so the odds of this being her Owen Aherne were slim.
Picking up the mug, she blew on it and thought for a moment before taking a sip. She’d try good ole Facebook and see what that threw back at her. Settling back to wait for the onslaught she’d have to trawl through, she could hardly believe her eyes when the search told her there were no Owen or Amy Aherne registered. Unbelievable in this day and age of social networking!
Right, well, Ballymcguinness sounded like a mere dot of a place; surely this search would yield the result she was after. A website welcoming her to Ballymcguinness filled her screen with a grainy black-and-white photo of a small town. It kind of looked like the start of Coronation Street with all the roofs of the houses—not very inspirational and not very helpful either. She didn’t want to know how many grocery stores or hairdressers the town had. She wanted to know where she could find Amy blinkin Aherne, she thought in frustration.
Flopping back onto the couch, Jess closed her eyes for a second and racked her brains. Sometimes having all this technology at your fingertips was a waste of time. Then, it came to her. Duh-uh! Still, it was the middle of the night; she was entitled to be a little bit thick. This time, she searched the white pages and lo and behold after narrowing her search down, up popped two listings for Aherne. The first was for an M J Aherne, who was registered at a retirement home in the village of Dundrum and the second was for an O M Aherne, Glenariff Farm, Pyke Road, followed by a phone number. She had her man and unbelievably he still lived at his childhood address.
Jess’s eyes strayed over to the telephone but then she shook her head. She might be up and about but she was fairly sure Mr Aherne would not appreciate being on the receiving end of her dulcet tones at this hour of the morning nor would his wife appreciate a strange woman telephoning her husband in the middle of the night. Besides, she was beginning to feel sleepy, she thought, yawning as she saved her search. Switching the laptop off, she took herself and her duvet back to bed.
***
When she woke it was gone nine a.m. and her head felt heavy after her disturbed night’s sleep. She’d gone off quickly enough when she had got back into bed but had still slept lightly as she dreamt about an imaginary Owen Aherne serenading her with “It’s a Long Way from Tipperary” while her mother clapped along in the background. Still, she thought, pouring her morning coffee, it was nothing a paracetamol wouldn’t fix. As she poured out her cornflakes, her mobile broke into song, causing her to cringe mid-pour. “Barracuda” by Heart was belting out from where her phone lay atop the microwave. Bloody Nora had programmed the song as her ringtone in punishment for their having lost a pub quiz due to her lack of knowledge about all-women hard rock groups throughout the ages.
Granted, Nora had had a few drinks under her belt and they’d all thought it was a great joke at the time but now she had no idea how to change it back. It wasn’t a good look when one was enjoying a civilised latte or riding on public transport. Picking it up, she squinted at the inbox.
C tht u rng lst nite was out Ewan hot wot u wnt?
Speak of the devil! It was Nora; her texting shorthand was always so bloody cryptic and she never included any social niceties like a x or luv Nora, Jess grouched, deciphering the curt message out loud: See that you rang last night—was out—Ewan hot—what you want?
Nick phd me we have a date this thurs nite -did you have sex last nite?
A reply that didn’t require a code breaker this time bounced back almost immediately.
Told u so!MYOB PS:kncking off erly to jmp ot plne.
Jess stared at the glowing screen; if she didn’t know better, she’d have read that last bit as knocking off early to jump out of a plane. No, that couldn’t be right; it was more likely she was planning on knocking off early to jump Ewan’s bones again. She’d phone Nora for the lowdown this evening. She knew from experience it was useless trying to hold a conversation with her when she was at work. With that decided, she raised her spoon to tuck into her cornflakes.
“OOOOH Barracuda” pounded out again. It made her drop her spoon. “Piss off, Nora!” she said out loud, aware that talking to herself was a side effect of living alone, but this time the message was from Brianna.
Morning Jess sorry missed your call was having sex - what did you want sweety?
Jess had to smile. Nora and Brie might have hailed from different planets but she loved them both the same, though at this moment in time she probably loved Brianna a teensy bit more. She was nicer, after all.
After a series of frantic texts bounced back and forth about her upcoming date with Nick and thankfully not about Brianna’s Sunday night delight, she finally managed to finish her breakfast. Dumping the bowl in the sink, Jess glanced at the phone. She might try to contact Amy’s brother before jumping in the shower.
As she punched in the code for Northern Ireland followed by his phone number, she decided it was probably a pointless exercise. It was ten o’clock on a Monday morning, after all. This Owen chap would probably be hard at work, toiling in the fields or whatever it was that farmers did on a Monday morning. As it connected and began to ring, though, she decided to hang on—she could always leave a message on his answerphone as to what she was calling about.
To her surprise, the phone was picked up on the fourth ring. It wasn’t a good line but she did manage to detect a gruff male voice as it was answered.
“Hello?”
“Oh, hello, is that Mr Aherne?” she inquired, putting on her best journalistic tone.
“Aye.” He sounded wary.
“Er, right, well.” So much for consummate professional, she thought. “My name’s Jessica Baré and I write a weekly column for the Dublin Express.”
“Aye.” He sounded even more suspicious.
“Well, what I am ringing about, Mr Aherne, is your sister, Amy?”
There was a static-filled silence.
“Are you still there, Mr Aherne?”
“What are you wanting, dragging all that up again?” His voice, despite the gruffness, had the sing-song quality of the North to it.
What was he on about? she wondered. Maybe he and Amy weren’t on good terms or perhaps she’d done something illegal? Her nose twitched the way it always did when she sensed she was onto something and whatever it was that had happened, she was sensing there was definitely a story to be told here.
“It’s just that I’ve got her book, you see. It’s a children’s storybook that you gave her for Christmas back in 1973. She wrote her name inside the cover; that’s how I know it was hers.” She rushed on and he didn’t interrupt her—he probably thought she was mad, so in for a penny, in for a pound, she ploughed on. “It’s a bit of a long story but I collect old Ladybird books—Series 606D to be exact. The stories are all the classic children’s fairy tales but it’s the illustrations I love and well…” She paused momentarily, wondering whether he would interrupt and tell her she was mad but he remained silent. “Nearly all of the books in my collection are pre-loved, with other children’s names scribbled inside them. It devalues the book for most collectors but I like it—you know, the thought that another child has loved that book.” There was still no response. Jess twirled her hair round her index finger with her free hand. She couldn’t blame him—not really, because her brilliant idea was beginning to sound pottier by the minute. She inhaled deeply before telling herself to just cut to the chase before he hung up, writing her off as a crackpot caller. “Anyway, Mr Aherne, to get to the point, as I mentioned before, I recently acquired Amy’s old copy of Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs from an eBid auction and that’s when the idea came to me. Where is she now—the child who used to own that book? And that’s it—really, that’s what I’d like to write about.”
If she expected him to begin filling her in with enthusiasm as to what it was his sister had been doing for the last thirty-odd years, she was out of luck. “The thing is, Mr Aherne…” she said, filling in the crackling static that was, if she were to be honest, getting a tad creepy, “I’d love to get in touch with Amy to see whether she’d be open to my idea.” Christ, she thought, he really wasn’t making this easy. “Erm, so that’s why I have rung you, to ask whether you could give me your sister’s contact details? I couldn’t find a listing anywhere for her, and I tracked you down easily enough because Amy had scribbled the name of your farm inside the cover of her book too.”
At last he broke his silence, clearing his throat before answering her. “Ah, well now, it’s the sorta ting she might have been open to for sure but you could find it a bit hard getting in touch with her seeing as our Amy’s been dead for the past twenty-nine years.”