Chapter 2
Kitty sat on the commuter train, taking her towards her home in Sandycove, just a half-hour away from the city centre and travelled along the coast. She stared out of the window, at the glittering, sparkling sea, the flash of the yacht sails, the seagulls with their huge wingspan, those beady eyes as they swooped on the headwinds. Her mind was full of two things: that day’s failed pitch and her unhappy boyfriend. How would she fix it all? And what was the something missing? It felt as though if she found the answer to that, everything might fall into place.
From Sandycove station, she walked through the village, with its small shops, past the pub where the Friday night drinkers spilled out onto the pavement, the noise of their chat drifting up in the air. It was one of the nicest villages in Ireland, she always thought, a busy, buzzy, beautiful place, with hanging baskets loaded with mauve and white lobelia and pink begonias. She knew most people and waved at Edith Waters who ran the haberdashery in the village and was Shazza’s landlady. And there was Killian Walsh, the owner of the Sandycove Arms hotel holding hands with Flora, just back from their honeymoon. And outside The Island pub, people were laughing and chatting, Aperol Spritzes in hands. There was a group of ladies with wet hair, who’d obviously been for a dip in the Forty Foot.
Dave wasn’t a pub-goer, preferring to watch TV at home – ‘Saves money,’ he’d say – but Kitty looked with a pang of longing, sensing that prickle of anticipation that she remembered feeling before a night out.
When she’d met Dave, he’d worn such a long scarf that it had trailed on the ground, and for some reason, it had made her feel quite protective over him. He’d been funnier in those days, and told her he’d tried out in the university open-mic nights and had even won the ‘Most Surprisingly Funny’ award, which, as he reminded everyone, had been won by Dara ó Briain back in the old days. Buoyed by his success, the world of comedy his oyster, he even planned a show to take to Edinburgh, but as the date to pay his deposit drew closer, his nerve seemed to fade, and the show remained unwritten. Instead, he dedicated himself to his studies and planned on dominating the world of engineering, setting his sights on a big job in the States. But, after graduation, those dreams faded, the scarves grew shorter, along with his ambitions.
Kitty had tried to help over the years, but he batted her away, content to stay in, commenting on the world from the comfort of their sofa. Maybe she would help him find himself again, the two of them together, Kitty by his side.
Her phone vibrated.
Shazza
How was the pitch?
Kitty texted back.
Kitty
We didn’t get it.
Shazza
Really? But I thought it was great??????
Kitty
Something was missing. Apparently.
Shazza
You need a drink.
Kitty
Wish I could. But I said I would go home early.
Shazza
…
Kitty
Sorry.
Shazza
Don’t worry. Have a nice evening. I have to go to a launch at the Sandycove Arms. A new local beer. It’s a hard life!
Kitty
Love you.
Shazza
Love you too! Say hi to Dave xxx
Shazza had yet to meet Mr Exactly Right but had had several collisions with members of the male of the species who were either emotionally unavailable or unhinged or, in one case, addicted to his vape, which he couldn’t remove from his mouth, even during meals or going to the bathroom.
‘It’s just so unhygienic,’ Shazza had complained. And then she’d met a fellow journalist at the Irish Independent and they’d fallen in love. ‘We’re proper together,’ Shazza had explained, ‘as in actually together, accompanying each other to events. Finally, I have a plus-one.’ But it turned out he just wasn’t that into her. She’d told Kitty, tearfully, sloshing wine in her glass, that he’d decided to get married – and it wasn’t to Shazza, it was to Arabella Scott-O’Brien who was in charge of the horse racing section of the paper and who hailed from very rich Kildare horsey family and was always photographed at some godawful race meet with a ridiculous fascinator on her head. Shazza had a penchant for leopard print, had long, unbrushed, highlighted blonde hair, and sometimes reminded Kitty of a stallion, its mane being blown in the wind. She had no time for prettiness or being quiet. She was loud and proud, in every way. Except after things had ended with her plus-one.
‘You can’t even tell which one’s the horse,’ Shazza had wailed, her lack of feminist solidarity excused due to extreme distress. In a fit of desperately needing to get far away from this man, now monikered Mr Unmentionable, Shazza had handed in her notice, refused the extra money she’d been offered to stay and walked out. She was now editor of the Sandycove Newsletter, dealing with community events, council happenings and the latest low-down in the local clubs and societies.
But marriage, thought Kitty, was the only solution to her and Dave’s relationship stasis. It was either that or separate, which sounded so much more chaotic. After seeing Shazza’s life being upturned after her break-up, Kitty really couldn’t face the same.