Engagement
Engagement
IN MAY, FRANCES FELL IN THE HALL AND LAY WITH a broken hip all night till the postman heard her calling in the morning. She spent a week in hospital and another in a nursing home, and when she was deemed strong enough to be sent home Ellen took a few days off work and made her way straight to Galway, cooking meals and pulling weeds from the flowerbeds while Frances issued instructions from her garden seat.
Towards the end of July, a letter arrived for Ellen from Joan. She felt a prickle of alarm: Joan only ever slipped a letter in with their mother’s. Something must be wrong for her to send her own.
Dear Ellen
I hope all is well. I’m writing with good news. Seamus and I are engaged, and we’re getting married on the fourteenth of September .
What?
The fourteenth of September, not even two months away. Of course she was always going to marry Seamus, but she’d said nothing about planning a wedding in any of her letters.
I hope you can come. We’re not bothering with printed invitations, so this is it . We’re getting married in St Finian’s, with a reception after at home. We’re only inviting twenty-four, so we’ll get caterers to do a buffet. Fingers crossed for a fine day, so we can use the garden too.
Just twenty-four guests, and a reception at home? Joan had always talked about having a big wedding, with the reception in Shannon’s Hotel.
We’re going to invite Frances as well. Please let me know if you’ll be able to come, and feel free to bring a guest if you want .
love Joan
Ellen read it twice. It was a lot to take in. ‘Joan’s getting married,’ she told Claire.
‘That’ll be a big splash.’
‘Actually, it won’t. They’re only inviting twenty-four and having the reception at home.’
Claire’s eyes narrowed. ‘When?’
‘September.’
‘This September?’
‘Yes.’
‘Pregnant,’ Claire said immediately. ‘Congrats – you’ll be an auntie by Christmas.’
‘I’ll ring her’ – and when she did, Joan confirmed it.
‘I was on the pill,’ she said. ‘I’m just one of the unlucky few.’
‘Since when were you on the pill? Don’t you have to be married in Ireland to get it?’
‘I’ve been on it for four years. Doctor O’Brien prescribes it if you say you have bad periods.’
Doctor O’Brien, who’d been their GP since the family had moved into the town. Doctor Imelda O’Brien, who must be near retirement, doing her bit for the sex lives of young single Irishwomen. ‘When are you due?’
‘January.’
Not quite an auntie by Christmas then. ‘And how are you feeling – physically, I mean?’
‘Rotten. I’m sick every morning. Just hoping it’ll have stopped by the wedding.’
‘Hopefully. And otherwise, how do you feel about it?’
‘Well, we’d rather have waited a while, but we’re going to do the right thing.’
Ellen thought of Claire’s abortion. ‘How did Mam take it when you told her?’
‘She’s OK now. We had to talk her around a bit, but she likes Seamus, and she’s happy we’re getting married.’
‘Is she still seeing . . . that man?’ She’d forgotten his name. There had been no further mention of him, no sighting of him on her trips home since Joan had told her about him over two years ago.
‘Kevin? Yes, he’s coming to the wedding. I hope you can make it.’
‘Of course I’ll make it. I wouldn’t miss it.’
‘Is there anyone you want to bring?’
Any boyfriend, she meant. Ellen would far rather ask Claire than try and find a man to keep everyone happy, but her mother wouldn’t be impressed.
‘Nobody,’ she said. Nobody who interested her enough to issue that kind of invitation. Certainly not Geoff, whose offbeat personality had started to grate just a bit over the last few weeks. He was a solid work partner, that hadn’t changed, but he really wasn’t as funny or as cool as he thought he was – or maybe she was just a little tired of his quirkiness.
She wondered if it was time to look for another ad agency. She’d been at Marketing Solutions for two and a half years, and while it had given her a great start, she thought she might be outgrowing it. Was there something better that she should be aiming for? She felt more confident now, and she had a body of real work behind her.
She thought of Claire, who’d taken over the sandwich-bar rental at the start of the year as she’d planned, and who was busy and loving it – and making good money for the first time, enough to finally hand in her notice at the pub. Claire was steering an upward course: maybe it was time for Ellen to do the same.
At lunchtime she rang Laura from a phone box on the street. ‘I think I’m ready for a change of job,’ she said. ‘Anyone looking for a copywriter?’
‘I’ll make enquiries,’ Laura promised. ‘Do up a new CV, put everything down that you can think of, and let me have copies of all you’ve done at Marketing Solutions. Tim will give you a nice reference?’
‘Definitely.’
‘Leave it with me. Check in like before, every few days, and hopefully it won’t take long.’
It took until the first week in September.
‘They’re called Creative Ways,’ Laura said. ‘They’re an American operation – Chicago, Los Angeles and New York – and they want to move into London. They’re planning to open at the start of November, and they’re recruiting now. They’ve located premises in Battersea.’
Battersea. She knew where it was from her weekend wanderings. South of the river, relatively close to Notting Hill.
‘I faxed them your CV as soon as they got in touch,’ Laura said. ‘They want you to come for an interview on Friday afternoon, four o’clock.’
‘Perfect.’ She could take a day off. She felt a rising excitement that she tried to quell. She shouldn’t get her hopes up – it was an interview, not a job offer. It might come to nothing.
But for now, it was something.