Chapter 8
Chapter 8
When you’re a McCarthy, Sundays mean it’s time for another Mandatory McCarthy Meal, and this Sunday is no exception. As I’ll be taking over High Tea as of next weekend, this will be my last Sunday family lunch for the foreseeable future, and I’m both excited and sad about it.
Mum has served up her delicious, hearty lamb stew with potato mash—always potatoes, we’re not Irish for nothing, you know—designed to “put hairs on your chest,” as Dad likes to say. Not that putting hairs on my chest is a personal goal, of course.
I’ve devoured it in record time then sit and wait for a break in the conversation to share my High Tea news with Sean, Abigail, Fiona, and Caitlin. Mum keeps winking at me conspiratorially across the table, and I’ve caught Dad shooting me glowing looks since we sat down.
“Subtle” is not a word often used in describing Siobhan and Patrick McCarthy.
I’m not expecting my siblings to be quite as positive about it all.
“But you see, Caitlin, therein lies the rub,” Sean says, using one of his Shakespearean expressions.
“No, Sean, there’s no ‘rub’ here. Those political activists need to stay home and do something useful with their time,” Fiona says.
“You’re missing the point,” Sean replies.
“Err, excuse me, everyone,” I begin. All eyes at the table turn to me. Well, only one of Mum’s eyes, the other one is too busy winking at me, knowing full well what I’m about to announce.
“What is it, a stór ? Do you have something important to tell everyone at the table? Perhaps you have some big news ?” Mum leads with as much delicacy as a habanero chili.
“Yes, thanks, Mum,” I mutter.
Fiona’s eyes light up. “Ooh, is this about the internship, Sophie? Will we be seeing you grace the halls of McCarthy a manager!”
When no one says anything further, Dad adds, “Well, aren’t you going to congratulate your sister?”
“Yes, of course. Well done,” Abigail says at the same time as Fiona, Sean, and Caitlin all murmur their clearly heartfelt congratulations, too.
“If anyone wants to eat a lot of cake, they know where to go. Our Sophie will make sure they’re properly fed and watered,” Dad says with a warm smile.
I return his smile and say, “Thanks, Dad.”
“Just a minute. Clarify something for me if you will, Sophie.” Sean’s knitted his brow together so tightly he’s sporting a bushy mono-brow. It’s not a good look. “You’re going from having a full-time job as a barista in a café to managing their high tea business two days a week? And it’s only temporary? Why?”
“Paige, one of my bosses, has got bad morning sickness,” I reply.
“Hyperemesis Gravidarum,” Caitlin says with a sage nod. “It’s basically Latin for throwing your guts up day in, day out.”
“Delightful,” Sean says. “Thanks for that, Caitlin.”
“Well, whatever it’s called, she’s not been well and needs to take some time out.” A surge of pride hits me as I add, “They said they trust me and don’t want anyone else to manage the place.”
“So, it’s a temporary position until this boss of yours has stopped throwing up so much?” Sean asks.
“She’s said she won’t be back until after the babies are born,” I reply.
Caitlin pulls a face. “Ooh, twins. That’ll be a shock.”
Undeterred, Sean continues, “And when this woman with the Latin morning sickness—”
“Hyperemesis Gravidarum,” Caitlin repeats.
“Yes, that. When she returns to work, you’ll go back to being just a barista in the café again?” Sean asks.
And there it is: just a barista. I do my best to ignore the twist in my belly at his words.
“Oh, come on, Sean. Be fair. She does a very good job of it.” Abigail shoots me what I think is intended to be an encouraging smile, but it only adds to a feeling of inadequacy that has begun to spread across my chest.
“What about the internships we offered you?” he asks. “They don’t pay the way this temporary weekend job of yours does, but at least there’s scope for promotion, a future.”
Each and every one of my siblings lean in, ready to hear my decision.
I curl my toes inside my shoes. “I’m, ah, not going to take either of them. But thank you for offering them to me.”
“Sophie, I am so disappointed in your decision,” Caitlin says.
Sean and Fiona immediately sit back in their seats, muttering things like, “We should have seen that coming,” and, “these Millennials have always got to go for the shiny new thing, and, “Methink’st she doth make a grave mistake.” The last statement was from Sean, clearly.
“Look, I know I’ve disappointed you all, but this has got to be my decision,” When no one says anything, I add, “It’s my life,” just in case any of them had failed to notice this minor, insignificant fact.
“Sophie, remember. We know what we are, but know not what we may be,” Sean says with a wise nod of the head.
I crumple my forehead as I try to work out what the heck he’s talking about.
“Must you always quote The Bard, Sean? It can get old,” Abigail says.
“I think it’s just lovely that you’re all fighting over your sister,” Mum states. “I’ve always said it: there’s nothing like family. And, love?” She looks in my direction.
“Yes, Mum?” She’s about to Go Paddy on me.
“You’ve got to do your own growing, no matter how tall your father is.”
It’s an old Irish saying that says no matter how successful others in my family are, I need to find my own success. I can’t help but smile at Dad. He winks at me, a big grin on his face.
“Yes, Mum.”
Caitlin sits up straighter in her chair and announces, “I’ve got an idea. Something I think we can all agree to. Sophie can give this High Tea thing a shot while her boss is suffering, the poor woman, and when she’s back, we can reassess things.”
I don’t like the sound of “reassess things.” It sounds an awful lot like “tell Sophie to take one of our crummy internships” to me.
“Brilliant idea, Caitlin,” Sean replies eagerly.
“I agree,” Fiona adds. “What do you think, Sophie?”
“Oh, err, I guess,” I reply uncertainly.
“By doing it this way, you can keep your options open. How many weeks is she?” Caitlin asks.
I shrug. “I think she’s fifteen or something?”
“So, assuming she’s not coming back to work straight away after she gives birth, that gives you, say, eight months to make this work.”
Part of me knows Caitlin’s suggestion makes sense. I haven’t talked to Bailey and Paige about what happens once Paige is back. Do I go back to being a barista? If I do, will that then be enough for me?
I pull my lips into a thin line and nod.
Caitlin sits back in her chair and exclaims, “Excellent. It looks like we have a solution.”
Eight months.
Eight months to live my dream of managing High Tea.
Eight months to prove to my bosses that I’m too good to lose.
Once I’m safely back at my apartment later that day, my phone beeps with a new email. It’s from the very-organized and precise Darcy and No More Bad Dates Pact Rules of Engagement is the email heading. This is it, the details of how we plan to help one another vet these potential dates of ours.
I’m the first to take the plunge, and it’s starting to freak me out.
I get myself comfortable on my bed and open the email.
Remember ladies (and Jason), this is war. Approach all potential targets with extreme care. Guys are the enemy, until proven otherwise.
Enemy? Potential targets? I shake my head, my insides tightening. This is sounding less and less like dating to me and more like out and out warfare.
I read on.
Recommended Rules of Engagement:
Acceptable ways to meet targets include (but are not limited to) set-ups, friends of friends, work colleagues (not recommended. I’m thinking of you, Sophie).
I press my lips together as I involuntarily take an unpleasant walk down memory lane. What I’ve learned about work romances is that hot barista from Sweden plus Sophie “I’ll fall for anything you say” McCarthy equals heartbreak. Some may say it was inevitable, considering Sven, the guy in question, was only in Auckland on a temporary visa, but when he told me he wanted to take me home to meet his mum and sample her famous meatballs, I was fool enough to believe him. I know, I know. Gullible, trustworthy, a total idiot. Take your pick.
Steps:
Initial Contact. First official meeting. Initial Contacts are to occur over tea, coffee, or other non-alcoholic beverages only. Must be in public. Coffee houses recommended. Liquor strictly banned. Physical contact discouraged.
Target must agree to the next step, otherwise, eliminate.
Eliminate? Good Lord, Darcy. She’s definitely channeling her inner Hermione with this whole thing. I feel sorry for her boss.
Vetting Process by other team members to determine jerk status. Dater’s choice to be present. If, and only if, no red flags are uncovered, move on to the next step with caution. Remember, this is war.
Yup, Darcy, I think we’ve all got that by now.
Second Official Meeting (can be referred to as “First Date”). Can include meals, drinks, walks, etc. Note: target can turn jerk at any time. Be vigilant!
Ongoing Meetings: Eliminate if jerk-like behavior is detected. If not, you are free to date.
I lower my phone onto the bed covers beside me. After reading the Pact rules, the idea of meeting this guy Paige has set me up with feels about as appealing as planting my face in a bucket of angry bees.
It can’t be that bad. Can it? Sure, I’ve dated some jerks in the past, and sure, my ability to spot them has not exactly been what anyone would call “stellar.” But the No More Bad Dates Pact Rules of Engagement are enough to put anyone off dating ever again!
I let out a sigh as I lean my head back against my padded headboard. I’ve committed to this, so it’s going to work.
It’s just got to.