Chapter 4
She pulled herself out of bed and, by sheer force of will, stepped into the shower and hoped the roar of the stream of water would drown out her thoughts.
Still, William’s chiselled face popped into her mind unbidden – what was he doing right now?
She found herself trying to envision where he might be – cycling to work, probably, but on what road?
She didn’t even know where he lived. She’d take a sneaky peek at his social media, even though she knew that would only fuel her obsession.
She gazed at her row of pastel blouses in the wardrobe. No need for business casuals now, no more black tailored trousers and court shoes. She decided on loose-fitting jeans and a soft grey jumper, conscious that she was dressing for a very different self.
A message pinged on her phone from Rosemarie:
Thinking of you. Rock on ??
Which didn’t quite catch her current mood – still, it was sweet to be thought of.
Gazing in the mirror, her face looked back like a blank and featureless blob.
Well, there was only one way to fix that: she did her eyebrows, drew on a layer of eyeliner, added two coats of mascara and eyeshadow, and only then did she begin to recognise herself at last. Silver dangly earrings framed her face, and a jangle of bracelets finished her look.
She couldn’t face sitting in that apartment, which was quieter than she could ever remember.
She had to go out – anywhere – so without any plan in mind, she stepped out onto the street.
* * *
The Owl’s Nest had a few wooden tables outside the window, populated by the smokers and a couple of retired men who were clearly old pals, hardy-looking souls in puffa jackets.
Ally exchanged a smile with them and pushed open the door, stepping into the warm, scented hubbub.
Clunky floorboards gave the place an old-school feel, and pendant lamps hung from the ceiling, placing it firmly in the hipster zone, even though the customers ranged from elderly couples to mums with buggies and young people immersed in laptops plugged into the wall.
Breathing in the aroma of baking, Ally realised she was starving, having skipped breakfast. In truth, she hadn’t felt remotely like hanging round the little apartment, so the prospect of a mixed-berry scone and coffee felt heavenly.
When feeling like you’re floating in mid-air with no structure and no purpose, the best thing you could reach for are small pleasures.
Dave, the proprietor, had taken her order, though briskly this time.
Had she done something? Hardly. She was just being hypersensitive.
She chose a table in a corner beside a shelf of books and settled in.
Among the local histories and autobiographies, one title jumped out at her: Love Links – What’s Your Match?
She felt a twinge of shyness but everybody around was minding their own business, so she slipped it out and opened page one.
Your love type:
Intellectual (hum, unlikely)
Emotional (feck, yes)
Experimental (could be, given a chance)
She whipped a little notebook out of her bag and immersed herself in the quiz.
‘Er, excuse me, Dave asked me to drop these over to you.’
Surprised, she glanced up to find herself staring into the grey eyes of Mr T-shirt from Friday. Oh crap. She’d just been caught doing a love quiz. How mortifying. So, without dropping her gaze, she managed to slide her bag across it.
‘Oh, thanks. I didn’t know you worked here. Inside . . . I mean . . . not that I think you only work outside . . .’
‘I’m just giving Dave a dig-out. Two of his staff haven’t turned in this morning.’
‘You’re kidding, what a nightmare. If I just didn’t turn in for work . . . I’d be fired.’
Then she remembered she actually had been fired.
‘They don’t care. I used to have a bunch of guys working for me and there were always a few who couldn’t give a crap about anyone.’
Ally nodded sympathetically, though she felt a wave of unease.
Something similar was probably being said about her today in Celtic Concrete.
On the other hand, she’d done spectacularly little of importance in the company so the chances were she’d been forgotten already.
This place, this moment, was all she had.
‘Ally, that’s my name.’ She smiled, holding out her hand.
‘Pete.’ He smiled back, taking it in a grip that felt gentle despite his powerful arm muscles.
‘Of course, wasn’t that why humans started shaking hands in the first place, to get a feel for each other?’ she blurted, trying to fill the silence.
He nodded a little awkwardly.
‘Maybe we should have done a bit more of it,’ he remarked, apparently to himself. ‘Well, this isn’t my real job. I’m doing some work back in the storeroom, so I’ll let you get on with your . . .’
Thankfully the book was safely hidden. She’d hate to be caught by someone like Mr T-shirt doing something so mortifying.
Still, the book was interesting. She munched and sipped comfortably, working out that she was The Explorer, very spontaneous and up for new things.
She hoped that her soulmate would turn out to be The Director: strong, pioneering, knew his own mind, wasn’t afraid about going for his goals or likely to let anyone get in his way. It sounded sexy. The hero type, really.
But no matter how many times she went over the quiz and gave different versions of her answers – for example, imagining she were pre-menstrual – her ideal match turned out to be The Negotiator: imaginative, able to see the big picture, compassionate and flexible.
For God’s sake, who did she know like that?
Barack Obama? But, sure, these books were only a con printed to make money, she sniffed – no scientific basis whatsoever.
At least one fact was clear: the job she’d just been fired from didn’t suit her personality type at all.
Ally slapped the book shut in disappointment and glanced up to see a sizeable queue stretching back to the door.
Behind the counter, Dave was looking harassed, desperately trying to do the work of three people.
She contemplated his predicament for a moment.
What was she sitting there gawking for? That guy was obviously in a fix.
She jumped up and made her way to the end of the counter.
‘Dave . . . er, sorry . . . d’you need a hand?’
He looked confused but then an expression of relief crossed his face. ‘Hell’s bells, yeah, just get in here. I’ll tell you what to do. You do food, I’ll do barista.’
Ally hadn’t worked in a café since she was a teenager. Still, she could have a go . . .
She grabbed an apron off a hook and pulled it on like armour, already feeling a tiny bit like staff, then turned to face ten or so irate-looking customers.
‘Right, who’s first?’ She beamed.
A burly-looking man, who looked like he had just had a hard morning working on the building site down the road and wasn’t in the humour for hanging about, glared at her.
He ordered a sausage ciabatta with all the trimmings, and he’d been there ten minutes already.
Ally looked down at the bewildering array of prepared ingredients in front of her and suddenly panicked.
What sort of eejit was she, thinking she could just dive into this?
At least she recognised ciabatta – that was a start – then looked round desperately at Dave, who suddenly seemed to morph into a cross between Jamie Oliver and a rapid-fire auctioneer as he launched into a barrage of instructions.
‘First, big wipe of pesto, slice your herb sausage, handful of roasted tomato, handful of caramelised onions, sauce on top, don’t overdo it, into the sandwich maker. Bang. Five minutes. Next customer . . . chop-chop.’
Her next customer was a fussy-looking lady with allergies, who wanted to be reassured that vegan meant nothing in her sandwich had even passed an animal at high speed.
‘Right, gluten-free bread, pesto, scatter of roasted red pepper, dollop of hummus, wallop of mashed avocado, spring onion, scatter of coriander, squeeze of lemon.’ Bang. Go. ‘Next.’
The following couple of hours passed in a blur. As each order was called in, Dave would give her a barrage of instructions. It was kind of like having satnav in the kitchen.
The meals she was passing out might have looked a bit rough and ready, but they were good enough and nobody complained.
After what felt like a long stretch of constant buttering, slapping and layering, she looked up.
The big schoolhouse clock on the opposite wall showed 2.
20 p.m. and the queue had finally dispersed.
She looked at Dave and they both exhaled.
Her wrist was aching, and she was covered in mayonnaise and a selection of sauces; her face was shining from the heat of the grill, but at least nobody had stomped out angrily to leave a one-star review on TripAdvisor.
‘Who’s the new girl?’ called a flamboyant-looking bearded customer sitting at a table in the corner. ‘She’s good, you can keep her,’ he added.
I’m so new I haven’t even got a bloody job, she thought, as between herself and Dave they cleared the tables, which looked more like the scene of a food fight than a lunchtime rush. They’d held the show together, but only just.
He looked at her. ‘I don’t suppose you’re looking for a job?’
This really wasn’t what Ally had planned for her future career path, but hey, she wasn’t exactly being swamped with better options.
‘Funny, as it happens, I’ve recently become available.’
‘Great. Can you start tomorrow at half eight? I don’t need a reference, I’ve seen what you can do. Gotta go. Could you do me a favour and cover the last few minutes? Pete can lock up.’
Dave seemed to move in a blur of activity which included handing her fifty euros in cash on the way out the door; as it closed behind him, he called back with a grin, ‘Oh and you can hang on to the book!’