Chapter 10
10
I’d have to forget about taking this job. Unless…“Will I have any dealings with Joey?”
“Any?” Brigit asked. “You’ll have all the dealings with Joey. For the next however-long, I can only think about Queenie. Wait now. What am I missing? Is Joey a problem?”
I hesitated. Why did it have to be Joey?
“Oh, right .” Rachel had just remembered.
“Oh, right ,” Luke echoed. “But that was years ago.”
Brigit looked baffled. “What’s thi—”
“Does Joey know about you hiring me?” I interrupted. “Because he might not be keen.”
A hundred questions battled it out on her face; then she reached for her phone. “I’ll text him.”
“It’ll be all good.” Luke’s voice was balm. “Everyone’s more grown-up now.”
After some moments of silence, I said, “So? How is he?”
“Divorced.” Luke was terse.
Yes. I’d heard. It had been a surprise: Joey and Elisabeth had looked built to last. She was—of course—beautiful, in a slender, refined way. The one time I’d met her, she’d been friendly, almost funny.
Loaded, too. Well, her dad was. She represented everything Joey thought he’d always wanted and, in a bittersweet way, I’d felt happy for him.
They’d been based in some massive house in Dublin: Joey, Elisabeth and their three children. At least before things had veered off track.
Delicately, I asked Luke, “What went wrong? The…usual?”
Meaning Joey’s world-famous wandering lad.
“No.” Again there was something in Luke’s tone. A defensiveness. “She…Look, it’s not my story to tell.”
I murmured, “Of course.”
How infuriating . I’d hoped he’d spill the beans because the most Rachel ever gave me was “Joey’s trying his best.”
“But it’s amicable,” Luke said.
That made a change.
“Let’s stay on track here.” Luke was quick to shut this down.
Back to business. “Brigit, even if Joey gives me the go-ahead, you’re sure you don’t want someone from a big Dublin PR firm?”
“That would make things worse. If you can tell the townspeople you’re my friend…? That would be best. And you don’t have to fix a single thing, Anna. Just get a list of every grievance M’town has.”
“Is there any individual who might be the figurehead for this resentment?”
“I haven’t a clue.” The tears began again. “I thought everyone was happy about it. Tipper Mahon is the construction foreman but there’s no way he’d damage his own gear.”
“What about Vivian?” Rachel asked.
“Vivian Hogan-Bancroft,” Brigit said. “?‘Queen’ of M’town, self-elected, like. She’s commander-in-chief of the festivals.”
“Festivals?”
“The literary week every July,” Brigit said. “I know nearly every town in Ireland has one but the Maum festival is a big deal. There’s the traditional music hooley and the painting school in August, then every Whit weekend, there’s—”
“—the Loaves and Fishes Feast!” Claire had gone one year. It coincided with me being on a visit home and coverage appearing on the six o’clock news. Mum and I had watched footage of barefoot thespians in straw hats and rolled-up linen trousers, upright and wobbling in wooden boats, scanning for fish, yelling directions to the locals, who were crouched beneath them, heaving oars back and forth.
On her return, Claire’s appraisal was damning. Apparently when the sun set, the “catch” (heavily supplemented from the display fridge in Aldi, she claimed) was barbecued on the beach, eaten with bread from the artisanal bakery in Clifden. Tall torches formed a circle, within which a poet stood on a tractor tyre and read “fifteen thousand” of his poems, then a drunk man insulted another drunk man’s novella. “Full of knobs cosplaying James Joyce” was her conclusion.
“Vivian’s a massive dose,” Brigit said, “but she’s delighted with our plans, already angling for freebies for the festivals. And she’s away—she ‘winters’ in Barbados—”
“ Such a dose,” Rachel said.
“Is there anyone I should talk to?” I asked. “Who might know who was upset about what?”
“The woman in the Aran sweater shop.” Rachel was certain.
“Ferne O’dowd?” Brigit said. “Great call. She’s on the committee of town traders, she knows everyone. You’ll find her in the sweater shop on Main Street.”
“Narrow it down,” Luke said. “There are a lot .”
“The one beside the post office. I mean between the post office and the Spar. Not the one between the post office and Eileen’s Electricals.” She looked at her phone. “What’s keeping Joey? Usually he replies before you’ve even sent yours…”
Feck. This was going to fall apart before it ever started, wasn’t it?
“Other good people to meet?” Brigit said thoughtfully. “Young Ziryan in the hardware store. Knows everyone and never stops talking. So, Anna, what’s your plan?”
“I…ah.” I flicked another look at Brigit’s silent phone. What was my plan? Was there even any point if Joey was going to sack me? “I’ll talk to people, like you said. Try to gauge the mood. Perhaps hold a public meeting where everyone gets their say.” I was freewheeling wildly here. “Set up an email address where they can vent their spleen anonymously?”
“Sounds good. And you won’t be too Manhattan-y? No stalking about in pointy Louboutins and pencil skirts? It’s important you don’t look corporate.”
This was a relief. During lockdown I’d lost the ability to stand upright in any narrow heel, no matter how low. At five foot three, I was still fond of a heel, but now they had to be chunky. As for the pencil skirts, working from home had been their death knell. These days I was all about comfort.
“You can stay in the hotel in town,” Brigit said. “Or in the Airbnb in ours, which is out of town. Your choice.”
“Will there be Wi-Fi?” Because I’d heard terrible things.
“Of course!” Brigit said. “Often.”
Oh. Kay.
“All your expenses will be covered. Now, let’s talk your fee.”
At least it was understood that this wasn’t a freebie. But I hated talking money with friends. Or friends of my sisters. Or anyone, really. Yet another thing that the passage of time had let me down on.
It was infuriating: popular culture assured me that the older I got, the more unafraid I’d become. There were countless interviews with forty-something women boasting that the concerns of their twenties now seemed ridiculous. These fear-free creatures gave the impression that soon I’d be super-comfortable speaking any unpalatable truth (“drawling” it, probably); that I’d stop caring about fashion and start cultivating an odd look—perhaps wearing a poncho or a fedora. And instead of generating mocking laughter, I’d be considered a “character.”
But none of those things happened and I still felt as if asking to be paid for the sweat of my brow was rude.
“Okay, how about a daily rate?” Brigit offered a sum of money that sounded generous.
“Too much! You have to get mates’ rates. Any idea how long you’ll want me for?”
“I don’t know,” Brigit said. “Look, go for a week. Stay till next Saturday.”
“Grand.” I was trying to hide my nerves. But a job was a job and surely I couldn’t make things worse? “I won’t waste your money. If I can’t do any good, I’ll tell you immediately.”
“Don’t tell me anything.” She sounded exhausted. “Take it to Joseph. Yes, these days he likes to be called Joseph.”
“He’s been called worse in his time.”
Brigit half smiled. “A lot worse. God, he was unbelievable.”
Back in the day, his dick had made its way through almost every woman we knew—Brigit among them. Also my sister Helen, my ex-colleague Teenie, and he was the father of my ex-best-friend Jacqui’s daughter, Trea.
Brigit focused on me. “Anna, I thought you hadn’t but am I wrong? Have you had the pleasure?”
“…Ah. No. No. ”
“But he had a go,” Luke reminded me.
Oh, that . “Just out of politeness, really.” I recovered fast. “Doing the mannerly thing. So what’s Joey’s role in Maumtully? He’s not…customer-facing, is he?”
Even Brigit managed a smile. In his younger days, Joey entered a room with a moment in the doorway so we could admire his sinewy height in low-slung black jeans, his fair hair slicing around an angular face, occasional slivers of green glinting from his sea-glass eyes. Using some fancy foot rotation to slam the door behind him, he’d grab an upright chair, twirl it so it faced backwards and slide onto it without injuring his nethers. Then he’d sit, watching the group in narrowed-eyed silence, a muscle jumping in his jaw.
In the days when people still smoked, he’d produce a pack of cigarettes from where it hugged his bicep in the rolled-up sleeve of his T-shirt, then hit the box in some magic fashion, making a cigarette jump right into his mouth. A long match would appear from thin air, which he’d light with an angry rasp against a brick wall or the sole of his boot.
He was skilled at silence. A great man for brooding. He also majored on long, brazen stares if there was a woman he liked the look of.
We were all used to his rudeness. Only when someone met him for the first time did their visible shock remind us how obnoxious he was.
“Joey’s barely been to M’town,” Brigit said. “Until Queenie—” She stopped. She had to take a moment before she continued. “Until Queenie got sick, Colm and I answered questions, gave information to the locals, did all the communications. So, no, he’s not customer-facing. But he’s the glue holding the whole deal together.”
Wow. Who would have ever thought it?
Brigit put a hand on the top of her head. “I feel like I’m dreaming,” she remarked. “My little girl has cancer. That can’t be right.” Then, changing tone, “Anna, can you pack your stuff and leave now? Every minute that’s passing, I’m freaking out more.”
Yes, but…“We still haven’t gotten the okay from Joey.”
“It’ll be fine.”
No. This wouldn’t happen unless he agreed. “Maybe call him?”
“I’ll do it.” Luke picked up his phone. “Armstrong?” He began to leave the room. “You get Brigit’s text? What do you think? No, about Anna.” His voice faded away.
Then he was back. “All good.” He slipped his phone into his pocket, his gaze skittering away from mine. “He can’t get there until six tomorrow evening but he’s looking forward to working with you. He says he’s on the same number as always.”
Fine. I just needed to unblock it and we’d be back in business.