Chapter 2
2
Jess twiddled her toes inside the soft fleece lining of her slippers. She’d have to take them off in a minute, but not just yet – they were so comfy.
The slippers had been a Valentine’s Day gift from her mother last February. For as long as she could remember – or at least since Jess had been of a marriageable age – her mother had been buying her a little something on Valentine’s Day. She said it was her way of making her daughter feel loved, and once upon a time, the gifts had been saucy knickers. Inappropriate items for one’s mother to be buying her daughter, perhaps, but when your mother worked on the lingerie counter of Auckland’s iconic Smith I mean, a man needs to know how to unblock a toilet or change a light bulb. Look at how your father’s always looked after us.’ Marian’s voice had softened as she’d thought about her obliging hubby, Frank, but then she’d got back to the matter at hand. ‘Speaking of whom, your father was saying the other day that the firm’s just taken on a new apprentice. He’s only a year or two younger than you, which is nothing when you think of Catherine Zeta and Michael, so perhaps Dad could arrange for you?—’
‘No way! I’m not desperate, Mum, and I haven’t forgotten that awful Jeremy you got him to set me up with last time! And since when were you on a first-name basis with members of the Hollywood A-list?’
‘Don’t be clever, Jessica; it doesn’t suit you. Your problem, my girl, is that you’re too fussy for your own good because there was absolutely nothing wrong with poor Jeremy that a dab of antiseptic cream on his spots wouldn’t have sorted out.’
‘Yeah, and a bottle of mouthwash, deodorant, anti-dandruff shampoo and soap for that matter. Personal hygiene issues aside, Mum, in case you haven’t noticed, we don’t live in the 1950s anymore. I don’t need a man to be happy. I have a career of my own, from which I gain plenty of personal satisfaction, thank you very much.’
‘Yes, sweetheart, and we’re very proud of you. That’s why we put you through university, but a job won’t keep you warm at night, will it? Why can’t you have both? Lots of women work and maintain a relationship. I mean, I’ve hardly sat on my backside all these years, now have I?’
God. She was so frustrating and probably the main reason Jess thanked her lucky stars for her UK ancestry, which meant she could live and work on the other side of the world from her! Marian flatly refused to refer to her daughter’s chosen line of work as a journalist as a career. It was always referred to as a job – a means to an end until something better came along: aka a man. Jess had gritted her teeth in anticipation, knowing what was coming next, and she was proved right.
‘Jessica, all your father and I want for you is to find someone to settle down with like your sister has. That’s not too much to ask for, surely?’
It irked Jess the way she always included her father in the equation. It wasn’t him who put the pressure on her to get a ring on her finger at every opportunity. And at the very mention of Kelly, she’d rolled her eyes. Married she may be, but did it count if it were to a Martian? OK, so he wasn’t green, but he was odd and he wasn’t very attractive, and she had no idea how her sister actually managed to have sex with him, but she obviously did – and quite often, too, judging by their numerous offspring. Who, if she were being honest, were complete and utter little shites, although as their aunt, she obviously loved them all: pretentious eight-year-old Mia, know-it-all six-year-old Bella, bossy four- year-old Ethan and, of course, three-year-old tearaway, Elliot, who still wasn’t properly toilet trained and had wet himself all over her favourite vintage Balenciaga skirt – picked up for a steal on one of her charity-shop forays and now forever marked – the last time she’d been home.
Suffice to say she loved them all, but she loved them even more from afar. Which was why she’d left behind her gigs writing a weekly column about Auckland’s movers and shakers – she refused to call it a gossip column – along with the regular trickle of commissioned work that had started to come her way as she carved a name for herself to inadvertently flee to the Emerald Isle in the first place.
Now that she thought about it, her mother never said much when she referenced her brother-in-law hailing from the red planet. Jess reckoned this was because deep down she secretly agreed with her, but the fact Brian was something or other high up in the world of banking was all the compensation she needed.
There was no doubt about it: Marian Baré was a snob, she reflected fondly. Though where it stemmed from, Jess had no idea because it really wasn’t in keeping with her South Auckland upbringing or her parents’ current suburban address of Hillsborough. It may well have straddled the more fashionable Mt Eden, as Marian liked to point out whenever she got a chance, but their three-bedroomed brick and tile still firmly had its foundations dug into Hillsborough.
Then there was the thing with their surname. Whenever anybody pronounced it as the rather blunt ‘Bare’, Jess was instantly reminded of that old British TV show Keeping up Appearances . The one where Hyacinth Bucket always insisted her name was actually Bouquet. It’s not Bear, thank you very much; there is an accented ‘E’ on the end. Beret, dahling; it’s Beret.
‘Your sister’s making noises about having a fifth baby, you know,’ Marian had announced during one of their last cosy mother–daughter transatlantic chats.
‘More fool her; then she’ll be run ragged.’
This wasn’t true. Kelly wasn’t averse to getting their mum, the world’s most devoted grandmother, to help out, and she’d be in her element with another baby. She was a proper earth mother, which to Jess’s mind simply meant not wearing make-up, not getting one’s hair done, and talking about nothing but your boobs and your baby’s bowel motions, both of which her sister majored in.
‘All I’m saying is that your eggs are a-cooking, Jessica Jane, and once they’re fried – no matter what these medical experts say – there’s no turning back the clock. Surely there must be some eligible men in Dublin? Isn’t it choc-a-block with famous musicians and actors? We don’t want any more of your wounded birds, mind.’
What was it with her mother and all things avian?
Jess had sighed. ‘All I’ll say with regards to my eggs, Mother, is that I’m quite partial to the odd fried egg despite their being high in cholesterol and that four, possibly five, grandchildren in an overpopulated world is enough for anybody. Stop being so bloody greedy! As for your reference to Irish men, think about the Corrs – three beautiful girls to one unattractive male. And for your information, so far as wounded birds go, I don’t always date men with problems.’
‘Yes, you do. What about that Simon?’
She’d cringed. Typical, making her relive that painful memory. It had been said more than once that she had a tendency to gravitate toward the problematic men, and there was the teensiest grain of truth in that, given her dodgy track record.
Simon’s parents had divorced when he was a child, and their ensuing bitter custody battle had seen him push her away whenever she tried to get close. Paul had followed shortly after. His former fiancée had cheated on him, so he was mistrustful of the female species to the point of obsession. A stalker was born.
She’d thought she was on to a winner with Andrew the lawyer and last man she’d dated, though. Christ, for a girl who didn’t attend church, she was following a bit of a biblical theme.
Marian had gone into a rapturous state when she’d mentioned what he did for a living, but well-paid job or not, he’d managed, after only three dates, to put her off the opposite sex for a good long while. For starters, he began their every conversation with, ‘Well, if you want to know what I think…’ She didn’t, but he wasn’t very good at reading body language, i.e., eye rolling. However, the real clincher had come when he’d asked as they’d got amorous on her couch one evening whether she had any objection to being dominated in the bedroom. The penny had dropped as to what the handcuffs she’d seen on his back seat were actually for – not for restraining his criminal clients on the way to court, after all.
Marian had derailed her train of thought.
‘If like you say, Jessica, the odds are really not in your favour, then you should come home. I’ll say no more on the subject.’
If only she would say no more, Jess had thought. Frustratingly, she refused to entertain the idea that perhaps her daughter was happy in her life and that maybe, just maybe, she didn’t want to hear the pitter-patter of little feet in her future and that maybe, just maybe, she was managing quite nicely without a man.
Jess shook the spectre of Marian Baré away and, kicking off her slippers, went in search of her trainers.