Chapter Twenty-One
I throw myself into work the next week. I spend my days working on the festival, and my nights at the pub.
We start a waitlist for tickets, and then a waitlist for the waitlist, and everyone from climate change activists to local politicians all get in touch asking if they can help.
It becomes Gemma’s entire job just responding to them.
It’s not all smooth sailing though. The website keeps crashing the first few days, and Adam eventually ropes a friend into setting us up somewhere that can handle the traffic.
I meet John Joe’s cousin about the fireworks, only to find out he’s eighteen and that it’s “really more of a hobby” for him than anything else.
But John Joe looks so proud of him, and I am a pushover so agree to take him on.
Then of course, there’s figuring out the logistics of how to host five hundred plus people in a pub with capacity for just over half that amount.
But even with all the chaos, we never forget the real reason we’re doing it.
Glenmill go quiet, and all the positive articles about their work that used to pop up vanish.
Nush puts a Save Ennisbawn petition online that quickly gains thousands of signatures, and the news stories keep coming.
But no one gets in touch. No sharp suited lawyer comes striding through the door, no grand gesture is made.
Even as public opinion turns our way, they don’t respond.
And, though I don’t tell anyone, I get more and more nervous every day that they never will.
So it’s with some relief when the Saturday before the festival, I cycle over to Gemma’s house with two cakes (one extra-large) packed carefully away in my basket, with no other plans than to spend the afternoon celebrating Noah’s twelfth birthday.
Or at least that’s my intention when I ring her doorbell a little before one p.m. and greet the man of the hour.
“Happy birthday!”
Noah looks up at me, his smile fading into abject horror. “What are you wearing?”
“Clothes,” I answer, confused, as I glance down at the simple sweater and dungarees combo I put on this morning. Wait. “It’s not a dress-up party, is it?”
“No,” he says hotly. “I’m not six. ”
“Then what’s wrong with—”
“Why are you wearing that ?” he interrupts, pointing to the top of my head.
Ah. I reach up to adjust the bright blue cone fitted tightly over my hair.
“It’s a birthday hat. Are birthday hats uncool?”
He gives me a look as if to say yes and I wince.
“You have to take it off before my friends get here,” he warns.
“Understood.” I lift up my boxes in apology. “One extra-large cake. One normally large cake.”
This time he smiles, a little embarrassed as he lets me inside. “Thanks, Katie.”
Gemma steps into the hallway just as Noah makes a beeline for the living room, the niceties done.
“You didn’t need to do that.”
“Technically it’s payment,” I say, as she takes the top box. “Anyway, I don’t mind spoiling him. He’s twelve now. That’s a big age. One more year before he’s a teenager.”
I swear her face pales. “Can we just get through today please?” she asks. “I’m not ready to be a mother of a teenager. No matter how big my eye bags are.”
“You don’t have eye bags,” I lie, and she huffs, leading me into the kitchen.
“It looks like Willy Wonka threw up in here,” I say, taking in the mess of snacks and sugary drinks scattered everywhere.
Gemma shrugs, stacking a bunch of plates together and dumping them in the sink.
“You really didn’t have to come,” she says. “Not that he doesn’t want you here. But I know you’re busy.”
“Of course I had to come. I’ve never missed his birthday.”
“But the festival—”
“I think I can take a few hours off.”
Unlike Gemma, who moves around her kitchen like she has a grudge against it, slamming cabinets and pulling open drawers so forcefully, I’m surprised they don’t fall out.
“Need some help?” I ask mildly.
“I’m fine. I’m just running behind. I told everyone to arrive after two and thought I’d have the place cleared by now. I still have to heat the sausage rolls and get the food out of the freezer.”
“What are we eating?”
“Noah wanted to order— I’m still using that,” she adds, as I go to clean up a bowl.
I promptly leave it be. “Noah wanted to order pizza,” she continues.
“But the prices are ridiculous. So, I got frozen ones. If we time that with the cake, they should be done by four. Sugar comedown by bedtime. Bed by nine.”
“Sounds perfect,” I say, but my enthusiasm does not seem to calm her down.
For a moment, I think it’s just stress. A house that’s about to be filled with a bunch of pre-teen boys is not fun, but she’s managed before, and Noah seems happy, so there’s no reason for her to be glaring at a plate of cupcakes like they just insulted her mother.
“Gemma?”
“Pass me those M&Ms, would you?”
I hand her the packet, and then another when she motions for that too. “What happened?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, you look like you’re one spilled drink away from screaming into some poor child’s face.”
“It’s nothing,” she mutters, pouring the chocolates into a bowl.
“Gem—”
“It’s just Darren.”
I try to fight my scowl at the mention of her ex-husband. Try and fail.
“What did he do?”
“It’s what he didn’t do.” She sets the bowl onto the table, avoiding my eye. “He didn’t even send a card. His kid’s twelfth birthday and not even a card.”
“Did Noah notice?”
“Yep,” she bites out, and I wince. “He’s asked twice already today.”
“What did you say?”
“What else could I say? I told him it was on its way. That it takes a while for stuff to come these days. That no, his father didn’t forget his freaking birthday.”
Her voice breaks at the last word and she heads to the sink, filling it with running water as she starts dunking cutlery and mixing bowls into the basin. I frown as she stays like that, her hands moving mechanically before she raises her arm, using her wrist to do a quick wipe of her cheeks.
And that’s when it hits me.
She’s crying.
I’m immediately horrified. I’ve never seen Gemma cry. I’ve never even seen Gemma emotional unless you count being pissed off with everyone.
“Gem…”
She doesn’t respond, her body rounding in on itself as though she’s trying to make herself as small as possible. Like she’s trying to hide herself from the world.
The doorbell goes as I reach over and turn the water off before pulling her into my side.
She’s not a hugger. Not really a toucher.
And this is the most affection she’s ever allowed from me, so it’s a little awkward, me holding her like she’s some fragile bird, but she leans into my touch as the tears stream silently down her face, letting me be there for her, even though it must kill her to do so.
“Shit,” she mutters. “ Shit .”
“It’s okay.”
“It’s not. This is your fault.”
“It is.”
“You shouldn’t have talked to me.”
“I shouldn’t have,” I agree, as Noah’s excited voice sounds from the hall. “I’m sorry.”
She grows flustered as soon as she hears it. “I can’t let him see me like this.”
“He won’t notice. Just pretend you got dish soap in your eye and go upstairs. I’ll put out some plates and—”
“I brought doughnuts!”
Gemma breaks away from me, blinking rapidly as Adam appears in the doorway. Adam who takes one look at us, spins around, and promptly bumps into Noah. “You got the PlayStation set up?”
“Mam says I’m not allowed to turn it on until my friends get here.”
“Are you or are you not the birthday boy? I’m pretty sure you can do what you like.”
“But Mam—”
“Show me that new game you were telling me about. The one with the aliens.” Adam’s voice fades as he ushers him back into the front room and the television soon starts blaring.
Gemma grabs a piece of paper cloth and blows her nose. “Sorry,” she says thickly. “I didn’t get much sleep last night.”
“It’s not that, Gem, and you know it. Why didn’t you say anything?”
“Because I’m fine. Honestly. This was just the final straw.” She throws the tissue away and reaches for a stack of disposable plates, stripping off the plastic wrapping. “I’m just annoyed that even when Darren’s gone, he’s getting to me. I don’t know why I keep letting him get away with this.”
“You’re not letting him do anything. He’s just a dick.”
“Yeah, but I don’t want Noah to know that.
” She drops the plates on the table, her eyes already dry again.
“He’s getting to the age where he’s starting to compare himself to his friends, and I know he thinks he’s coming up short.
And it’s question after question after question.
Why don’t we go abroad like other families?
Why don’t I have time to chauffeur him around all the sports camps?
Why can’t I afford to send him to the camps in the first place?
” She shakes her head. “He’s starting to resent me. ”
“He’s not.”
“He is. When he was younger, I could pretend it was a game. But he’s too smart for that now. He’s too…” She tips her head back, her hands going to her hips as the doorbell rings again. “Am I wearing mascara?”
“No.”
“Thank God.”
I’m about to tell her again to go upstairs and take a break, but before I can, Adam slips back into the kitchen, shutting the door behind him.
“What the hell did he do now?” he asks, furious.
“Who?”
“Your shithole of an ex-husband. Don’t even pretend this isn’t because of him,” he warns. “What did he do?”
“Why?” she asks sarcastically. “Going to beat him up? Just leave it. It’s not a big deal.”
“Not a big— you’re crying .”
“And it’s none of your business!” she exclaims.
The two of them glare at each other from opposite sides of the kitchen until a quiet knock sounds on the door. A moment later, it creaks open, and Callum sticks his head in.
“Hope it’s still an open invite,” he says, stepping fully inside. “I got him a…uh…” He trails off, his attention bouncing off the three of us as he detects the charged energy in the room. “New football?”