Grown Ups Read online

  Liam didn’t pick up, so she rang her mum, who was tearfully proud.

  When Petey returned with a thick bundle under his arm, he grabbed the phone. ‘Didn’t I teach her well, Angie?’ After he’d got her to agree that it was all thanks to his excellent joinery tuition, he passed the phone back to Nell.

  When she eventually hung up, she’d had three missed calls. All from the same number, one she didn’t recognize, but the congratulations in the air made her reckless.

  ‘This is Nell McDermott.’

  ‘Nell. Right. Iseult Figgis from Ship of Fools here.’

  Oh. Nell was struck mute. Ship of Fools was one of the most successful theatre production companies in Ireland.

  ‘We’re putting together a production of Trainspotting for the Dublin Theatre Festival in September. We’d like you to pitch for the design.’

  Adrenalin coursed through Nell, turning her mouth woolly.

  ‘Can you come and see us? Now? I know it’s early.’

  ‘Sure,’ she choked out. ‘Of course.’

  ‘We’re in Dawson Street.’

  ‘I know. I’ll be with you in ten. Unless you need my portfolio? No?’ Nell ended the call and, clutching her phone to her chest, ‘Da-ad?’

  ‘You’re leaving me here on my own to paint this flat?’

  ‘Ship of Fools want to see me now. They’re a production company – like, Dad, they’re the production company, they’re doing Trainspotting.’

  ‘That Scottish yoke? The disgusting one? I’ll never be right again after I saw that bit about the –’

  ‘I’ve to go. Dad, this is a big deal.’

  ‘Fair play. G’wan then. I’ll carry on here.’

  Nell hopped onto her bike and cycled five minutes across town. Ship of Fools was housed in a suite of offices six floors above ground. Exiting the lift into the lobby, seeing the walls hung with posters from past productions, Nell thought she might pass out. They even had a Nespresso machine!

  Iseult herself was there to meet her, and took her into an office to meet Prentiss Siffton, the other powerhouse in the company. Both were probably in their mid-to-late forties and dressed in trainers, jeans and T-shirts. They looked casual but expensive. Neither was exactly friendly.

  Business people, Nell realized. That’s why she felt so uncomfortable with them.

  ‘We saw Timer last night.’

  ‘You did a good job.’

  Instantly Nell melted. ‘Coming from you, that’s … I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘Do you enjoy the work?’ Prentiss asked.

  ‘I love it. It’s all I’ve ever wanted to do. Since I was fourteen.’

  His smile was slightly warmer.

  ‘We’d like you to pitch for Trainspotting,’ Iseult chimed in. ‘We’ll email you the script. Only thing is, we’d need to see your ideas by Monday.’

  Nell’s euphoria dropped like a stone off a cliff. Of course there was a catch. ‘But … today’s Thursday. That’s not enough time to come up with anything decent.’

  After a hesitation, Iseult said, ‘We’d pretty much decided who we were going with, until we saw Timer. Work needs to start ASAP – it’s a big one. This is a huge chance for you, but you need to hit the ground running.’

  Could she do it? She was supposed to be going to Mayo tomorrow for the weekend – Liam’s parents’ fiftieth wedding anniversary. Could she skip it? How would Liam react? Maybe he’d be okay about it. Yes, he’d probably understand.

  Then there was this dinner tonight at Jessie and Johnny’s with Perla and Kassandra. She had to be there: she was the common link.

  ‘So, the budget is forty thousand euros.’

  Oh, God, that was approximately twenty times as much as she’d had for Timer. She could do so much with it … ‘When on Monday do you need to see my pitch?’

  ‘We can push it until one p.m.,’ Iseult said.

  ‘Okay. Right, email me the script now and I’ll –’

  ‘Don’t you want to know how much you’d be paid?’ Prentiss gave a slightly patronizing smile.

  Nell literally couldn’t think of a thing to say. She’d assumed her wage was included in the design budget. That there was extra money was a surprise.

  The figure spoken was higher than anything Nell had ever been paid before.

  ‘Acceptable?’ Iseult smirked. She knew how it was for Nell, for most of Ireland’s theatre workers: they usually got paid so little that this would seem like riches.

  Acceptable? Of course it’s acceptable! But for me, it’s not about the money, it’s about the work. Nell wished she’d said that, but she always thought of great responses far too late. Just one thing. I do my best work with Garr McGrath. Have you hired a lighting director? Because I’ll only take the job if I can work with him.

  Molly Ringwald slunk out to greet her. ‘Molly, I have great news!’

  ‘I’m here too,’ Liam called.

  ‘Why aren’t you at work?’

  ‘Why aren’t you painting Johnny’s flat?’

  ‘Did you get my message?’ she blurted, words tripping over each other. ‘There was a review, a good one, in the Irish Times and Ship of Fools rang me –’

  ‘What? Slow down. Why aren’t you painting Johnny’s flat?’

  ‘Dad’s there. There was a good review of my set in the paper.’

  ‘Will Johnny’s flat be finished by Tuesday? Because that’s what you promised him.’

  ‘Probably.’ Then, ‘Yes, it will.’ She’d ask Brendan to help out.

  Her fingers fumbled as she found the review. ‘Here.’

  In silence, he read it. ‘Wow,’ he eventually said. ‘That’s … wow. Well done.’

  ‘There’s more. Ship of Fools rang. They want me to pitch for a production.’

  ‘Ship of Fools?’

  ‘I went to see them in their office.’

  ‘Ship of Fools?’ he repeated. ‘Where did they get your number?’

  ‘I don’t know. But they want to see ideas for a September production.’

  ‘That’s amazing.’ He sounded stunned.

  ‘There’s just one problem. I’ve to have it done by Monday.’

  ‘So? You’ll have to work down in Mayo?’

  ‘Liam, I can’t come.’

  He stared. He looked … shocked? Angry? ‘You’re kidding. You are? Right?’ He was definitely angry.

  ‘Liam …’

  ‘It’s my parents’ fiftieth wedding anniversary. And you want to skip it because of some work that isn’t even definite. This has been planned for months.’

  ‘I might never get an opportunity like this again.’

  ‘My parents will definitely never have a fiftieth wedding anniversary again.’

  He was right. And yet … ‘If I told them how important this is.’

  ‘They wouldn’t get it. You’d upset them. Nell, you’re part of a family now. Sometimes we have to do stuff we don’t want to do.’

  He was right: she was being unreasonable. Selfish, even.

  But if she worked every free second? Got by on minimal sleep? Turned up at the beginning of things and sloped off when people started to get drunk? She’d bring a box of materials with her … ‘I’ll have to work down there.’

  ‘There’s stuff you must show up for, like tomorrow night’s drinks, the party on Saturday and the lunch on Sunday. And, look, don’t let Johnny down on the painting. So what’s for dinner tonight?’

  ‘We’re out. Humanitarian play-date.’

  He looked blank.

  ‘You know. Taking Perla and Kassandra to Jessie and Johnny’s for dinner.’

  ‘So you’re okay to do that, but not my parents’ fiftieth. Noted.’

  ‘That’s different. Perla doesn’t even know where Jessie lives.’

  He turned away, radiating rancour.

  ‘… Liam, why aren’t you at work?’

  ‘I’ll go in a while.’

  ‘You’re already late. What’s going on?’

  He shrugg
ed. ‘Chelsea takes the piss and I deserve some respect. She needs to learn what happens if I’m not there – things fall apart.’

  Another blow struck in the on-going battle of wills between Chelsea and Liam. Liam was resentful that he ran the Capel Street shop, while earning nothing like as much as Chelsea, who had the actual title ‘Manager’. Nell feared that Liam would get the push for being too much trouble. But he always assured her that Chelsea needed him too much.

  She couldn’t worry about that now, though. Speed-reading the script, it was immediately clear that it was a complex proposition, with a lot of location changes. A device was needed to pull it all together, something clever like a rotating stage. Anxiety gnawed at her. It was hard to know in what direction she should push her design. Should she replicate what she’d done with Timer? Tricks with lighting and mirrors? Or did she challenge herself to try something she’d never tried before?

  One voice was telling her that this was no time for risks. Another warned that she needed to show her range. Garr would know: he’d always been her best sounding board. She felt weirdly uncomfortable about Liam overhearing their conversation but she picked up her phone and defiantly talked within earshot.

  Garr was certain. ‘They want you because they saw your work on Timer. Don’t try new stuff just for the sake of it.’

  ‘Okay.’ She was calmed. ‘That sits right with me. Thanks.’

  She hung up, and Liam asked, ‘What did he say?’

  ‘Stick with what I’m good at.’

  ‘Really? You want to get typecast already?’

  All of Nell’s certainty vanished. Maybe it would be better to press ahead with the rotating stage. That was different.

  Ambitious, though. She could easily cock it up.

  ‘Hey, I think I’ll go for a bike ride this evening,’ he said.

  ‘But we’re going to –’

  ‘Yeah. But we’ll be away all weekend and I won’t get the chance again until next week. I need to do it, babe, for my head.’ This was the first time Nell had seen Liam actually sulking. But she couldn’t – or didn’t want to – waste scarce time and energy playing his new game. ‘Okay, Liam. Enjoy your cycle.’

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Cara peeled off the latex gloves, threw them into the bin, then faced herself in the small mirror. Watery grey-black blobs pooled beneath her eyes. Maybe she needed to buy waterproof mascara. But doing that would mean admitting this had become an actual part of her life. With a cotton bud, she wiped away the stains, then repaired the patches in her foundation with dabs of concealer. A swig of mouthwash, which she swilled energetically: her worst fear was of someone smelling her.

  Her chignon had come slightly asunder, so she added a few more clips and a blast of spray. Stashing her little bag in the cupboard, she took a final look, checking that her uniform was clean and neat, then stepped out into the narrow corridor in the hotel basement.

  As always, there was no one to see her. Walking with purpose and faking a vague smile, she made her way back upstairs to the front desk. She’d been gone thirteen minutes.

  ‘You missed it,’ Madelyn said. ‘Mr Falconer is here.’

  What? Where? He wasn’t due for another hour.

  ‘His meeting finished early. But it’s okay, Vihaan took him up.’

  That wasn’t meant to happen. She would never abandon her post at a busy time. There was always a chance that a guest would arrive early, everyone knew that, but the urge had been too strong so she’d taken a risk.

  Here was Vihaan now, with Ling. ‘Where were you?’

  ‘Upset tummy.’

  ‘Again?’ Madelyn said. ‘Oh.’

  She, Vihaan and Ling regarded Cara. They seemed suspicious, or perhaps they were just worried.

  ‘Sorry,’ Cara said. ‘Just … So how was he?’ She knew Mr Falconer of old.

  ‘Complaining about the weather. It’s too sunny. He doesn’t come to Ireland for the sun.’ Some people would find fault with anything. Trying to box away her guilt, Cara got on with her morning.

  Gabby had left her a voice-note. ‘Cara, meet me for a quick coffee at lunchtime! I hate my children. I need to rant.’

  Her heart lifted in anticipation – then her mood veered off in a different direction. She adored Gabby, but … today there was something else she needed to do.

  Again? So soon?

  She’d done it already today.

  And she needed to do it again.

  It was only ten past twelve but Tesco in Baggot Street was overrun with office workers, queuing to pay for their lunch. She jigged her knee, finding the waiting almost unendurable. It was always like this: the closer she got to eating, the more the need intensified. And thank you, God, a till had freed up. She scooted forward with her basket – self-service tills were the best things ever, because no one could judge. Beeping speedily, she slid a doughnut, a giant cookie, then bar after bar of chocolate past the scanner. She hadn’t paid much attention to what she’d flung into her basket: quantity mattered more than quality. And her two-litre bottle of water, of course: she couldn’t forget that.

  Twenty-nine euro, though.

  That was … a lot.

  What the hell? She’d stop soon.

  The day was warm and sunny and she sat on ‘her’ bench in Fitzwilliam Square – it was perfect: only a four-minute walk from the Ardglass but not on a direct cut-through route. It was unlikely she’d be spotted by any of her co-workers. The doughnut first – the ecstatic relief of those initial few mouthfuls – next the giant cookie, then the chocolate. It all happened extremely quickly. She was tearing the wrappers off, having the next bar lined up, even while she efficiently and methodically slid the current one into her mouth. It wasn’t about the taste, it was about the feeling, chasing the calm, then the high. A Wispa disappeared in three bites, a bar of Whole Nut in four. But in between, remembering to drink her water.

  The few people who passed paid her no attention. Hiding in plain sight, she looked just like anyone else, having her lunch.

  With almost everything eaten, she felt good. Only a Starbar was left, she always kept one to finish with. It felt like a punctuation mark. Standing up, gathering all the bags and wrappers, still eating, she began walking quickly. Without breaking stride, she dropped the bag into ‘her’ bin and now came the fear. The fat and sugar molecules were already migrating through her stomach walls, turning into sheets of yellow blubber on her thighs and belly and arms. It needed to be got rid of. Now.

  In through the discreet staff entrance of the Ardglass, down the back stairs and, oh, no, there was Antonio, one of the sous-chefs. ‘Hey, Cara.’ He greeted her with a dazzling smile.

  Please, no. They’d had lovely chats a few times in the past about Lucca, where he was from. He’d be expecting her to stop and talk. ‘Hi, Antonio, great to see you.’ She slid past him. ‘Hope you’re well.’

  His surprised hurt followed her and the guilt was hard. But she. Could. Not. Stop.

  Wrenching open the door of the little bathroom, she suddenly felt exhausted at the mini-ordeal ahead. Her stomach muscles were sore, her throat already felt raw.

  This is the last time.

  She didn’t know where the resolve had come from but she was certain. No more. It was crazy. She loved Ed, the boys, her job, her life. Doing this was insane.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  June already. How did that happen? Jessie slung some Middle Eastern food onto the dining table. Next month I’ll be fifty and, seriously, what’s the age when a person finally feels safe and secure? Because I really thought it would have happened by now.

  She surveyed the dining table: fried halloumi, baba ganoush, hummus, olives, pitta bread …

  She’d done a lot with her life. She had. Five children, a happy marriage – it was happy, wasn’t it? Running a profitable company, employing more than fifty people, her life was a success.

  She’d forgotten water glasses. Turning back towards the kitchen, she wondered if anyone really liked her. Sh
e was dogged by a recurring sense that everyone just put up with her – Christ! She’d almost toppled over!

  It was these bloody shoes: Océane Woo Park’s slides. They were lethal but she wore them every chance she got, to reduce the cost-per-wear.

  Poor impulse control: that was another thing she despised about herself. She should never have tried on Océane’s present. As soon as she’d slip-slapped down the stairs in them, the soles were too scratched to be gifted or returned. She’d been secretly delighted – for about half an hour. Then the guilt had arrived: there wasn’t the money for a spontaneous self-gift of spensie shoes.

  For all her giddy insistence that there was enough money swilling around, she knew, oh, she knew that her spending verged on out-of-control. No need for her to see Cara’s accounts, because, lodged deep in her soul, was an internal calculator. Most of the time she stayed resolutely deaf to its incessant clicking, but now and again, often just before she fell asleep at night, it suddenly became like a fruit machine that had hit the jackpot.

  Neon price tags would start flashing – the staff party, the school fees, the overtipping, the crazy-dear jacket for Saoirse because she was a good girl, the first-aid course for Bridey because she wouldn’t shut up about it, the smartwatch for poor Johnny because she worried that he felt neglected …

  Carrying four glasses, she shuffled back into the dining room – she couldn’t chance any striding movements in these lethal fecking shoes. Christ, she’d ordered a lot of food!

  Johnny came in and stopped short. ‘Jessie. There’s enough here to feed half of Aleppo.’

  ‘And more in the kitchen. A Syrian speciality made with lamb, cherries and pomegranate molasses.’ She’d made the lamb dish herself, the only one of the entire meal, because she hadn’t been able to buy it anywhere in Dublin. ‘Me and my bougie notions, Ferdia says. Apparently I can’t talk to someone for more than a minute without inviting them over.’

  ‘He’s a cheeky feck, but maybe this time he has a point.’

  Kassandra had already had a couple of play-dates with Dilly – she was just a regular kid. Perla, understandably, was different. At the play-date handovers, her facial muscles barely moved. There was an awful deadness to her. Driven by a helpless need to nurture, Jessie had blurted out a dinner invite, without thinking through the implications. What were she and Johnny, in their safe, comfortable lives, going to say to a woman who had seen horrors they couldn’t even imagine? She’d begged Nell and Liam to come as moral support.