and dad were ordinary people, but each thought the other was extraordinary.
It. Happened.
Now, the older she got the more she saw how clueless her younger self had been: she and Ed, their happiness was down to nothing more than sheer dumb luck.
‘Ed?’ she said. ‘Ed is great.’
‘I’d a Skype with Champ,’ Dorothy said. ‘Was it Sunday?’ Champ, the youngest of Dorothy’s children, was living in Hong Kong. ‘He’s getting itchy feet again. Might as well just sign up for Elon Musk’s Mars project.’ Then, grimly, ‘That’ll give him adventure where he’ll feel it. How are the Lovable Eccentrics? Has Vinnie set anything else on fire? No?’ Dorothy’s face fell. ‘But clearly he has spirit.’
‘He certainly has.’
‘And while he was doing it, at least he wasn’t on his screen.’
‘You’re right, Mum. A nice outdoor activity, setting fires.’
‘So.’ Dorothy’s tone was meaningfully prim. ‘Will you and Ed send him to a child psychologist?’
‘Ah, no. He’s just a kid, experimenting. They try to pathologize everything these days.’
‘If I knew what “pathologize” meant, I’d probably agree with you. And how’s Tom? Reading War and Peace yet? I don’t know where he gets that intellectual streak from. It’s certainly not from our side. So, any news at all?’
‘Dilly’s first communion tomorrow.’
This perked Dorothy up. She loved stories of Jessie’s extravagance. (‘There’s a woman who knows how to do life,’ she frequently said.) ‘Well? Flying the Pope in to do the honours?’
‘Low-key. A buffet and an inland beach. No, don’t ask me, I’ve no idea either.’
‘I’d better give Dilly some cash.’ Dorothy whipped out her wallet, then looked uncertain. ‘Is twenty enough?’
‘Twenty’s loads.’
‘Is Jessie making you go to the church bit?’
Cara shook her head. ‘We’re “welcome” to attend, but it’s not mandatory.’
‘Unlike the buffet and the – what did you call it? Inland beach? Ah, but she’s great.’ Dorothy could never disapprove of Jessie for long.
Cara’s phone rang. She looked at the caller.
‘Work?’
She turned it face downwards on the table. ‘Yes.’
‘Answer it, love! It might be something exciting. A paparazzi man might have made it into the penthouse!’
‘More like someone didn’t get their gluten-free toast.’
The phone rang again and, with a sigh, Cara picked up.
‘Madelyn’s sick,’ Raoul said. ‘Can you get here early?’
‘Okay. Be with you in ten.’ She hung up. ‘Sorry, Mum, I’ve got to go.’ She said goodbye and hurried towards Fitzwilliam Square. She was almost past the Spar when she realized she hadn’t had any breakfast. Inside, there were cereal bars, apples, healthy-ish options. She bought two bars of chocolate and ate them furtively and very quickly. With the wrappers stowed in a nearby bin, she was almost able to convince herself it hadn’t happened at all.
TWENTY-FOUR
Tejumola shifted her noise-cancelling headphones off her ears and looked up from behind her monitor, ‘I just pinged you the sales figures, Jessie.’ Tejumola was PiG’s chief financial officer. Well, she was their only financial officer. PiG had a mere seven staff at their ‘headquarters’ in the far-too-ordinary suburb of Stillorgan. Seven was all there was room for and glamorous it wasn’t. Tejumola was small, serious, and no craic whatsoever, but that suited Jessie. When it came to finance she needed someone she could depend on.
She focused hard on the weekly sales figures from her eight stores. She took it very personally. If sales had dipped, she felt a protective sorrow, the same way she’d feel if TJ hadn’t been invited to a birthday party for being ‘weird’. But if one branch’s takings were unusually high, she lit up with a warm glow, as if they’d won a medal for Irish dancing.
Kilkenny’s take was down. Not drastically, but it was still a worry. She never forgot that she had fifty-six employees. Fifty-six people and their families for whom she was directly responsible.
Running a business was a big burden. At this stage, though, she’d never be able to work under another person. No choice but to carry on. As for Kilkenny, maybe she’d drive down this afternoon and show them some love. Good for morale … and, oh, Christ, Rionna had that look on her face.
‘Just in,’ she said. ‘Perfect Living want a spread of you and your gorgeous family in your beautiful home.’
Jessie turned an exaggeratedly miserable face to Rionna. ‘Oh, God! My beautiful home is a total shithole.’ Between the constant traffic from five children and two dogs, the bicycles, skateboards and dozens of shoes lining the scuffed hall, the kettle bells strewn on the living-room floor where her personal trainer put her through her paces