Being Shirley (30 page)

“No way! I am 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, a deodorant, anti-dandruff shampoo, and soap for that matter. Personal hygiene issues aside, Mum, in case you haven’t noticed, we do not 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.” Actually, now that she thought back on it, she had sounded a tad
“And I am off to get a crew cut and stop shaving under my arms.”
No wonder her mother had begun to narrow her eyes whenever her girlfriends popped around after that little statement.

At the time, though, she had merely reiterated, “Yes, sweetheart, and we are 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! She 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 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 rolled her eyes. Married she may be but did it count if it were to a Martian? Okay, 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 her pretentious eight-year-old niece Mia, know-it-all six-year-old Bella, bossy four-year-old Ethan, and of course she couldn’t forget her three-year-old tearaway nephew, Elliot, who still wasn’t properly toilet trained. Nor could she forget the incident whereby he’d wet himself all over her favourite velvet Balenciaga skirt the last time she had been home. She had picked up the vintage skirt for an absolute steal on one of her op-shop forays and it would now forever bear the mark of her nephew. Kelly had tried to appease her by saying that he only peed on people he felt comfortable around. She’d tried to convince her sister that really, she should be pleased because despite his having not seen his aunt since he was six months old, he obviously had a soft spot for her. Jess was too busy wiping at the wet spot he’d left on her lap to care.

Suffice to say she loved them all but she loved them even more from afar. Which was why she had 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 made reference to 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 in Auckland. 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 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,” she announced during one of their last cosy mother-and-daughter transatlantic chats.

“More fool her; then she’ll be run ragged.” This wasn’t true. Kelly was not averse to getting their Mum, the world’s most devoted grandmother, to help out and she would be in her element with another baby. She was a proper earthmother, which to Jess’s mind simply meant not wearing makeup, not getting one’s hair done, and talking about nothing else other than your boobs and your baby’s bowel motions, both of which her sister majored in.

“All I am saying is that your eggs are a-cooking, Jessica Jane, and once they’re fried—no matter what these medical experts say—there is 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 will say with regards to my eggs, Mother, is that I am 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 do not always date men with problems.”

“Yes, you do. What about that Peter—the one who didn’t know whether he liked Arthur or Martha?”

She cringed. Typical, making her relieve that painful memory. It had been said more than once that she had a tendency to gravitate toward the problematic members of the male species and there was the teensiest grain of truth in that, she supposed, given her dodgy track record. Peter had issues over his sexuality and she’d been convinced she would be the one to help him make his mind up one way or another but apparently not—he’d dumped her for his mate Matthew. Then there had been Simon, whose parents had divorced when he was a child and their ensuing bitter custody battle had left him damaged goods. Paul had followed shortly after. His former fiancée had cheated on him and 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 had dated, though. Christ, for a girl who didn’t attend church, she was following a bit of a biblical theme here. Marian had gone into a rapturous state when she’d mentioned what he did for a living to her 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., rolling her eyes. However, the real clincher had come when he asked as they got amorous on her couch one evening whether she had any objection to being dominated in the bedroom. The penny dropped as to what the handcuffs she had 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, and 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, she went in search of a pair of trainers.

Second Hand Jane available from Amazon:
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00INCPYEO

Second Hand Jane

Michelle Vernal

When footloose and fancy-free Jessica, a thirty-something writer, decides to follow her journalistic instincts and trace the story of a young girl for her weekly column in a Dublin newspaper, she unwittingly embarks on a journey into Northern Ireland’s tragic past.

With her love of all things vintage, Jessica Jane Baré is known as Second-hand Jane to her friends. Hailing from New Zealand, these days she’s finding the grass is greener in Dublin and not just because of all the rain. In fact, life would be sweet if it weren’t for the reason she left home in the first place–her meddling mother. Marian views Jess’s life in Dublin as nothing more than a stop-gap until she meets Mr Right and he’s taking his time. Things look set to change, however, when Jess meets the delectable Nick, who ticks all of Marian’s boxes.

In the meantime, Jess’s latest second-hand collectible–a children’s book—gives her an idea for her column. Deciding to track down the girl whose name is scribbled inside the cover of that book, she uncovers more than she ever expected.
“
Amy was in the wrong place at the wrong time
,”
the girl’s taciturn brother, Owen, informs her. Intrigued, Jess travels to the family pig farm in County Down and listens to Amy’s poignant tale unfold through Owen. With a little help from a rather cute runt of the litter she names Wilbur, Jess is about to help put the past to rest and learn that appearances can be deceptive.

Then Marian announces she is coming to Dublin to sort her daughter’s increasingly tangled love life out and Jess’s chance of a happy ending like those in the story books she collects looks about as likely as Wilbur flying.