Something in Common (48 page)

‘I hope you don’t mind,’ the balding man behind her said, ‘but I think I know you.’

He didn’t look familiar. ‘I’m not sure—’

‘Did you by any chance work in St Sebastian’s nursing home a long time ago?’

‘Actually, I—’

‘In the kitchen? Were you the cook there?’

She became aware that they were holding up the flow of shoppers. She pulled her trolley back inside and stepped out of the doorway, and looked at him again. Most of his hair gone but face not that lined, brown eyes, about her own height. Pleasant-looking.

‘I still work there,’ she told him, ‘but I’m just part-time now. I’m afraid I can’t—’

‘I wouldn’t expect you to remember me,’ he said. ‘You must have met so many, and I was only there for an hour on a Sunday to visit Mam.’

One of the Sunday visitors, a
son who’d been shown off in the common room.

‘She was Celine,’ he said, ‘Celine O’Reilly, and I’m Kevin.’ He put out his hand. ‘And if I remember right, your name is Sarah.’

‘Yes …’

Celine, who’d died within a year or two of Sarah starting work in the nursing home, who’d boasted to her friends of Kevin with his big job. Something to do with banking, wasn’t it?

‘You were very good to her,’ he said. ‘She had great time for you, said you always dropped in to see her when you weren’t busy. And she couldn’t say enough good things about your cooking.’

‘You brought her fudge,’ Sarah said, the memory leaping into her head.

He laughed. ‘I can’t believe you remember that. She had a weakness for it.’

‘And you walked with her in the garden.’

She could see them now, him bent over to accommodate his mother’s much lower height, his arm linked through hers as they made their slow way around the shrubbery, such as it was. Several years before Charlie had arrived to tidy it up.

Hard to put an age on him but he must be a bit older than her, somewhere in his fifties, she thought. She didn’t remember anyone else coming to see Celine; maybe he’d been an only child.

‘So you’re still there,’ he said. ‘They’re lucky to have you.’

She smiled. ‘And you? Do you still work in … a bank, was it?’

‘I was an accountant, but about ten years ago I decided to change direction a bit, and I went back to college and studied psychotherapy.’

‘Really? That’s a big change.’

She looked a fright, hadn’t even run a comb through her hair before coming out, hadn’t put on lipstick or perfume, and the navy trousers should have gone to the charity shop a decade ago. Sometime over the past few months, she’d stopped caring.

He tipped his head towards
her trolley. ‘Anything in there that wouldn’t keep for half an hour? I’d love to buy you a coffee, just to say thanks for looking after Mam.’

It wasn’t a date. It wasn’t anything like a date. He might be killing time, looking for some diversion to pass thirty minutes. Or he might be dying for a coffee himself, and wanting some company while he drank it.

But he was friendly, and he’d come to visit his mother each week. And she couldn’t remember the last time a man had given her a second glance.

‘That would be
lovely,’ she said.

I
n the end she chose a navy top and a cream skirt. It wasn’t the most eye-catching outfit in the world, or even particularly fashionable, but top and skirt were well cut – sale bargains, both of them – and the peplum end to the top disguised the fact that her waistline wasn’t as trim as it could be.

She was cycling so much less now, that was the problem. For years she’d been able to eat what she wanted: covering the fifteen-mile round trip to and from work on a bike five days a week ensured that any extra calories were well burnt up. Even after she’d begun driving the children to school she’d brought the bike in the boot and cycled on to the nursing home from there.

But now, with only two days of work, and the children needing to be driven around so much after school, she wasn’t getting half enough exercise, and her sweet tooth made it hard to resist the treats she baked for Stephen and Martha.

It was time, she decided, to
take it in hand. She was only forty-eight, and perfectly healthy, with years of active life left to her. Starting tomorrow, she’d get back on the bike. On the days she wasn’t working she’d do a couple of hours in the morning, and when the children were with Neil she’d cycle to the nursing home to see Dad. It would be like old times.

And she’d update her wardrobe, which hadn’t had much attention in the last few years. There were some lovely bright clothes out there, and she needn’t spend a fortune.

It was natural to want to look good, to try to be at the right weight for your height. It had nothing whatsoever to do with Kevin O’Reilly.

‘Maybe we could go out to dinner sometime,’ he’d said, at the end of the almost-hour they’d spent together. Having discovered, because she’d told him, that she was in the process of getting divorced, and having let her know that he was also single – that he’d never, in fact, walked down the aisle.

‘Confirmed bachelor,’ he’d said, ‘or never lucky enough to meet whoever I was supposed to meet, depending on your point of view. Mam used to tell me I had plenty of time.’

Sarah had laughed. ‘Typical Irish mother. I don’t think I can bear the thought of my son choosing another woman over me, and he’s only eleven.’

It had been a while since she’d laughed. It had felt good. She’d given him her phone number, and he’d promised to call. She’d come away feeling uplifted: maybe it was something to do with his psychotherapy course – maybe he’d learnt how to make everyone he met feel better.

She pushed her feet into her old loafers, better for driving. She’d bring the heels and change when she arrived. She was dreading the drive to Dublin – after seven years of being legally entitled to sit behind the wheel of a car she still hated it, still finished every journey with her jaw aching from having clenched her teeth all the way.

And to have to do it on her own was far worse, but there was no alternative. She had to have the car to get home afterwards, with the concert ending too late for public transport. And she couldn’t very well have asked Neil to let her hang on to Martha, just so she’d have company on the drive.

She supposed she could
have swallowed her pride and asked if she could sit in with them – but the thought of having to make polite conversation with him and Maria all the way to Dublin and back was enough to put her off that idea.

‘I’d love to come,’ Christine had said, ‘we both would, but Brian’s Christmas work do is set in stone – there’s no way we can’t be there. You could bring Paddy if you like; I’m sure he wouldn’t mind sitting in.’

But Paddy was fifteen and mad into sports – a three-hour concert would, she was sure, be his idea of absolute hell, and she couldn’t do it to him. The other two boys were going – Aidan and Tom were both in Trinity now, and happy to turn up in support of their cousin – but they were already in Dublin, and of no help to her.

She’d manage, she’d be fine. She had Brian’s very detailed directions printed out: all she had to do was follow them.

‘Don’t be distracted by other drivers,’ he’d told her. ‘If someone hoots at you, just ignore them. Don’t speed up to keep someone else happy. And don’t panic if you take a wrong turn, just pull into a side road when you can and turn around. You’ll be fine if you keep calm.’

She’d keep calm, she’d get there. And she’d be meeting Helen in her red coat, and Mark, her new husband. She couldn’t call him Breen: it sounded too impersonal. She hoped Helen would introduce him as Mark.

Funny, she was so keyed up about driving to Dublin, not to mention seeing Stephen on the stage, that she had no butterflies left to feel nervous about meeting Helen at last. They were grown women, for goodness’ sake, they’d be fine. In fact, she was quite looking forward to it.

She checked her lipstick, patted her hair. Pity she hadn’t looked like this when she’d bumped into Kevin. But he’d asked for her number all the same, and she’d make damn sure she looked good the next time they met.

Forty-eight, not too old at all to start again. Look at Helen, head over heels at fifty-six. Maybe it was Sarah’s turn now.

She left the bedroom and
went downstairs. The house always seemed too quiet without the children, and without her father now too. She slipped on her grey coat, wrapped Christine’s silk scarf loosely around her neck.

‘You can have a loan,’ she’d said to Sarah. ‘It’ll help you make a good first impression.’

It was still in perfect condition, the swirls of colour just as fresh as when Sarah had seen it for the first time, lying on the wooden bridge. No harm to wear it, she supposed, with its original owner, and the traumatic circumstances of that day, just a distant memory now. And it was beautiful.

She took her car keys
from their hook and left the house, closing the door with a soft click.

‘W
e’ll have to take our seats,’ Breen said, ‘or they won’t let us in.’

‘Hang on, just another minute.’

But he was right. The lobby was practically empty, the last few patrons making their way to the auditorium. Helen checked the programme again, and Stephen Flannery was still listed as the second last performer in the first half of the concert. Sarah must be here; she must already be inside. She’d never have left it till the last minute to arrive.

The bell to call them to the performance rang again: they had to go. Walking up the stairs, Helen tried to remember what exactly she’d written.
Meet you at the bottom of the stairs before the show
– she could have sworn that was it. Maybe Sarah had forgotten, in the excitement of Stephen being part of the concert. Or maybe he’d got stage fright; maybe she’d had to go backstage to keep him calm. Yes, that was probably it.

As they took their
seats on the upper level, the lights dimmed. Helen strained to look down into the stalls – Sarah and the others would surely have got seats near the front. She searched for a group that contained a teenage girl, a man and two women, but it was hard to make out much from the backs of people’s heads. Maybe they weren’t all sitting together, of course; maybe Neil and his new partner had got separate tickets.

There were empty seats dotted here and there, one in the very front row – but Sarah must be here. Helen sat back: nothing to do but wait for the interval and try again.

The concert got under way, a mix of choral and instrumental performances, overseen by an enthusiastic master of ceremonies who took, Helen felt, slightly too long to introduce each act. Stephen, when he finally appeared on stage – she’d noticed Breen checking his watch more than once – turned out to be slight and fair-haired, in a blue jacket and grey trousers. She watched him trotting onto the stage, looking remarkably composed for an eleven-year-old, and she imagined how his mother must be feeling.

As he played his two allotted pieces, she searched the audience again for anyone taking a particular interest in his performance, but once more she found no clues. The applause at the end was enthusiastic – partly, she guessed, to do with his age, although his performance had been surprisingly good – but nobody stood or waved or gave any indication that they had a special connection with him.

‘What do you want to do?’ Breen asked when the lights came up.

Helen took her coat from the back of her seat. ‘I’m going to wait at the bottom of the stairs. She might have thought I said the interval.’

He looked doubtful. He’d probably decided that Sarah was her imaginary friend. ‘Do we have to stay for the second half?’

‘No, we don’t.’

She’d be happy to leave too: there was only so much teenage prodigy you could be expected to stomach, especially when you weren’t related to any of them. They walked downstairs.

‘Bring me a red wine,’ she instructed, and off he went, threading through the chattering crowds.

For the duration
of the interval she stood among the perfumed women and suited men, and teenagers who looked as if they’d far rather be out getting drunk in a field than sitting in their best clothes listening to the talented one in the family. She held her red coat over her arm, perfectly visible to anyone who might be looking for one, but nobody gave it, or her, a second glance.

By the time Breen reappeared with their drinks the interval was almost over, and Helen had given up. Sarah had been preoccupied with her son and simply forgotten their arrangement to meet. So much for finally coming face to face, so much for a friendship that had turned out, after all, not to be worth the paper it was written on.

The bell rang for the
end of the interval. The crowd began to drift back. Helen sipped her wine and found it to be undrinkable. She placed her glass on a nearby ledge.

‘Let’s go,’ she said.