Made With Love

Chapter 8

I watch as Bridie trips up the path toward the minibus and the semi-circle of holidaymakers. Her head looks enormous in the whirling glass. Mum never mentioned Bridie. Or the factory. Not even once. But the way Bridie was going on about her, they must’ve been close. So why have I never heard of her, or St Enda’s?

I pause in the corridor, my heart humming in time with the old diesel. Don’t tell me the big, black Tully secret is cheese! Kate would never let me live that down. Maybe it was something to do with money. The diesel coughs, sputters for a few seconds, and then thrums brightly again. Whatever it is Bridie knows, or doesn’t know, it can’t be that important. Right?

I dart and duck my way around the perimeter of the factory floor. They are nice ladies, all of them. Very nice. But I can’t let myself get sucked into this mess! I have my own mess! My own very nice (very expensive) New York sort of mess. Brad materializes, all smooth talk and black jeans, in front of me. He puts a hand to my face and leans down, eyes wide open, to kiss me.

WAKE UP, for God’s sake, Julie!

I push Brad out of my mind, let myself out the loading bay door, and mince my way back up the road. At the top of the hill, I hang a right for the village. I have to check in with Kate. She made me promise I’d ring as soon as I got here. She’ll be worried sick! Hopefully, she’s been too busy to get too wound up.

I quicken my pace, imagining the what ifs. Has she landed the office off Bryant Park? Has she put in her resignation at M&A? Or had she been struck down with a terrible dose of The Biting of Reality? The thought makes me shiver. Even twenty-some-odd-thousand dollars to the good, there is no way I could launch the firm on my own. But Kate wouldn’t leave me hanging like that. No way. She’s probably kicked back behind an ultra mod plastic desk, chatting up clients and watching the park goers sip at their morning coffees.

Coffee. I’d give my left eye for a proper coffee. I double time it onto the main street of the village. A man with bushy eyebrows ambles by, a heifer at his heels. He cranes his neck at me as he passes. I round the bend and the glossy black façade of the Kilronan Arms rears into view, its tall sash windows sparkling in the sun. A hand printed sign sits wedged on the corner sill: ‘Free Wi-Fi’.

Thank God for that.

I push through the door and make my way to the bar, or what I think is the bar. It’s hard to see in the shuttered half light. Three old men swivel on their stools to consider me.

‘Hello,’ I say to the nearest of them. They nod.

Where is the bartender? I crane a look behind the bar and into a store. The ruddy old boys stare at me as unashamedly as children. Somewhere, a door slams shut, and then a boy, maybe fourteen, knees his way through the side door, his boney elbows jutting out on either side of the crate he’s cradling.

‘Sorry, now,’ he says to me and sets the crate under the bar. ‘What can I get ya?’

For a few too many seconds, I’m dumbstruck. The old fella beside me empties his glass and says, ‘Give her a drop of the black stuff, Paudie.’ The man beside him gives a low whistle into his pint.

Black stuff?

Paudie ignores them.

‘I’ll have a coffee, please.’

‘Milk and sugar?’

‘Black.’

He nods and pads to the other end of the bar. The drip machine hisses to life and fills the stale room with an earthy, sweet smell. When Paudie reappears with a steaming mug, I almost reach across the bar to hug him.