Chapter 1
Rosie
"I'll be late home this evening," Darren said, standing up. "I'm showing a house." He pushed the kitchen chair
out with the back of his calves, making the legs screech
loudly against the ceramic floor tiles.
Rosie winced. She hated when he did that but said nothing.
He leant down
and kissed their four-old daughter, Cass on the cheek. "See you, poppet."
"How
late?" Rosie asked absently. She was watching Cass spoon more and more sugar onto her already sugar-saturated Frosties
but she didn't have the energy to stop her.
"After
nine, I'd say. Don't cook for me, I'll grab a sandwich or something in the office."
"Fine,”
she sighed. “You're never home these days, if I didn't know better I'd think you were having an affair."
"Listen,
I have to go,” he said quickly. “Will you be in
later?"
"What
are you talking about? Of course I'll be in. Where else would
I be? Out clubbing in Lillie’s with Cass? On a hot date
with Brad Pitt?" She tried to catch his eye but he was
staring at the door. "Darren, what's wrong?"
"Nothing.”
His hand was on the door handle. "I just need to talk to
you, that’s all."
She followed
him into the hall. He opened the front door without looking
back.
"Darren?"
she said to his disappearing back. "Darren?"
He turned
around and gave her a lop-sided smile.
"Everything’s fine. I’ll see you later.”
He opened the door of the jeep and stepped inside. She was
still standing on the doorstep in her stocking feet, her arms
folded around her body against the biting late-September
wind.
Darren
lowered his window and blew her a kiss.
"Are you
sure you’re OK?" she asked.
"Yes,
stop fretting. Work's getting to me, you know how it is. Have
a good day."
"I'll
try."
She watched
as he pulled out of the drive, gravel crunching under his
chunky tyres, and drove down the avenue. There was definitely
something up, but she couldn't quite put her finger on it. He
wasn't himself at the moment and she was worried about him.
Maybe he should go to the doctor for a check-up. It could be
something quite simple - like his blood pressure for
instance.
Cass looked
up as she walked back into the kitchen.
"Why are
you shivering, Mummy?"
"I'm
just cold." She shouldn't have stood on the doorstep in
her shirt-sleeves. She sat down.
"I'm not
cold," said Cass.
"Good.
Now eat up your Frosties." Rosie leant over, removed the
sugar bowl from the table and put it on top of the fridge.
"Mummy!
I need that."
"You
also need your teeth," she said firmly.
A short while
later, Rosie had managed to get Cass into the car.
"Mummy,
Alex Hargreaves said I was a baby. I'm not a baby, am
I?" Cass asked.
"No,
love." Rosie grabbed the seat belt and pulled it across
her daughter’s chest. "Sit still please, I can't
buckle you in otherwise."
Cass stopped
wriggling. "Can I have a treat?"
"You're
not even in playschool yet. No."
"Please?"
"No."
Cass began to cry.
"Please
stop crying, Cass. You can have something on the way home,
OK?"
"Can I
have some sweets?"
"No."
She began to
cry again.
Rosie gripped
the steering wheel tightly. "You can have a mini-Mars,
OK?"
"Can I
have two?"
"Yes,
whatever." She started up the engine and pulled out. It
was nearly half nine and she'd never get into town by ten at
this rate. At least the school was only down the road.
"Sorry
we're late," she smiled half-heartedly at Miss Morris,
her daughter’s teacher. The young blonde woman nodded
curtly and finished reciting the days of the week in Irish.
As Rosie walked quickly down the corridor she could hear the
children chanting the months of the year after their teacher
like a mantra. ‘Wee Things’ was a highly regarded
playschool and day-care centre but sometimes she wished the
teachers would lighten up a bit.
"Sorry
I'm late.” Rosie pushed open the door of the meeting
room. Emily Hayes, the Managing Director of Frames R Us and
her boss looked up over the top of her half-moon reading
glasses.
"What's
new?" Emily smiled. It wasn't a pleasant smile. Rosie
felt decidedly awkward.
"Don't
worry," Ruth, Rosie's assistant came to the rescue.
"We're flying along with the suggestions for the next
season's prints, aren't we Emily?"
"Yes.
Ruth even came in early to prepare the presentation. And I'm
impressed, most impressed."
Ruth beamed.
"Great.”
Rosie took off her black suit jacket, hung it on the back of
a chair and sat down. Bloody Ruth. Far too young and
enthusiastic for her own good. Straight out of Rathmines
College with a diploma in business after obtaining a first in
History of Art in Trinity College, Dublin, no less. Your
average nightmare.
The way
things were at the moment - juggling work, Cass and Darren
– Rosie felt she was hanging on to her job by her
fingernails. And being regularly late and having an
angelically punctual assistant didn't help.
Emily pushed
a sheet of paper towards her. "Here are Ruth's ideas for
the new range of motivational prints and art prints."
Rosie scanned
the sheet in front of her. "Our ideas," she
said after a moment. Mostly my ideas, she thought to herself.
Ruth smiled
sweetly. "Rosie did a lot of the work. I just added my
creative input."
Typing up the
document and adding some graphics was hardly adding much
creative input, Rosie thought to herself. But she hadn't had
the time to do it and Ruth had offered to come in over the
weekend, so she couldn’t really complain.
"Let's
get on, shall we?" Emily snapped. "Rosie would you
like to continue? Ruth and I were having a little informal
chat about the proposals." Emily looked at her
pointedly. "While we were waiting for you."
Rosie cleared
her throat. "Good.” She tried not to be put off by
her boss who was staring at her un-unnervingly. "Well,
for next season I've been looking at the market for new art
prints and motivational prints. Motivational prints is an
area that we've been extremely successful in over the past
three years and an area that can be expanded." She
pointed at a graph on the second sheet of the document.
"The sales figures are very strong as you can see from
the graph."
"Yes,
indeed." Emily nodded.
"I was
also looking at increasing the range of Irish art prints -
including some more contemporary artists such as Alan de
Blackam, Graham Knuttel and . . . "
"Who?"
Emily interrupted.
"Alan de
Blackam used to be a model and he's now one of Dublin's up
and coming artists. If you turn to the back page you'll see
some of his work."
Emily flicked
through the pages in the folder. "Is that his?" She
pointed at a brightly coloured image of a group of women.
"No,
that's a Graham Knuttel. Great, isn't it? I think the more
modern offices would really . . . "
"Too
modern.” Emily glanced at the remainder of the colour
images, her nose wrinkling unbecomingly. "All too
modern. Not what our customers want."
"But I
think you'll find . . . "
"What
are these?" Emily held up another page.
Ruth jumped
in. "I took the liberty of including some of my own
ideas." Rosie tried not to glare at her. "They're
impressionist artists - lots of nice, gentle colours and
tranquil scenes."
"I like
them," said Emily. "Much more suitable."
"We've
done them before!" Rosie protested. "In fact the
majority of our back catalogue is made up of Impressionists.
I thought it would be good to try something different,
something more contemporary."
"We
haven't done these particular images before," said Ruth.
"I checked."
"Good,
great," Emily said firmly, closing the folder in front
of her abruptly. "We'll go with those. And the new
motivational prints. Anything else?"
Rosie and
Ruth both shook their heads.
“Excellent.”
Emily stood up and left the room without a backward glance.
Rosie sighed
inwardly while tidying up the meeting table. Ever since she'd
been made Creative Director and Marketing Manager three years
ago, she'd been trying to change Emily's mind about art but
she had almost given up. Emily, as she was always telling
anyone who'd listen, knew nothing about art but knew what she
liked and she refused to allow Frame's R Us to move forward.
"That
went well don’t you think?" Ruth asked, a nervous
edge on her voice.
"Ruth,
please tell me if you've added anything to a presentation. It
was a little embarrassing. And I wanted Emily to look at the
Irish artists’ work."
Ruth looked
at Rosie. There was a slight smile lingering on Ruth’s
lips.
"What?"
Rosie demanded.
"You
didn't honestly think she'd go for the Graham Knuttel's did
you?"
"Why
not?"
"Her
taste is stuck in the Dark Ages, that's why. You know that. I
don't know why you bother."
"Because
I think we should be supporting our Irish artists, that's
why," Rosie said a little more strongly than she’d
intended.
"This is
a business, Rosie, not an art gallery."
"I know.
More’s the pity. Anyway we'd better get on with finding
the copyrights on the Impressionist images."
"Most of
them are out of copyright,” said Ruth smugly.
"Are you
sure?"
She nodded.
"Good.
Well done." It meant that no fees had to be paid for
reproducing the images on posters. Smart girl, Rosie thought
to herself.
"What
are you doing for lunch?" asked Kim.
"Sorry,"
said Rosie. "I'm up to my tonsils here, maybe
tomorrow."
"No
problem. How are things anyway?"
"The
usual. Just about keeping it together."
"You do
too much. I'm always telling you to go part-time."
"I know,
I know. Listen, I'll talk to you later."
"Too
busy for your own sister, I don't know." Kim laughed.
"It's
not that . . . "
"I'm
only joking. I know what it’s like in there, I'll ring
you this evening."
Rosie rubbed
her temples with her knuckles. She could feel a headache
coming on. Maybe it was only dehydration - the office was
really hot and muggy. She took a slug of water from the
bottle of Ballygowan on her desk. She was trying to come up
with a marketing plan for a new shop which was opening in Dun
Laoire. So far she'd jotted down 'grand opening - local
celebrity/politician'. Her heart just wasn't in it today. In
fact it hadn't been for a long time.
When she left
college with a degree in History of Art (with a second,
unlike Ruth) she started working in Frames R Us on Wicklow
Street. She’d had her heart set on working in an art
gallery, and a print and framing shop, she thought at the
time, was a step in the right direction. It was her first
'proper’ job and she loved it. She had a real flair for
choosing the right frame to suit every baby, christening,
wedding and graduation photograph and she loved talking to
the customers about the fine art prints. She worked hard and
in less than a year she was the manager of the shop and had
made such a success of it that the owners, Emily's parents,
asked her to help set up a new shop in Blackrock. Within
three years Frames R Us had five shops and Rosie had been
moved to the new 'head office' over the Wicklow street shop.
But these
days she was becoming more and more disillusioned with the
work. Her priorities had shifted when she'd had Cass. Darren
had encouraged her to keep working but now she wasn't sure
she was doing the right thing by any of them. She was so damn
tired all the time and she never really got to see Cass at
all. The weekends were spent trying to catch up on 'house'
things - trying to stop the garden from becoming a complete
wilderness, washing clothes, walls, hoovering, shopping - the
list was endless.
Rosie's phone
rang. She picked it up.
"Do you
have the projected marketing plan for the Dun Laoire shop
finished?" asked Emily curtly.
"Nearly.
I'm working on it now."
"I need
it before the end of today. Maybe Ruth could help you."
"Yes,
thanks." Rosie put down the receiver. She held her head
in her hands and stared at the wall. Someone had replaced the
dramatic bright red Georgia O'Keefe poppies picture with a
chocolate-box Renoir. Emily, she presumed. It was shaping up
to be one of those days.
"Rosie?"
Darren walked
into their bedroom that evening and flicked on the light. It
was only just after nine but she was already fast asleep, her
face buried in the pillow, breathing deeply.
He switched
off the light. He hesitated, then went back down the stairs,
into the living room and took out his mobile.
"Hi,
love. I'm just ringing to say goodnight."
It was
answered immediately. "Have you talked to her yet?"
"What?
No, she's asleep."
"Darren!"
"I know,
but I don't have the heart to wake her. I'll talk to her
tomorrow, I promise."
"Do you
mean it?"
"Of
course I mean it."
"I love
you."
"I know.
Me too. Bye."
He sat back
on the sofa and stared straight ahead of him. His eyes were
accosted by one of Rosie's new acquisitions - a huge original
oil painting of some sort of white lily-type flower. It was
much too in your face for his liking. Rosie said it reminded
her of Georgia O'Keeffe, whoever that was. He had a good mind
to take it down, put it the garage and replace it with his
new framed poster of Tiger Woods. Soon, he promised himself,
just bide your time.
"I'm not
a bloody mind reader," said Rosie, banging the milk
carton down on the kitchen table the following morning and
sloshing milk all over the white ash surface. "How was I
supposed to know you needed your blue shirt today?"
Darren sighed
and ran his fingers through his damp hair. He was standing in
front of her, naked from the waist up. She noticed in passing
that he'd lost some weight.
"You
knew I had an auction today," he said huffily. "I
presumed you'd realise . . . "
"Well,
you shouldn't presume anything," she said shortly,
spooning the last of the Frosties into Cass's mouth.
"Run downstairs, there's a good girl and wash your
teeth." Cass jumped up. "And don't forget to wash
around your mouth," she added to her daughter's
disappearing back.
"You
should go with her," Darren said mildly. "She never
does her teeth properly."
She glared at
him. "You go with her, then."
"I'm
sure she'll be fine."
"Listen,
I'm sorry your shirt isn't ready, OK?" She stood up and
began to clear the breakfast bowls and plates into the
washing machine.
"I'll
get the ironing board out. It's almost dry and if you give it
an iron . . . "
"If I
give it an iron." She laughed maniacally. "Cass
is already late for school, I've no make-up on and I have to
make her school lunch. I don't think so."
"It's an
important auction. You know how bad I am at ironing. Please?
Just this once."
She sighed.
It wasn't worth arguing with him. "Give it to me. Go and
check Cass is ready."
Ten minutes
later Darren had left in his precious blue shirt and Rosie
was hurrying Cass out the front door. She strapped her into
the car, threw the pink Barbie school bag onto the floor
under the pink runnered feet, ran back to the hall, grabbed
her make-up bag, work bag and coat and pulled the front door
behind her with her foot, nearly straining a calf muscle in
the process. Flinging everything onto the front passenger
seat she smiled at Cass.
"Are you
OK, Love?"
"Fine,
Mummy.”
"Good
girl. Where's your coat, did you take it off?"
Cass shrugged
her shoulders.
"Damn!”
Rosie jumped out of the car, opened the front door, dashed up
the stairs and grabbed the small pink coat from the back of
her bedroom door.
Reaching
the car again she took a deep breath before turning the key in the ignition. She was running twenty minutes late. If
Dublin Corporation hadn't decided to install some new road works this morning she might just get into town on time,
fingers crossed.
