My Mother's Secret Page 3

  Roisin sighed as she went into the kitchen and looked out the back window into the garden. Her mother was sitting on the canopied swing chair that Roisin and Paul had bought at the beginning of the summer and which was coming into its own in the heatwave. Jenny was reading the newspaper while Daisy, Roisin’s thirteen-year-old daughter, sat on the grass nearby, carefully varnishing her nails. Roisin was normally fairly strict about allowing her elder daughter to wear any kind of make-up, even though Daisy insisted that she had to experiment with different looks if she was going to fulfil her dream of becoming a top model. Roisin occasionally worried that her daughter might actually achieve this insane desire, because Daisy, like Steffie, was tall and coltish and very slender. She had a beguiling quality in photographs, in which her heart-shaped face and wide sea-blue eyes managed to appear both innocent and knowing at the same time. Fortunately, from Roisin’s point of view, there were thousands of gorgeous, quirky-looking girls wanting to be models, so the chances of Daisy being plucked from a sea of hopefuls was, she reassured herself, fairly slim. And with a little luck Daisy would eventually change her mind and get a proper job. Nevertheless, Roisin was careful never to make disparaging remarks to her about having to starve yourself to death to maintain your teenage figure in your twenties in order to stay at the top of the modelling industry. The last thing she wanted was for Daisy to suddenly start having negative body issues and haunting anorexia sites. So she said nothing, hoped for the best and only allowed her worries to surface in the middle of the night.

  It was funny how your worries about your children changed with every passing year, she thought. When they were small and she was working outside the home her concerns were all about decent childcare. Later, the main anxiety she had about Daisy was making sure that she had friends. Her daughter had been so dreamy and disconnected from the world around her that Roisin feared she’d always be an outsider. But her childish dreaminess had vanished almost overnight, and these days she was about as popular as it was possible for a girl to be. Which was an extra worry too. Being super-popular was nearly as bad as being the outcast. As far as her other children, nine-year-old Poppy and six-year-old Dougie, were concerned, right now it was all about keeping them happy and ensuring that they weren’t fighting with each other or with their friends. And in Dougie’s case it was important that he got picked for the under-seven football team too.

  That was where he was today, along with his dad and grandfather, at a friendly against an opposing team from a neighbouring estate. Roisin had no compunction about using moral blackmail to persuade her father that Dougie’s day would be made by him turning up at the game. Pascal had been a keen footballer when he was younger and Dougie looked up to him as the fount of all footballing wisdom. Poppy was equally mad about sport and equally keen to offer advice from the sideline, so it made sense to send them all off together.

  So many people to look after, thought Roisin. So many things to juggle. And that was something that Steffie, who had it easy with only herself to think about, would never understand. Left to her own devices, she wouldn’t even have remembered Jenny and Pascal’s wedding anniversary, and even if she had, she wouldn’t have done anything about it. She definitely wouldn’t have bothered to organise the kind of party their parents deserved. Roisin had heard the hesitation in her sister’s voice when she’d called and asked her to be involved in a little of the planning. She’d known that Steffie wasn’t all that keen. But she’d shamed her into being part of it, and later today, when Jenny and Pascal were suitably surprised and pleased, Roisin would bet her bottom dollar that Steffie would happily accept any plaudits that came her way without admitting that nothing would have happened if it wasn’t for Roisin.

  To be fair, Roisin conceded, when she’d finally come on board Steffie had done everything that she’d asked of her. Roisin knew she’d ultimately left her sister with a lot to do, but she’d kept the hardest part for herself, which was getting their parents out of Aranbeg on the pretext of babysitting, so that they would be in Dublin and under her control on the day of the party itself. Of course either one of them was always willing to babysit; the difficult job had been getting both of them to turn up the previous night. The football match had been a good diversion today, and she’d given Paul, her husband, strict instructions not to rush home. On their way out she’d whispered to Poppy to ask if they could stop off at McDonald’s after the match, a treat that was very rarely allowed. So she was hopeful that it would easily be mid afternoon before her parents set off.

  The plan was that Paul, Roisin and the children would leave as soon as possible afterwards and – given that Pascal stuck to a self-imposed 80 kph speed limit – overtake them somewhere on the N11, getting to Aranbeg before them. As she also had to get herself ready, and then organise both Paul and the children, Roisin was looking at a logistical nightmare, but over the years she’d become an expert at sorting out logistical nightmares.

  She made some tea and brought a cup to her mother.

  ‘Thank you, darling.’ Jenny accepted it gratefully. ‘I was gasping.’

  ‘It’s too hot today.’ Daisy sounded cranky. ‘It’s melting my nail varnish.’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ Roisin said.

  ‘It is,’ protested Daisy. ‘It’s going all gloopy on me and I want it to be perfect for—’

  ‘You can do it in the kitchen so,’ Roisin interrupted before she blurted out something about the party, ‘but don’t get it all over my table.’

  ‘Mum! I’m not Dougie.’ Daisy looked affronted as she gathered up her bits and pieces and stalked off to the house, her tanned legs shown off to their very best advantage by the skimpy denim shorts she was wearing.

  ‘They grow up young these days, don’t they,’ mused Jenny.

  ‘And how.’ Roisin nodded. ‘I don’t think you would’ve allowed me wear shorts like those at thirteen.’

  ‘Probably not,’ agreed Jenny.

  ‘Not that you can keep them from doing anything now,’ Roisin said. ‘They give you a pitying look, mutter about calling ChildLine and go right ahead.’

  ‘I’m sure Daisy will be fine,’ said Jenny.

  ‘I hope so.’ Roisin frowned. ‘You don’t want to turn them into sex objects and yet they’re bombarded with pictures about how they should look – those awful celebrity magazines are the worst.’

  ‘Agreed. Though if I looked as good as Daisy, I’d be wearing minidresses and micro shorts every day,’ said Jenny.

  ‘Mum!’

  ‘It’s true,’ Jenny said. ‘The amount of time you have when all your bits are perky and unwrinkled is a lot less than you think. Best to flaunt it while you can.’

  ‘I don’t want Daisy flaunting it,’ protested Roisin. ‘She’s still a kid, for heaven’s sake!’

  ‘Well, no, I understand that,’ agreed Jenny. ‘It’s just that young girls really can look so pretty, can’t they?’

  ‘She’s obsessed enough about how she looks,’ Roisin said. ‘Please don’t encourage her.’

  ‘Actually it was probably always that way,’ observed Jenny. ‘How she looks is the obsession of almost every teenage girl. Unfortunately, there are so many more products these days to feed it.’ She smiled. ‘My obsession when I was younger was hair colour. My natural colour was mousy and I wanted something more dramatic. Your gran thought colouring your hair was only for harlots. She expressly forbade me to get it done. I did, of course, and she went mental.’

  Roisin laughed. ‘Not really?’

  ‘Oh yes. Kay was very strict.’ Jenny’s expression was grim for a moment.

  ‘Not with me,’ Roisin said. ‘I remember she used to allow me to use her perfume.’

  ‘Eau de cologne,’ remembered Jenny. ‘It was called 4711. It was very popular back then.’

  ‘I haven’t smelled it in ages,’ said Roisin, ‘but if I did, I’d think of Granny straight away.’ She looked pensive. ‘It would be lovely to be able to see her and talk to her again,’ she said. �
��As a grown-up.’

  ‘I remember thinking that about my grandmother too.’ Jenny nodded. ‘We’re clearly very alike.’

  ‘You always say I’m like Dad.’

  ‘In appearance you are,’ agreed Jenny. ‘Dark hair, dark eyes. You and Davey both.’

  ‘And Steffie is more like you,’ said Roisin.

  Jenny nodded.

  ‘Although you when you were younger and more of a hippy,’ added Roisin. ‘Now you’re sort of cool and elegant.’

  Jenny chuckled. ‘I’m not cool. I’m turning into a puddle here. Daisy was right, it’s getting very hot. And sultry. We could do with that thunderstorm to clear the air.’

  Roisin made a non-committal sound. The last thing she wanted was a thunderstorm.

  ‘Will they be back from the match soon?’ asked Jenny. ‘It would be nice for your dad and me to get to Wexford earlier rather than later.’

  ‘Any minute,’ lied Roisin, knowing that they were almost certainly in McDonald’s right now.

  ‘Ah well, we’ll be back in plenty of time for our dinner,’ said Jenny.

  Roisin knew that her parents had made a reservation at Cody’s, an upmarket restaurant in the village near Aranbeg, which she assumed was their attempt at celebrating forty years together. She’d already cancelled it.

  ‘You’ll be back in plenty of time, don’t worry,’ she told her mother.

  ‘I’ve got fidgety in my old age,’ confessed Jenny. ‘I usen’t to worry about time or punctuality at all, but now I’m obsessive.’

  ‘Not a bit of it,’ Roisin told her. ‘What are you planning to wear tonight?’

  ‘Just a little black dress,’ replied Jenny.

  ‘Ah, the little black dress.’ Roisin smiled. ‘So useful. How many do you have?’

  ‘Only the one,’ Jenny said. ‘But it’s super-comfortable and I can accessorise it up or down.’

  ‘Up tonight, I guess.’

  ‘My diamonds,’ Jenny confided. ‘I don’t get much opportunity to wear them.’

  Roisin made a mental note to ring Steffie as soon as Pascal and Jenny were on the road. She’d get her sister to have the dress and the diamonds ready for Jenny to change into, so that her mother would feel properly glam at her party. As for Pascal, well, he wasn’t someone who ever dressed up. Not even for classy restaurants. But perhaps he’d find something more suitable to wear when he got home.

  While Jenny glanced through the newspaper again, Roisin checked her phone to see if Davey’s flight had landed. According to the app, it had just touched down. She sent him a text saying that she was looking forward to seeing him and reminding him to park in the grounds of the GAA club, in case he’d forgotten.

  Organising everyone, she thought again. Whether they appreciated it or not.

  Chapter 4

  The flight from Copenhagen had arrived ten minutes early but the cabin crew made an announcement about a problem with the air bridge that would delay them for a short while. The majority of the passengers, already standing in the narrow aisles with their cabin baggage, grumbled impatiently, but Camilla, who was still sitting in her seat, simply shrugged.

  ‘We’re always so bloody inefficient,’ complained Davey as he switched on his mobile phone. ‘It’s embarrassing.’

  ‘These things can happen anywhere,’ Camilla pointed out.

  ‘Always here.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. I’m not judging your entire country on a broken air bridge. Same as I didn’t judge it on you.’ She grinned and he couldn’t help smiling in return.

  ‘I judge yours entirely on you,’ he told her. ‘Cool, chic and competent.’

  ‘True,’ said Camilla.

  Davey’s phone beeped with Roisin’s incoming message and he grunted. Didn’t she think he read his emails? She’d sent him a detailed missive the day before in which the instruction to park at the GAA club had been highlighted in bold. He was about to send a terse reply when there was a sudden flurry at the front of the plane and the door finally opened.

  ‘See,’ Camilla said. ‘A delay of five minutes. Which means we are exactly on time.’

  ‘They were probably thrown into a complete panic because of us being early in the first place.’ Davey abandoned the text to Roisin and shoved his phone in his pocket. ‘OK, let’s go.’

  They disembarked the aircraft, cleared immigration and went directly to the car hire desk. Davey had rented a VW Golf for their drive to Wexford. Fortunately for his efforts to impress upon Camilla that modern Ireland was a smoothly efficient and businesslike country, the rental agency was completely competent, and less than twenty minutes later they were driving out of the car park.

  ‘I can’t believe it’s so warm.’ Davey took his sunglasses out of his jacket pocket and put them on. ‘It’s not normally like this.’

  ‘Climate change,’ said Camilla.

  ‘Everyone in Ireland would like climate change to mean hotter summers,’ Davey told her. ‘But maybe not as humid as this; it’s like Singapore, for heaven’s sake!’

  ‘Not quite,’ Camilla told him. ‘In Singapore, the temperature—’

  ‘It was a figure of speech!’ cried Davey. ‘I do know it’s not the same here, honestly. Still hot and sticky, though.’

  Camilla raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m a bit tense.’

  She relaxed back into the seat and looked around her with interest. It was her first visit to Ireland and she was surprised at how much it seemed to matter to Davey that she approved of it. Ever since he’d received the invitation to his parents’ anniversary party, he’d been praising and deprecating his homeland in equal measure.

  ‘We’re very outgoing,’ he’d said on numerous occasions. ‘More chatty, more open. But we’re hopeless at stuff too. Sort of hopeful that things’ll work out rather than making sure they do. Though it usually ends up OK.’

  She’d smiled.

  ‘It’s not the same as Denmark.’

  She couldn’t count the number of times he’d said that. As though Denmark was a shining beacon of all that was right and smart and – most of all – efficient in the world and Ireland was some kind of shambolic maelstrom where things got done by luck rather than intent. Yet so far Camilla had seen nothing but competency and good humour, and Davey’s clear complex about his homeland intrigued her.

  Camilla Rasmussen had known Davey Sheehan for about six months and she cared for him very much. She didn’t permit herself to use emotive words like love, which conveyed feelings that she wasn’t yet prepared to acknowledge as far as Davey was concerned; but he was an attractive companion, she enjoyed his company, and he was fun. They had a shared interest in renewable energy (she worked for a sustainable energy organisation, while his company produced turbines for wind farms); they both enjoyed playing chess and were addicted to online puzzle games. If she were looking for a long-term relationship, she told herself, if she were even thinking of marriage, then Davey Sheehan would be high on the list. She was surprised he hadn’t been married before. At thirty-seven, most men she knew had been around the block at least once. But Davey had neither married nor lived with anyone, which was both an advantage and a disadvantage. She’d ironed out most of the disadvantages, such as his initial inability to remember there was another person in the house which meant him having to learn to compromise on TV programmes, music and decor; his habit of forgetting that they owned both a washing machine and a dishwasher; his meltdowns when something was moved from where he’d put it, especially when he’d put it in the wrong place. And, more importantly, his lack of knowledge about what actually constituted a home-cooked meal – Davey wasn’t a reconstructed man in the kitchen, and if it couldn’t be heated in a microwave, he didn’t eat it. Well, hadn’t eaten it; it was different now.

  However, the advantages of living with someone who hadn’t had another woman’s likes and dislikes imprinted on his consciousness were obvious. He didn’t have anyone to compare her to, unless you counted his mother
, which Camilla didn’t, since Jenny Sheehan hadn’t been, from what she could gather, a domestic goddess of any consequence. Davey was almost grateful, Camilla thought, to have a woman around the house who, although a hundred per cent committed to her career, also knew about healthy eating and comfortable living and, of course, was good in bed. Camilla smiled to herself. She knew that she was very good in bed and that Davey was reaping the benefit of her experience. It was nice, as the woman, to feel that you were the one with the more varied past; it was also nice that Davey didn’t feel the need to quiz her about it. Of course sex with Davey wasn’t all about her own talents; he was a generous and adaptable lover, and far more concerned about her pleasure than her previous boyfriends had been, which was a refreshing change. But she was definitely the one with more skills in the bedroom.

  Nevertheless, from Camilla’s perspective, Davey Sheehan was a good bet and she was certainly happy to be sharing a spacious loft apartment in Østerbro with him. She thought it was sweet that he still wanted to impress her. And she knew that he wanted her to like his family, and for them to like her too. She leaned her head on his shoulder for a moment. He took one hand from the steering wheel and squeezed her knee before she sat upright again.

  Davey returned his hand to the steering wheel and glanced at his girlfriend. Sometimes he really did pinch himself to see that he wasn’t dreaming, because it seemed inconceivable to him that he, Davey Sheehan, without any great redeeming features to his name, had somehow managed to land a beauty like Camilla Rasmussen. From the moment he’d first seen her at a conference on alternative energy sources, he’d been attracted by her unshakeable poise, her effortless good looks and her easy conversation. When she’d accepted his invitation to dinner, he’d been astonished. And it was still a mystery to him why she’d agreed to move in with him. Yes, he admitted to himself, he was successful in his job. Yes, in comparison perhaps to some of the earnest people that populated the industry, he was easy-going – Camilla said that she liked that about him. But still. His hair was thinner than it had been ten years earlier and flecked with grey. His abs weren’t exactly a six-pack. (They hadn’t been in his twenties either, but back then he could have fantasised.) And while he knew he’d upped his game over the past few months, he would never be as ruthlessly groomed as Ivar Nygaard – of the black jumpers, black trousers and silver-rimmed designer glasses – who worked in the same company as Camilla and with whom she’d had a year-long relationship that had ended shortly before he, Davey, had met her at the conference.