2005
In the hinterland between lunch and dinner, the coffee machine and the industrial dishwasher hummed a discordant melody into the silence of the restaurant. She adjusted, for the third time, the wine bottles on the shelves. Côtes de Provence, whose labels already faced the right way, whose spacing was perfect, but she came back to them, the pale grapefruit colour, just to fuss. Touched the glass like they were talismans that could transport her back to the vineyard.
It had been a week since she’d returned from her annual Christmas visit. Her mother’s house in Nice, first, then the chalet for New Year, where the Alps were perfect, the sky was clear, and in those idealistic days when she took to the slopes, it felt impossible to focus on ordinary things. Exams. Obligation. The anxiety that had seeped into her life, following her about, scattering when she turned to look it in the eye. Provence was carefree and perfect, and Dublin, well, was how it was. And she was back. And dark grey clouds blotted out the light so the city seemed halfway to night, and made the sun feel like something she'd imagined.
The server on staff perched on the corner of a table, creasing the pressed linen.
“Tamara,” Lissa said. “You’ll need to find something to do. You can’t just stand there doing nothing.”
Tamara gestured to the empty restaurant. “I don't see any diners.”
“There's always something to do,” Lissa marched into the kitchen where the dishwasher beeped. Grabbed the cutlery and dumped it into a plastic tub. “What if a customer came in and saw you just leaning there idly against a table like that? What kind of message would that send?”
She returned to the restaurant floor in time to see her pull a face. Tamara, a third-year student of cosmetology, hated her. It was so obvious, but Lissa positioned herself as someone unbothered by it. There was a way to do things in this business, and Tamara ought to learn, especially since she was the one who was older. Older but clearly not wiser, Lissa thought as she shoved the tub into her hands.
“You can polish these,” she said. “There’s something for you.”
At that moment, she sighted her father, sauntering up to the door. He took a perfunctory glance around the restaurant. “Not too busy, by the looks of it, are you, darling?”
Tamara leapt up and flung herself into vigorous polishing.
Lissa sighed. “Well… not right at this minute.”
He smiled. “Fantastic. I was hoping I could introduce you to some friends of mine. They’ve just stopped by for afternoon tea in the lounge.”
“No, I—”
“Come. Won’t be long. Is it okay, Tamara, if I steal her away for a few moments?” He winked, knowing her permission was not required.
“Absolutely, Jarlath.”
Lissa followed him into the hallway. “I really don’t have a lot of time,” she pointed out. “If there’s a mid-afternoon rush…. And, by the way, I don’t look very presentable.”
“Oh, you do. You’re lovely.”
She was not in any mood to meet more of her father’s friends. They were all churned from the same factory line. A parade of light-pink businessmen in navy suits, and hands that felt disturbingly warm and spongy when she shook them.
They crossed into the lounge, which smelled of coffee and quiche Lorraine, and eyes were on them. Ripples of recognition across the tables. That’s him, the owner—yes. Isn’t he shorter in person? And older.
“This way, darling,” he said, and brought her toward a table by the window. Oh, of course. It was him. Nick, and two older people—his parents. She could have dug her heels into the carpet when she saw them.
“Dad... I really can't stay—”
“Lissa, this is Ben and Linda Lynott, and their son Nicholas.”
He turned, slightly flushed under the collar. As the atmosphere at the table descended on her, she began to wonder what they had interrupted.
His parents flashed tight smiles, adjusted themselves, and became, before her eyes, warm, welcoming people who were just delighted to see her.
Ben presented his hand to be shaken. Gold ring, gold watch. “Lissa. Lovely to see you again. It’s been years. Since you were just a tiny thing. You probably don’t remember me, eh?” He had a deep, gravelly voice as though permanently needing to clear his throat, and that accent—that strange national broadcaster accent, that wasn’t quite from anywhere at all. A host of tiny purple vessels bloomed on his cheeks, giving him a deep, ruddy complexion. Nothing like Nick except for his eyes with their slight downturn on the edges, which made him look patient, maybe, or sad.
And his mother, Linda, who she recognised as the woman who wore a gigantic hat to her father’s wedding. Thin and sunbed brown, she was nice, so she felt bad for how she and Alexander had spluttered into their ribeye when she blocked a photographer’s view with the brim. She smiled with lots of shiny, even teeth and told Lissa she was pretty. Even in the restaurant uniform, oh, yes, most girls wouldn’t pull that off.
And they talked in the way that parents did—about their children, the most interesting topic they could come up with. First steps to reading milestones to college applications. A subject of endless fascination and comparison.
“Oh, Nicky goes to Trinity, too,” Linda said when Jarlath boasted about Lissa. “Have you seen each other around?”
Nick tossed a sugar cube into his teacup and left it untouched. “I think we’re in different departments.”
Lissa nodded. “Yeah, I do business and law, so…” A pause. “Um, what do you study?”
“Media studies,” he said.
“It’s a big university.”
“Yes.”
She glanced at her father, hoping he would rescue her.
“Lissa is taking her scholarship exams next week,” with his hand on her back, he pushed her forward, positioning her like he did for the magazine wedding photos. “We have a great feeling about them. She’s always been a clever clogs, this one.”
“Oh, fantastic, Lissa. Look at you!” Linda gushed. “Scholarship exams while helping out at the hotel, and no doubt, studying for other work at college. Gosh, you’d put the rest of us to shame with your work ethic, wouldn’t you?”
Nick spun his teaspoon around his fingers.
“Well, best of luck with it,” he said without looking up. “Hope you get it.”
“What about you, Nicholas? Have you plans to sit them?” said Jarlath, stunningly oblivious.
“Dad…”
“I always say there’s no harm in just giving it a shot. What’s the worst that can happen? If anything, it’s great experience, isn’t it?”
Ben cleared his throat.
“Nicky’s taking a bit of time to recalibrate,” Linda said gently. “Aren’t you, love? He’ll be missing the scholarship exams this year, but there’s always next year….”
“Yes,” he replied. “Next year.”
Lissa stood there. “Yeah,” she said. “You just never know.”
His expression was lifeless.
“Well,” she said with her largest, brightest smile. “I should be getting back to my restaurant duties, I think. Ben, Linda, it was a genuine pleasure.” She looked at Nick, adding: “And you too. Best of luck with college.”
He nodded, still not meeting her eye.
“Maybe we’ll see each other around.”
“Yes,” he said. “And the exams… I hope they go well for you.”
“Thanks,” she said. “I’m sure they will.”
It came out wrong—too certain. Like she was rubbing his face in it. His jaw tightened.
“Right,” he said. “Of course they will.”
She stood there a moment longer than she should have, watching him drop another sugar cube into the lukewarm tea. The other cups at the table had been drunk—milky dregs in the bottom—but his remained untouched, the sugar dissolving into nothing.
Then she turned and walked back through the lounge, past the ripple of eyes that had followed her in, by which point her father was already absorbed in conversation with someone else. His hand on the back of their chair. He didn't register her leaving. Already got what he needed from her.
In the restaurant, Tamara leaned on the table, the cutlery left mostly unpolished. “Hey! The cutlery…” Lissa said, and trailed off as Tamara dragged a fistful of forks from the tub and began buffing hatefully with a cloth.
Lissa returned to the bottles. Touched them to conjure Provence, but no vision arrived. Cold, hard glass. Dublin rain against the window. She adjusted them once again.
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