‘After the meeting with Max, I went straight to the vending machine which I had passed several times a day for the last decade but had never sullied with my hard-earned cash. I flung in the coins, pressed the code for a Mars Bar and waited for the drop. I ate it standing there. And I haven’t stopped eating sugar since. God, this coffee and walnut is good. I’d forgotten how nice food can actually be. Why did I ever think it was a good idea to go out with Max? I think I was desperate.’ Sugar had made her slightly hyper, I noticed. But maybe that was the whole point.
‘After I’d eaten the Mars Bar, I was practically buzzing with the sugar. I felt almost luminous like ET or something, like I could take off. I barged right into his office and I could swear he was playing a game on his phone. Sudoku or something. Anyway, Max says…’ She couldn’t quite get the words out. ‘He says that I’m not the right fit for the news anymore. They want a new look. Freshen it up, that was the phrase he used. It’s a euphemism for using younger talent, that’s all. He said that I had to be realistic, now I’m forty. He said that no one wants to see a mature woman on television except for notable exceptions. And I’m not a notable exception.’
‘That’s outrageous.’
‘He said that there’s always going to be someone younger and prettier and more talented so just get on with it. Which I think, in his weird little world, was him actually trying to be comforting, but I told him to fuck off.’
‘Would you like a drink? There’s still the Baileys in the cupboard. Cake in alcohol form.’
‘Yes please,’ she said. ‘I may as well become diabetic as well as jobless, old and single.’ She shrugged. I poured us both a drink, thinking I needed one too after the conversation with Red and worrying about Rosie. ‘How could Max do this to you?’
‘He’s ruthless. Told me not to take it personally. It’s business. He’s not a very nice person, you know. And mad. Quite, quite mad.’ She sipped her drink. ‘Christ on a bike. What am I going to do?’ she said, mascara-streaked, her hair all over the place, her silk blouse had signs of chocolate and cake over it. ‘God knows what I’m qualified for? Reading an autocue. Wearing make-up. Pronouncing unpronounceable names.’
‘Those are important skills.’
‘Right.’ She picked up her Baileys and drained the glass. ‘I used to be a journalist,’ she said. ‘I used to know things. I still know things. And I know a damn sight more than Bridget fecking O’Flaherty. So what if I can’t leap around the stage in ringlets.’ She waved her glass at me.
‘More?’
She nodded and tears began to trickle down her face. ‘Bridget came to find me,’ she said. ‘I was getting my make-up done and she gave me a big hug. Said she was sorry and hoped there were no hard feelings. I said there wasn’t and I wished her the very best; that I was delighted to be given the opportunity to try out something new, that I was thinking of going backpacking with a yak in the Siberian Steppes for a year, was renouncing all my worldly goods and if she wanted my biro she could have it.’
‘Did you really?’
‘No, I just said I was delighted for her and the best of luck.’ She paused. ‘I had my fingers crossed behind my back, of course. But Nicky says to lay low, go on holiday… maybe a Saga cruise or something suitable. Says she’ll come up with something. But I can’t think what.’ She began to cry again while I topped up the Baileys. ‘I’ve got a week to go. And then that’s it. News-reading career over. And it’ll be in the papers tomorrow. I’ve already been tipped off. Can’t wait for that.’
And she swigged back the drink in one go, a Baileys slammer.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Clodagh had been right, she made all the front pages in the morning, leaked no doubt by Bridget, because there was a picture of Clodagh, looking slightly worse for wear, taken the night of her party, shoes in one hand, hanging onto Lucinda. Caption: ‘Clodagh given the boot’. And next to it, in an evil kind of compare and contrast quiz, they had a picture of Bridget, the whites of her eyes and teeth glinting with youth and vitality and the caption ‘TV’s new girl’.
The paper was on the seat beside me as I headed into school. Christy, Arthur, Robbo, Nellie and Leaf all gave me a wave as I drove past. Nora flagged me down.
‘How’s Rosie?’ she said.
‘She’s… okay. I mean, I think she will be okay.’
‘Of course she will!’ said Nora confidently. ‘Us Thomases…’
‘Michael says Us Fogartys in the same way’ I told her. ‘Us Fogartys never surrender!’
‘He always did sound like a cut-price Winston Churchill,’ she said, dismissing him. ‘But us Thomases actually don’t.’
‘That sounds ominous,’ I said. ‘You at the battle of Little Bighorn. Me as General Custer.’
‘You see, Tabitha,’ she said. ‘That’s where you’re wrong. You’re one of us. You thought you could be on the side of the bluecoats and soldiers. But really you’re an Indian just like us. Us Thomases…’
Can we drop the Us Thomas thing, please?’ I was growing weary of sides and stands and everyone jostling for their place in history.
She grinned at me. ‘Now, is Rosie decided on not doing her exams?’
I nodded. ‘I think so.’
‘Good. Because I have just the thing for her. A trip. To West Cork. It’s Finty. Nothing has got him so far. Cancer, pneumonia, malaria, falling off scaffolding, knocked over by a Hell’s Angel on the road into Glengarriff, only one kidney. But it’s his liver, now.’
From one of the pockets in her Barbour, she pulled out an envelope. ‘Here it is…’ she scrunched up her eyes, squinting at the words. ‘I would like the chance to say slán go fóill before I slip off to the green fields of eternity,’ she read. ‘We spent some good times here and I wouldn’t like to go without saying goodbye to my Nora…’
Would Rosie come? I wasn’t sure spending hours in a car with just me and her grandmother was a good idea. It would tip the Dalai Lama over the edge. But I suddenly fancied a trip away, getting away from the protest, Red and it might do Rosie some good. A break from her bedroom.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Let’s go. Saturday morning. But only if Rosie comes.’
‘I’ll call her, said Nora. ‘Tell her an old man’s dying wish depends upon it. We will have a great time. It’ll be a road trip, isn’t that what they are called. Like Bonnie and Clyde.’
‘No, please not like Bonnie and Clyde.’
‘Who do I mean then?’
‘Thelma and Louise?’
‘Thelma and Louise, those are the ones.’
‘You do know what happened to them at the end, don’t you?’
‘They lived happily ever after? And Rosie needs a bit of West Cork, I think. It will weave its healing magic on her, it never fails.’
*
I had hoped to hear from Mary, just to let me know if she was all right. She had left the office and the school well prepared for her absence but it wasn’t as enjoyable without her calm, pleasant presence. At lunchtime, I walked passed the staff room and hovered for a moment, as I heard laughing coming from inside. Red and the other staff members were having their break. I hadn’t heard from Red since he had left me on the bench, but I took a breath and walked in and sat down with them, as Fidelma Fahy scooted up to make room. Red nodded hello, no smile, just polite, perfunctory.
‘Good to see you here Tabitha,’ said Fidelma. ‘Redmond is planning the staff night out for the end of term. He’s suggested karaoke but I think he might be joking.’
‘What about just a nice meal,’ another voice said. ‘When did a nice meal and a drink go out of fashion?’
‘We need Mary to organise it,’ said Angela Leahy. ‘She always makes sure it’s a nice place. Remember when we went to the talk in the National Gallery and then for a special dinner afterwards. That was nice. None of this karaoke nonsense.’ She nudged Red and laughed. ‘Actually Tabitha, any news from her? When is the family crisis going to be over?’
I shrugged, catching Red’s eye briefly. ‘I don’t know. She said she was hoping to be back for the end of term so make sure she is on the list for karaoke or whatever.’
‘What about a night at the Greyhound stadium?’ suggested Red to the group. ‘Come on. Don’t tell me that doesn’t excite you all?’
‘Redmond,’ said Angela. ‘I hope you’re joking about that. We want something a little more sedate. ‘What about a nice pizza at the place in the village?’
‘As long,’ said Fidelma, ‘there’s a fair few bottles of vino to wash them down with.’
They all laughed.
Later, before I left for the day, I wrote a text.