Eating Peaches Read online

  For Rory

  Do I dare to eat a peach?

  T.S. Eliot, ‘The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock’

  Contents

  Cover

  Title page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Epilogue

  Copyright

  About the Author

  About Gill & Macmillan

  Prologue

  Proper is my middle name. Well, it’s really Bernadette. Elena Rose Bernadette Malone. My mother is a big fan of Russian ice-dancing. I got away lightly; my elder sister is called Tatiana. I used to call myself Elaine out of embarrassment. My friends call me Lainey out of kindness and affection.

  Rose: that’s where my beleaguered father came in. His mother’s name.

  Bernadette: enter the parish priest, horrified by the absence of a saint’s name. If it hadn’t been for the inclusion of Bernadette, he might have refused to baptise me. If not for the intercession of Saint Bernadette, I could have been banished to the lower pits of hell for all eternity. Instead, here I stand, a good Irish Catholic girl with all the trimmings.

  Malone. As in Molly.

  But, anyway, Proper could have been my middle name. At least, that’s what other people always seem to think. Imagine their surprise when they hear me swear for the first time. ‘I never knew you cursed!’ Expressions of amused shock on their faces – and a certain smugness: Perhaps she’s not perfect after all. Maybe humanity does lurk beneath that navy pinstripe and crisp white blouse. Little do they know of the effing and blinding that goes on inside my head on an almost continuous basis. Especially when I’m talking to a client. No, I say. I can’t believe your neighbour had the temerity to leave her bin out six inches over your boundary line! It’s a national disgrace! Of course you shall have your day in court! The aromatic blend of curses and swear words that actually circles in my head doesn’t find release until the client has been led safely down the corridor.

  Because I’m a hypocrite. When you’re a solicitor, being a hypocrite is an essential part of the job description. Hell, if you told the truth, you wouldn’t have any clients left. Tell the punters what they want to hear and they’ll come back for more. One must never burden one’s client with the truth.

  This attitude proved to be extremely good for business. I doubt it was very good for the soul. But, as I mentioned earlier, I had been baptised, so hopefully that earned me a few brownie points with the big guy upstairs.

  Talking of the big guy upstairs, he had a few changes in store for me that I could never have anticipated.

  I thought I’d always be sitting in my big, plush Dublin office, dealing with big, plush Dublin clients, and zipping around Dublin in my snazzy little sports car. Little did I know that I was due a major transformation.

  Chapter One

  I spun around on my new, luscious, black leather chair for what must have been the fortieth time that morning – and it wasn’t even nine o’clock yet. Oh, how I loved the trappings of success! And if that made me a shallow person, so be it.

  I was interrupted mid-spin by a knock on the door. I hastily readjusted my chair and picked up my fountain pen, as if poised to write something complicated and legalistic. I even furrowed my brow a little.

  ‘Come in.’

  In came Barb, my boss’s secretary.

  ‘Tyrone would like to see you, when you’re ready.’

  So you see, I wasn’t the only one in the office with a funny name. My boss was called Tyrone Power. I kid you not. His mother, Mary, was a huge fan of the silver screen. Fifty-odd years before, she had married Michael Power of the county of Kilkenny. Tyrone maintains she married him solely so that she could inflict this terrible name on some poor unfortunate child – who happened to be him. He’s always going on about changing it by deed poll, but what’s the point in that when you’re fifty-one years old? It would be like a man who’s bald as a coot walking into the office one day sporting a thick black rug on his head.

  Not that Tyrone is bald. He has a head of lush silver hair, and liquid brown eyes. He’s a little on the portly side, but he’s tall and carries it well. It almost suits him; he takes up more space in the courtroom. He’s intense – frightening, if you don’t know him. All the young secretaries are terrified of him, especially when he lets out one of his famous lion-roars. But that’s just a sound effect. Gets things done.

  Tyrone and I saw through each other from the outset. He baited me mercilessly when he interviewed me for my apprenticeship; cross-examined me, trying every trick in his very long book to make me lose my cool. But I could see that he was a softie deep down, and I held it all together. Hard to believe that had been almost seven years ago.

  And this morning he wanted to see me about something.

  I hardly dared guess that this was the moment I had been waiting for. Tyrone had been hinting for some time that partnership was imminent. I already had the plush office, the luxurious company car. I knew that he was pleased with me. Surely the next logical step....

  ‘Come in and sit down, Lainey.’

  Lainey. That was a good sign. ‘Elena’ was reserved for company and the odd bollocking. He swivelled his swivelly chair around to face me, leaned back and yawned. The bags under his eyes were like miniature hammocks and his shirt was crumpled. The top button was undone and his tie veered to the left. He looked like he’d put in an all-nighter.

  ‘Have you been here all night?’

  ‘No, just got in.’

  What was wrong with this picture?

  He continued to observe me until I started to fidget.

  ‘You wanted to see me about something, Tyrone.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right, I did.’

  Still nothing.

  Then: ‘You’ll have some coffee?’ He didn’t wait for my reply, just buzzed the order out to Barb. I was slightly concerned. Evasive was not this man’s middle name (I think it could have been Francis).

  ‘Is there something wrong?’

  He got up and stood looking out of the window, leaning like a corner boy, hands deep in his pockets. The view was of the canal. Dublin pedestrians and cars scurried by like insects.

  ‘I haven’t been very well lately.’

  A distant alarm bell started to ring.

  ‘Oh?’ I said profoundly.

  ‘My doctor thinks I should slow down a little. No more working weekends, late nights, all that.’

  ‘Nothing serious, I hope.’

  He swatted the comment away like a pesky fly. ‘No, no, not at all. Just too much stress, high blood pressure, that sort of thing.’

  I nodded. That sounded all right. Didn’t it?

  ‘Can I do anything to help? Take on some of your files? You just have to ask.’

  He turned to me
and smiled warmly. ‘Actually, I do need a favour.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I’m thinking of moving back down the country.’

  You what!

  My racing thoughts were interrupted by a sharp rap on the door and the entrance of Barb. She gave me a digestive biscuit, a hot coffee and a cold stare. I noticed that Tyrone got a chocolate digestive while mine was plain. Barb didn’t dislike me in particular; she just hated any female who came within a ten-foot radius of her beloved Tyrone. She was about ten years his senior, but this didn’t seem to hinder her crush. The younger secretaries called her Miss Moneypenny behind her back, when they weren’t calling her Barbed Wire. Tyrone just seemed oblivious. If anyone asked him for his opinion of her, he told them that she was a damn good secretary.

  Tyrone sat down heavily and reached into a side drawer, pulling out a pack of Benson & Hedges and a solid gold lighter. Barb, who had been about to close the door behind her, flew back to his desk as if aided by supernatural powers (come to think of it ... invisible broomstick?).

  ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ She bore down on him like a Fury, hands on hips, spitting fire. Jesus, she was one scary woman. Tyrone held up his hands as if he were under arrest and let the box of cigarettes fall like an illegal firearm.

  ‘By God, woman! Is a man to have no peace in his own office?’ He tried to make a joke out of it, but his calculated rakish grin failed to dent her steely demeanour.

  ‘Give them to me.’ She held out one hand, arm rigid; the other remained firmly on her matronly hip. She reminded me of a strict schoolmistress confiscating a contraband sweet or an illicit note. Sulkily, he handed her the cigarettes.

  ‘And the lighter.’

  ‘Oh, come on, Barb –’

  ‘Now! You’re not to be trusted. You know well what the doctor said.’

  He handed over the lighter, for all the world like an overgrown bold child.

  Her voice and manner softened somewhat. ‘You can have some of that special chewing gum I got you.’

  ‘Don’t want any.’

  She turned on her heel, tutting and shaking her head as she went.

  I waited until she had gone before I said anything. I wasn’t that stupid.

  ‘Isn’t she afraid that you’ll stick a piece of gum under your desk and make a terrible mess?’

  ‘Don’t start.’

  ‘She’s not in a very good mood. Did you forget to bring her in an apple this morning?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah. Very funny, I’m sure. Now can we drop it, please? You didn’t see that, okay?’

  ‘Okay. So what else did the doctor say?’ I tried to keep the concern out of my voice.

  ‘That if I don’t quit this job I’ll be dead within three years.’

  I was silent. Tyrone didn’t say anything either; he just stared at me hard, trying to gauge my reaction. I was aware of the scrutiny and struggled not to let any emotion show. Stay calm, Lainey.

  After a while, I said, ‘But, Tyrone ... this job is your life.’ Okay, not very comforting, but the truth. Tyrone had no wife and no kids. He had built the practice up from scratch. Now he had fifteen solicitors working for him and was one of the most respected lawyers in the city. If it didn’t sound like such a cliché I’d say that the firm was his family.

  ‘Well, I’m not going to give it up altogether. I’m going to open a sub-office back home and run that instead. The pace of life is slower down there, and I can take it a lot easier.’

  ‘Do you think you can be happy doing that?’

  ‘I think so. I’ve been hankering for home a lot recently. In fact, I quite fancy myself as a country squire.’

  I had a disturbing mental image of Tyrone in an old-fashioned tweed suit, shotgun tucked under his arm, trouser legs tucked into his socks, a couple of dead rabbits slung across his shoulder. I shuddered – especially at the vision of his matching tweed hat with flaps over the ears.

  ‘When are you going?’

  ‘As soon as I can. I estimate it’ll take me about nine months to wind down here and hand over the reins. That’s where you come in.’

  He surely didn’t mean that he was going to hand over the reins to me? There were plenty of more senior solicitors in the firm. I felt a knot of excitement begin to tighten in my stomach all the same.

  ‘I need someone to head down before me, to get the ball rolling. The premises are all sorted. A new housing estate is just being completed; the auctioneer is my first cousin, and he’s promised to send plenty of business my way....’

  I wasn’t listening any more. The knot in my stomach was unravelling. Surely he didn’t mean ...

  ‘... So you’d only need to be there for about nine months....’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’ll need you down there for about nine months, while I honour my commitments here. You can stay in the old family home. Rent-free!’

  Big swinging mickies, I thought. What’s in it for me?

  ‘I suppose you’re wondering what’s in it for you.’

  ‘I wasn’t, I –’

  Tyrone laughed at me. ‘It’s all right. I don’t blame you.’ He stood and faced me, beefy hands (they were farmer’s hands. Why hadn’t I noticed before?) leaning on the desk. His eyes blazed into mine. The bastard was enjoying this.

  ‘If you do this for me, there’s a partnership in it for you at the end of the nine months.’

  Now you’re talking.

  ‘And if I don’t do it?’

  ‘There’s plenty more out there who’d jump at the opportunity.’

  ‘All right. I get it. I’ll do it. When do I have to go?’

  ‘Two weeks’ time.’

  Holy shit.

  ‘Okay. Where exactly am I going, anyway?’

  ‘You, my dear Elena, are destined for the throbbing metropolis of Ballyknock.’

  Chapter Two

  I thought Christiana was going to rupture something.

  ‘Ballymuck? You’re making it up!’

  ‘It’s Ballyknock. I’m not saying it again.’

  ‘Ballymuck!’

  This time I thought she was going to explode, she was laughing so hard. I tried not to let my annoyance show. This really wasn’t helping.

  ‘This really isn’t helping, you know.’

  ‘Sorry, sorry. Just give me a minute to compose myself.’ She wiped a tear from her eye with the back of her hand and made an obvious attempt to compose her features. After a while, her face lost some of its redness and returned to its normal pinky-white hue.

  ‘Where exactly is it, then?’ Hazel asked.

  ‘In the heart of the Kilkenny countryside.’

  ‘In the middle of nowhere, like.’

  ‘In the middle of nowhere.’

  ‘Cows and fields.’

  ‘Cows and fields.’

  ‘How far to the nearest shop?’

  ‘Five miles.’

  ‘How far to the nearest pub?’

  ‘Five miles.’

  ‘Fucking hell!’ they chorused.

  ‘You won’t last two weeks,’ Hazel said helpfully.

  ‘Jesus, girls, would you give me some credit? It’s only for nine months, and I’m neither a shopaholic nor an alcoholic.’ I washed this sentence down with a generous gulp of Chianti.

  ‘Nine months. That’s how long it takes for a baby to grow,’ Christiana informed us solemnly. Then her eyes widened in shocked excitement.

  ‘That’s it, isn’t it? You’re pregnant!’ She pounced on the idea like a cat on a mouse. ‘You don’t want anyone to know, so you’re going down to the arsehole of nowhere, where nobody knows you, and you’re going to have the child in secret, and then it’ll be adopted by a rich doctor and his kindly wife who can’t have any children of their own.’ The words came tumbling out.

  ‘Yes, Chris. I’m really going to work in a laundry run by evil nuns who’ll whip me if I don’t wash their drawers quickly enough. Then they’ll refuse to let me have an epidural during labour, to punish me fo
r my sins, and then they’re going to wrench the newborn infant from my arms and give it to a God-fearing Catholic family.’

  ‘I knew it!’

  ‘Chris, have you been reading that book about the Magdalene Laundries again? Remind me to confiscate it,’ said Hazel, rolling her eyes at me.

  ‘The most fertile thing around here is your imagination, Chris. It’s not the 1950s.’

  ‘So you’re really just going down there to work as a solicitor, then?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Oh.’ She sounded so disappointed that I was almost tempted to make up an elaborate lie for her benefit.

  Hazel and Christiana were my flatmates. It was the evening after Tyrone had delivered his shock news, and we were sitting around the coffee table in what we laughingly called ‘the good room’. It was only 8.30 p.m., post-EastEnders, but the second bottle of wine had already been opened. We three sat curled up on the overstuffed couch, engulfed in a haze of cigarette smoke and alcohol fumes. It was an all-too-common scenario.

  Christiana was pretty well twisted already. This partly accounted for the excessive giggling and wild theories – but not totally. Her friends described her as ‘off-beat’ or ‘a little off the wall’. If she’d had any enemies, which I sincerely doubted, they probably would have described her as ‘completely barking’. Hazel and I were her friends – although how and why Hazel and Christiana were friends was anybody’s guess. Chalk and cheese weren’t in it. In fact, just to illustrate my point, I’m going to set out their differences in tabulated form. I like doing this sort of thing. It must have something to do with being a lawyer.

  Christiana

  Hazel

  Ditzy

  Salt of the earth

  Too much to say

  Woman of few words

  Gullible

  Cynical

  Easily led

  Leading easily

  Believed in ghosts

  Believed that anyone who believed in ghosts should be committed forthwith

  Christiana worked ‘in film’. Nobody – including Christiana herself – was quite sure what she did, but she seemed to be paid an awful lot of money for it. Hazel was an accountant by name and by nature. As the Americans would say, go figure.