Second Hand Jane Read online

  “Sorry, Frank, but this girl of ours needs all the help she can get. Well, did you?”

  “Mum!”

  “Alright, alright, keep your knickers on.”

  Marian failed to realise her pun as she carried blithely on, “So what was the place he took you to like? It was a cocktail bar, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes. It was very posh minimalist with lots of polished chrome and expensive leather couches. A place to be seen and not at all my normal sort of hangout but the cocktails were free all night, which is definitely my kind of thing.” Jess chortled silently, knowing this would irk her mother.

  “Well, maybe it is high time it became your sort of hangout, my girl, and that you started to mix with a better quality of people.”

  Unbelievable, Jess thought, holding the phone away from her ear and poking her tongue out at the receiver but Marian was only just warming up.

  “I hope you behaved yourself, Jessica Jane. You’re too old to be making a holy show of yourself these days. I remember the time you staggered home after you’d been to a party at the girl Frankton’s house.”

  “Sarah was her name, Mum, not ‘the girl Frankton.’” Jess cringed; this was a story Marian had regurgitated more than once.

  “She was a bad influence on you, that one, wasn’t she, Frank? It was disgraceful behaviour on your part, my girl.”

  “Oh, for goodness’ sake, Mum, that was years ago—I was seventeen! You have the memory of a flipping elephant. And for your information, as far as a first date goes, I was very well-behaved and Nick didn’t mind the striptease I did on top of the bar later in the night at all.”

  “That’s not funny. Sarcasm is the lowest form of humour.”

  “Well, what do you expect, talking to me like that? I am thirty-four-years old, not four.”

  “Once you become a mother, you are always a mother. I live in hope that one day you will understand that your baby is always your baby, no matter how big or how much of a smarty pants she might get.”

  “Yeah, I know you do, Mum.” Jess was in danger of dislocating her eyeballs with the roll that followed that reply.

  “So did you get on well together? At least tell me that.”

  “We did, actually. He is very…” Jess paused, chewing on her bottom lip. How would she describe Nick? An image of Galaxy bar smooth milk chocolate sprang to mind. “He’s very charming and he’s really good-looking.”

  “Did you have sex?”

  “That is none of your business!”

  “Marian, would you leave the poor girl alone!”

  Good old Dad, Jess silently cheered, even though she knew it was a futile effort on his behalf. Marian would ignore him because she wasn’t finished yet. Oh no, not by a country mile.

  “Good. I was hoping you took my advice and that I can take that as a no because believe you me, it’s really not a good idea on the first or even second date to give a man what he wants.”

  Jess cringed, knowing she was about to go off on a tangent; it was as inevitable as the ebb and flow of the tides.

  “Now, I know you young people get up to all sorts these days but no matter how modern a man may be in his thinking, deep down they are all Neanderthals. If you can remember that, then you won’t go too far wrong. Men are hunter-gatherers of old who don’t like to think that their mate may have been collecting her nuts and berries too easily, if you get my drift?”

  Good God. Jess shook her head. The worst thing was that this was actually her mother’s convoluted way of saying keep your legs shut.

  She grinned as she heard her Dad snort and say, “Marian, I am just off to club a woolly mammoth to death for dinner and then I think I will drag you by your hair into the kitchen to cook it.”

  “Ignore your father—he’s another smarty pants. Where do you think you get it from? Deep down, men are old-fashioned when it comes to that sort of thing, so you’d do well to wait until at least your fourth or even fifth date before offering up the goods. Of course, you want to keep him interested, though, which is why I was so concerned over your choice of underwear. Think entrée, not the main and certainly not all three courses!”

  Good grief. Home runs, entrees and mains—her mother’s metaphors when it came to sex were appalling. It was a wonder she and Kelly had ever been conceived because Jess couldn’t fathom how her mother had managed to communicate to her father that she was in the mood. I have an itch that needs scratching perhaps, or there’s some urgent plumbing to be done? Either way, it was a good thing she didn’t know the half of it, thought Jess, because there were some things in life that were just none of her damn business.

  Not expecting a reply, Marian Baré ploughed on with her inquisition. “Did you make arrangements to see each other again?”

  “Actually, we did. He’s cooking me dinner next Wednesday night.”

  There was a loud clunk followed by a scrabbling noise and then silence. Finally and to Jess’s immense relief, her father’s voice came on the line.

  “It’s Dad here, sweetheart. Your Mum’s come over all strange and had to go and lie down for a minute—what on earth did you say to her?”

  Jess told him.

  “Oh, well, that explains it. You’d better look out because the next thing we know, she’ll be booking the church and arranging the flowers. You know what she’s like.” His tone grew sombre. “Listen, Jess, while I have you on the phone and your mother’s a safe distance away, I wanted to tell you not to let her bully you where this Nick chap is concerned. She means well, and she wants you to be happy, but from what she’s relayed to me, he doesn’t sound your type at all. I know you’ve picked a few wrong-uns in the past, love, but this fella—a property developer with a sports car? Well, to be honest, Jess, he sounds rather oily.”

  Nick wasn’t oily. Okay, yes, he was definitely smooth but not oily. “Dad, when have I ever let Mum pressure me? I like Nick, actually I like him a lot, but I have not managed to stay single well into my thirties by rushing into things, so don’t worry, okay?”

  “You’re right and despite what Marian might think, you are old enough to make your own choices. Just make sure you make the right one. Now tell me, what have you been working on lately? Are you still busy cooking up a storm?”

  Jess smiled. She could always count on her Dad to show interest in her work and she settled into her sofa, pulling the throw rug up under her chin as she began to fill him in on the Aherne family’s sad story.

  When she’d finished, Frank was quiet for a moment. “You’re right, sweet; it is a story that needs to be told. Tell it well.”

  “Can I read you the draft I’ve written?” Her father, her biggest fan, was always keen to hear her work—raw state or polished—and though Jess preferred the impersonal nature of email by which to receive any criticisms, she knew she could count on her Dad to relay back only the positives. Getting the article up on her laptop’s screen, she leaned forward and began to read. When she’d finished, Frank was silent for a moment, digesting what he had just heard before exhaling loudly.

  “Powerful stuff, Jess. What a thing for a family to have to have suffered through. It’s incomprehensible, you know, but the same thing will be happening to another family somewhere in the world right now as we speak. Look at what’s been going on in Syria.” He sighed. “It does make you stop and take stock when you hear a story like that, even if it is only for a short while. It puts all the trivial day-to-day stuff into perspective. We’re one of the lucky ones, Jess—very lucky—and I know you and your Mum don’t always see eye to eye, but she loves you. You know that, don’t you?”

  “Yeah, I know she does and I love her, too. She just drives me mad, that’s all.”

  Frank laughed before asking, “This Owen fella sounds like a good man. Will you be seeing him again?”

  Jess wasn’t fooled by his attempt at nonchalance. It was a funny thing, she realised; had her mother asked her that question, it would have gotten her back up straight away. With her Dad, though, she could b
e honest. “Yes, he is a good man and he’s been through a lot but he blows hot and cold all the time.” Jess chewed her bottom lip agitatedly, remembering how whenever Owen had become conscious of feeling relaxed around her, his guard had gone back up. “Maybe it is some sort of defence mechanism. I’d definitely like to see Wilbur again, though. He was so cute and uncomplicated.”

  “I never thought I’d see the day when my daughter was smitten with a piglet and as for this Owen being a tad moody, well, perhaps he has good reason to be. From what you’ve just told me, life hasn’t exactly dealt him a fair hand, now has it?”

  “No, it definitely hasn’t.”

  “I have a feeling your story isn’t done yet either. You’ll be seeing him and your wee runt Wilbur again soon.”

  Jess chose to misinterpret his words. “Yeah, you’re probably right. If Owen is true to form, then he’ll be difficult and probably want loads of editing done before I submit my final copy to Niall. Still, it would be good to have an excuse to see Wilbur again. I’d like to see him grow up into a big pig.”

  Her father laughed. “I thought women who didn’t have children got cats or those white yappy dogs as substitutes, not pigs.”

  “Bichon Frises, Dad, and Wilbur is not my baby substitute.”

  Frank grew serious once more. “I know I don’t say this to you very often, Jess. Nowhere near often enough but you do know that you’re making us proud, don’t you? What you’ve achieved with your writing, your own column—well, I want you to know that we are proud of you. That’s not just coming from me either; Mum feels the same way.”

  Jess felt the hot sting of tears and blinked them away as quickly as they had come. She wished she could believe what he said where her mother was concerned but she didn’t have time to dwell on it because speak of the devil, Marian—fully recovered—came back on the line.

  Ten minutes later, Jess hung up the phone with relief. She felt drained by the grilling she’d just had over what she was planning to wear on her dinner date, where Nick lived, and the kind of property he developed. At least this time round, though, she had been able to reply satisfactorily. She’d only just finished flexing her fingers to do a spot of channel surfing when the phone shrilled again.

  Oh no! Please, please don’t let it be Mum again. She sighed and if she had been Catholic, she would have crossed herself but since she wasn’t, she just wished she had splashed out the extra couple of euros for caller display. With a sigh, she leaned over and picked it up.

  It was Owen.

  Chapter Eleven

  Owen had telephoned to tell her that he had received her emailed draft of “Amy’s Story.” Jess braced herself for a barrage of corrections but to her surprise he said he thought it read well. “It was hard to read my own words and see them laid out like so but you’ve written it well. It’s not too flowery like.” He finished by telling her he was happy for it to be submitted to her editor as it was.

  Jess stopped slouching and pulled herself upright. This was high praise coming from someone like him who, she was quite sure, would not be shy in coming forward had he not liked what she had sent through to him. It was only right, too, given how close to his heart the article was that he should want it word perfect.

  “I am glad you are pleased with it. It wasn’t an easy thing for me to write.” She wouldn’t send him the bill for the two Big Macs. Comfort eating at its worst.

  “Aye, I’m sure it wasn’t.”

  “Do you think Amy would be pleased with it?” She held her breath because his answer mattered to her.

  “Aye.”

  “Good.”

  An awkward silence stretched out between them which Jess finally broke. “How’s Wilbur doing?”

  “Not bad. He’s hanging in there. He’s a fighter, alright.”

  “Good. I’ve been worried about him.”

  “Well, you don’t need to worry; he’s in good hands. I know what I’m doing.”

  Jess could tell by his tone he was amused, though she didn’t know why. He changed the subject on her before she had a chance to mull it over further.

  “The reason I rang you was because I found an old family album I’d forgotten about and there were some pictures of our Amy in there that I thought might go with your piece.”

  “Oh, that would be great! I was going to phone you anyway and ask if we could use some pictures but I didn’t know how you’d feel about it. Would you be able to scan them through to me?”

  “Well, the thing is I’m down in Malahide tomorrow for a meeting. There’s a new deli opening soon who are interested in stocking some of my produce and being a Saturday, I thought that you might be able to, uh… ” His voice trailed off and Jess, getting the gist of what he was in an awkward roundabout way trying to say was, offered, “You’d like me to meet you in Malahide?”

  “Yes. If you’re free, that is. I thought we could have some lunch and you could take a look through the photos then.”

  Why did he have to make it sound like he was asking her to join him while he had his teeth pulled out? Remembering her father’s words about him having good reason for being an awkward bugger, she decided she could afford to be gracious. “That would be lovely, Owen, thank you. If you hang on a minute, I’ll let you know what time the Dart gets in.”

  Getting up, she retrieved the crumpled timetable from its home in the fruit bowl and told him she could be in Malahide for mid-day and so before they hung up, it was arranged that he would meet her off the train at the station.

  ***

  Jess lay in bed that night thinking about him. She knew that beneath the taciturn exterior there lurked an insecure soul and when he let his guard down, she liked him. The man really was an enigma, she concluded with a yawn before dropping off to slumber the deep, uninterrupted sleep of the hungover.

  ***

  The next day dawned with a brilliant blue sky peeking through the crack where her curtains didn’t quite meet in the middle. Jess was pleased the weather suited the buoyancy of her mood and she tossed the duvet cover aside. Sitting up and stretching, she was profoundly relieved to find that physically she also felt like part of the human race once more. Getting up, she bounced down to the shower, peering into the mirror to see that the only remaining evidence of her cocktail overindulgence was a set of slightly puffy eyes.

  They’d have gone down by lunch time, she thought before opening the shower door and stepping under the hot water stream. For some reason she washed her hair even though it didn’t really need it and shaved her legs, although, she thought with a rueful glance down, they really did need it.

  She dawdled over her hair, opting to wear it loose, and then fiddled around with her makeup before taking an age to decide what she should wear. Not that it really mattered, she thought; Owen wouldn’t care if she showed up in a sack. He was a pig farmer, not a man about town.

  She wasn’t in a casual kind of a mood, though, she thought, tossing her jeans down on the bed and rifling through her wardrobe. A flash of green amidst the rainbow of colours caught her eye and she plucked out her classic 1930s sage green suit. She was getting a bit tired of the whole 80s look—there was only so far she could go with a double belt or leg warmers. Besides, she always got loads of compliments when she wore her sage suit. The colour set off the gold flecks in her hair.

  Letting her towel drop, she began to get dressed. The jacket had a cinched waist that flattered her hourglass shape and the fitted pencil skirt finished at a respectable mid-calf length. Standing back to admire her efforts, she announced to her reflection, “Rita Hayworth, eat your heart out!”

  All she needed to really look the part were a pair of elbow-length white gloves, a pillbox hat, and a little handbag. That might be going a little over the top, she decided, before grabbing her shoulder bag and heading out the door.

  It was a bit hard mincing down the Quays as the skirt had definitely not been designed and sewn in an era when women power walked but nevertheless, lots of wiggling later, she manag
ed to make it to Connolly Station in time to sidestep onto the northbound Dart.

  To her surprise as Jess sat down in her seat and smoothed out her skirt, she realised she felt nervous. Her stomach was churning with the sense of anticipation she always got when she was going on a date. Which was ridiculous, she told herself, because this was by no means a date. If anything, it was a kind of business meeting and the only reason Owen had wanted to meet up with her was because he was probably worried about the quality of the old photos if he had scanned them through.

  In an effort to distract herself, she decided to pass the time voyeuristically by staring down into the handkerchief-sized gardens attached to the back doors of the pebble dash houses they were now whizzing past. They afforded their residences no privacy in the slightest, she thought, noticing that some backyards were well tended while others were slovenly. Some had lines full of washing—talk about airing your dirty laundry. Imagine having your smalls on public display like that. Mind you, she wrinkled her nose as they passed a pair flapping on the breeze that could have set a ship a sailing, some of them weren’t exactly small. Slowly, however, the residential vista gave way to a more eye-pleasing rural one and Jess settled back, enjoying the rest of the short journey.

  As the train slowed before finally coming to a standstill at the pretty coastal town of Malahide’s station, Jess spied a man pacing outside the newspaper kiosk. It was only as she stood draping her bag over her shoulder that she realised it was Owen. She hadn’t recognised him, not because he looked different but because it was so strange seeing him out of context somewhere other than Glenariff or Ballymcguinness.

  Jess’s mind went into overdrive once more as, feeling as though she were in a scene from a wartime movie, she sidestepped down in what she hoped was an elegant manner from the train onto the platform in order to meet her beau just returned from the war. Except, she told herself sternly, he wasn’t her beau and in the movies it would have been Owen getting off the train, not her. Even when she was having a fictional fantasy, the journalist in her liked to keep it fairly factual.