Second Hand Jane Page 23

  Owen’s since returned to the North to take over the running of the family’s farm after having lived abroad for many years. He has found a sense of peace in returning to a simpler life he once knew well. His mother passed away eight years ago as a woman who never recovered from her loss and his father has retired to a home in Dundrum, a man who never recovered from his losses. What happened to the Ahernes’ daughter was not their fault but parents will always second-guess their every action that culminated in an event that was ultimately out of their control.

  The cottage where the family lived has been renovated and modernised but you can still feel Amy’s presence there. She’s not just in the photos that dot the fireplace mantel—a visual reminder of a girl who was loved—there is a sense of her everywhere.

  So who had she been, this young woman hovering on the brink of adulthood and a world that was hers for the taking?

  Well, like the story goes, once upon a time, there was a child who was fair of face. She lived in a pretty cottage with her mother, father, and younger brother. She had lots of friends and she liked to play dress-ups and hold tea parties for her dolls. Here was a little girl who loved to read, to dream and to dance—she was to her family and friends a delight who made them smile each and every day. As she grew and the hormones exploded, she dipped her toe in and began to test the waters of independence: a normal teenager who loved her cat and her best friend, ogled pop star’s posters, played her records too loud and dreamt the big dreams of the adolescent while her mammy told her to get in the bathroom and wash that muck off her face! Everything was new and fresh and exciting and all the more so for not being allowed to do it.

  The Amy I found was a beautiful little girl who was full of life and laughter; she would become a young woman on the cusp of a life that could have been exceptional or could have been ordinary—it was ripe for the picking but either way, it should have been hers for the taking.

  She left behind a cat that pined, friends who would never forget her, and a family who were broken—blown into pieces like she was. I’ve since taken her book home where it belongs and I’ve told her story and in doing so, I know that Owen and his father hope that Amy’s legacy is one that will make you—whoever you are—think about what really matters.

  The sixteen-year-old girl she grew to be was motivated by fashion, not by politics, and the depth of the secular hatred whispered about by some and shouted about by others bewildered her.

  “We’re all human beings so why can’t we all just get along?” she once asked her Da to which he replied, “It’s not that straightforward, Amy, love.”

  “Why not? It doesn’t seem that complicated to me.” And with a shrug of her shoulders, she walked away.

  Sometimes it’s the most simplistic ideologies that make the most sense.

  ***

  Jess’s boss Niall, who normally took the hardnosed route when it came to bestowing praise on his journalists, in case they took it to heart and asked for a pay rise, telephoned her late that morning to congratulate her on a job well done. He informed her that the paper was going to be inundated with reader’s responses to her story because Letters to the Editor were already flowing into his inbox thick and fast.

  “It might make some of those buggers up there so keen to stir it all up again think,” he’d growled down the phone in his customary gruff voice.

  Nora had been next to ring. “Oh, it’s so sad, sweetie; no wonder you’ve been spending time with the pig farmer. I get it now but you know the past is the past and you’ve got to look to your future.” She had sniffed and then in typical Nora style, she’d changed tack and announced that she could just imagine Ewan playing Owen should the rights to a movie ever be sold. She’d gone on to suggest Megan Fox for the role of Amy but then changed her mind, saying she was too old for the part and it probably wasn’t a great idea throwing Megan and Ewan together, even if Megan was married.

  “Er, Nora,” Jess had cut in, “Owen doesn’t look anything like Ewan, and I don’t think he would want his family’s tragedy being Hollywoodized, not even if Daniel Day-Lewis himself offered to play him but hey thanks for the thought—gotta go.” She’d disconnected the call with a shake of her head. She dearly loved her friend but honestly sometimes.

  Brianna had kept to her traditional role in their friendship by being the sensitive one. “Oh Jess, what a waste of a life; it’s just so sad.”

  “You sound surprised,” Jess replied, puzzled. It wasn’t as though Brianna wasn’t familiar with what had happened to Amy.

  “It’s completely different having it laid out in black and white and those photos of Amy—well, they bring her to life and you can see her potential, how beautiful she was. It really brings it home what a tragedy it was.” Brianna sniffed loudly. “Do you know I felt ashamed reading it because I still can’t believe that kind of brutality happened in the country I live in, even though I have always known that it happened. Does that make sense?”

  “Yes, I know what you mean. It does seem surreal now and the Troubles have been so romanticised, especially by Hollywood, but it was as bloody as any war.” She shook her head, remembering the conversation she had just had with Nora. “Life goes on, though. Look at Croatia—the tourists have been going back there for years even though the countryside’s still littered with unexploded landmines.”

  “You’re right.” Brianna’s voice quivered. “Do you know, Jess, I don’t think I’d be able to carry on if anything was to happen to Harry?”

  “Owen’s mother didn’t either, not properly.”

  “Have you spoken to him yet? The poor man! If it’s brought out all these emotions in me then I can’t imagine how he must be feeling having his family’s story laid bare like that for all to see.”

  Jess squirmed. She knew she owed him a phone call but she couldn’t bring herself to ring him, not just yet. The uncertainty of the reception she would get was holding her back and she had spent the morning hoping instead that he would phone her. “Um, no, I thought it might be better to let him ring me, you know, when he feels like talking—if he feels like talking, that is.”

  He was the person whose voice she had been on tenterhooks to hear each time she’d picked up the phone that morning.

  “Why?”

  “You don’t know Owen.” Jess gave a sardonic little laugh. “Neither do I, for that matter, because he is the most self-contained man I have ever met. That’s why I thought it would be better to leave him alone today to deal with this in his own way. He’ll be in touch if he wants to be.”

  “Don’t give me that. It sounds like an excuse if ever I heard one. Did you stop to think that maybe he finds it hard to reach out after everything he has been through? I think you owe him a phone call at the very least to see how he is doing.” Brianna was a tough love advocate.

  “I know you’re right. It’s just…” Brianna, of course, was not privy to the whole story.

  “Just what?”

  “Nothing, it’s nothing. I’m just being pathetic.” Jess felt awful for being unable to face the possibility of rejection but it was something she was going to have to grin and bear. She did owe it to him because it was her who had started all this and set the article in motion, so the very least she could do was to let him know she was thinking of him. “I’ll ring him now.”

  “Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  Dialling his phone number before she could talk herself out of it, Jess held her breath as it rang and rang before finally clicking over to the answering machine. At the sound of Owen’s voice explaining he wasn’t home, her eyes began to prickle. She sniffed and cleared her throat and then as the beep sounded she left her message:

  “Owen, hi, it’s Jess. I, uh, I just phoned to see how you were doing. I hope your copy of the Express arrived okay and that you are pleased with the way it all came together. Um, Niall phoned to tell me the response from readers has been phenomenal. I’ll forward you the copies of all the Letters to the Editor. Anyway, I, uh
, I hope you’re okay with it and that Wilbur’s doing okay and that your Dad is okay. Okay, um, bye.” God, what was with the non-stop okays? She hung up, hoping she hadn’t sounded too much of a babbling idiot because she hated answerphones at the best of times and this was not the best of times.

  On the floor spread out in front of her was the Express. “Amy’s Story” in its bold black typeface gazed back up at her. Her eyes flitted over the familiar text before settling on the photo of Amy holding her disgruntled cat tightly. She had been so vividly beautiful, so alive. As the tears plopped down her cheeks, staining the newsprint, she hoped that seeing their sister/daughter remembered in a story like this had somehow helped Owen and his father today and that they felt she had done good by her.

  ***

  Saturday evening rolled around, leaving Jess with the much more imminent worry of her mother gate-crashing her life in the near future and dinner that evening with Nick at Brianna’s.

  Marian had emailed her flight details through that afternoon and if she were honest with herself, Jess had been glad of the distraction. Her mother was flying some godforsaken airline Jess had never even heard of and arriving Tuesday night. When she meant business, she did not muck about. Speaking of whom, Brie and Nora had been over the moon when she’d rung them back to tell them her news.

  “We’ve heard so much about her over the years, I can’t wait to meet her,” Brie had gushed.

  “You say that now,” Jess had muttered darkly.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’ll see for yourself soon enough.”

  “Ah, I am sure she’s lovely. Now then, did you ring your man?”

  “I did but there was no answer so I left a message.”

  “He hasn’t rung you back?”

  “No, he’s probably with his father for the day.”

  “Oh gosh, you don’t think he’d do anything stupid?”

  “Brie, don’t even go there. Of course I don’t.” God, she could be dramatic. Jess frowned, not wanting to admit to herself how much she would like to hear Owen’s voice.

  “No, of course he wouldn’t; he’s lived with it all these years, so he has.” Brianna did not sound convinced.

  “So what are you cooking us for dinner tonight?” Jess asked, brightly deciding to distract her friend before she suggested they begin phoning hospital emergency departments.

  “It’s a surprise.”

  “Right, well, I shall look forward to being surprised,” Jess lied, thinking it may well be Brianna who was surprised. “See you at seven.”

  “See you then.”

  Nora, upon hearing of Marian’s impending arrival, had been happy to hear she had an ally on her way over. “If anybody can stop you chucking Mr Right away, it will be your mother because you’ve certainly not been paying any attention to me.” Nora seemed oblivious of Jess’s protestations that she wasn’t chucking Nick anywhere—she would be seeing him that evening for goodness’ sake! She was beginning to feel like Ross in that Friends episode where he kept telling everyone that he and Rachel were “on a break.” God help her when Nora and her mother did get together; she shuddered. It would be bad enough for her having to cope with the pair of them but she wouldn’t put it past them both to frogmarch poor Nick down to the registry office!

  In the meantime, though, she had to get through this evening first so she pushed all thoughts of Owen and her mother aside with a swipe of the new lippy she’d bought from Boots that morning. Smacking her lips together, she leaned in closer to the mirror and inspected them. She wasn’t sure about the shade but the sales assistant had assured her that red was this season’s colour and that its brick undertones would do wonders for her pale complexion and auburn hair. Oh whatever, Jess thought, stepping back from the mirror disinterestedly. Sales assistants were full of shite; everybody knew that. Pushing her hair back over her shoulders to inspect her outfit, she turned this way and that. She’d dressed in a pair of high-waist, wide-legged black pants she’d owned forever and a day, teaming them with a pretty cinnamon 1950s top that had a silk bow under her boobs. It was very flattering in the way it fell and the colour did wonders for her eyes; at least, that was what Nora had told her.

  “You’ll do,” she announced to the reflection staring back at her from the mirror and, satisfied she was as ready as she would ever be, she picked up her purse. With one last glance at the silent telephone, she paused for a moment. Should she try phoning Owen again? No, if he wanted to talk to her, he would be in touch, she told herself sternly before heading out the door.

  A strange sight greeted her as she strode through the flood-lit quad. Gemma, dressed in her usual sporty attire, was standing astride a man, her trainer clad foot planted firmly on his stomach as he pulled himself up into what looked like a sit-up.

  “Come on, are you man or mouse? Put some effort into it, for God’s sake! I want a hundred more,” she shouted, looking like some sort of dominatrix queen except instead of a whip, she was brandishing a water bottle. Spying Jess, she waved her over. “Off out again, Jess?” She grinned before raising an eyebrow. “It must be serious.”

  “It might be,” Jess replied enigmatically. “Never mind me, though. What an earth are you doing?” There was something very familiar about the man Gemma was doing God knows what to, she thought, studying his flushed face and pained expression.

  “This is Jimmy from apartment forty-four up there.” Gemma pointed in the direction of Puff the Magic Dragon’s lair. It was him! Jess realised as he paused to give her a half-hearted wink and rasping out an, “Oright, love?”

  “Did I say you could stop? No, I did not! Get back into it, man!” Gemma yelled and with a look of half terror, half admiration, he did as he was told. “He’s been hanging out his apartment window whistling at me whenever I walk through the courtyard for weeks now and he finally asked me out but I said I’d only go out with him if he stopped smoking. Exercise helps keep his mind off the fags.”

  “Oh, right.” Jess felt vaguely betrayed at the news she wasn’t the only one on the receiving end of his whistles but then again, she thought, looking at the sweaty red face with a shudder, rather Gemma than her. “Good for you, Gem. Got to run. Bye.”

  Nick was running late again. Considering she was by nature a punctual person, this grated and Jess tapped her foot impatiently in the foyer, feeling a stab of irritation pierce the grey cloud that had been hovering over her all day. She hated to keep Brianna waiting too, knowing that she would have gone to loads of trouble. The evening was not off to a good start and she hadn’t even left her apartment building yet!

  By the time Nick pulled up at seven twenty, she had bitten two fingernails down to the quick. As she raced outside, she was assailed by both the cold night air and the bass line of Justin Timberlake once more. Ducking down and clambering inside the idling car, she couldn’t help but wonder what was wrong with a bit of good old Dire Straits or even Floyd—they just seemed that little bit more masculine for someone of Nick’s era—but to her relief, he turned the stereo down before leaning over to kiss her on the cheek.

  “You are looking particularly stunning tonight,” he murmured, stroking her hair, his voice thick. With that compliment, Jess felt her irritation disperse as he indicated right and merged out into the flow of evening traffic.

  Deftly swerving to avoid a bus busy pulling out, Nick cursed the driver under his breath before regaining his equilibrium. “I read your piece in the paper today. It was pretty powerful stuff—not your usual style.” His eyebrow was raised in query as he glanced over at her.

  “No, not my usual style at all. How did your trip down South go?” Jess changed the subject, not wanting to discuss Amy or Owen with him. It felt wrong and she was glad that for the rest of the drive to Bray he was content to fill her in on Cork and his prowess—or lack of it—on the golf course. She’d have found his commentary amusing if she didn’t have such a sense of impending doom where the evening ahead was concerned.

  “Hey,
are you alright? You seem a bit preoccupied.” Nick’s expression as his face was momentarily illuminated by a street light was concerned.

  This was her chance to come clean and tell him who Brianna was before they met face to face in about five minutes’ time. She had no choice. It wasn’t fair to either of them not to say something and so, licking her bottom lip, Jess took a deep breath, opening her mouth to explain just as Nick braked violently. Her head snapped forward as the car skidded to an abrupt halt. Slamming his palm down on the horn, Jess saw in the car’s headlights a fluffy white cat pause to glare at them before sticking its tail in the air and meandering off the road.

  “Bloody cat! It came out of nowhere. Sorry about that—are you okay?”

  Jess rubbed her neck. “Yes, I’m fine; a bit of a fright, that’s all. At least you didn’t hit it.”

  And just like that, the moment for confessing all had gone.

  “Okay, you turn right here and see that white picket fence up there on the left? That’s where we are going.”

  Nick pulled over, flush with the kerb, before getting out of the car and coming round to open her door for her. Treat her like a princess he may but Jess felt as though she were on her way to the gallows as she literally led him up the garden path.

  ***

  “Do you know you look really familiar? I’m sure we have met somewhere before,” Briana said, glancing back over her shoulder as she led Nick and Jess through to the warmth of their dining room. Pete stood by the sideboard, wrestling with a bottle of red and, as Brianna turned to smile at them both, Jess felt her insides contract. Any moment now there would be fireworks.