‘Older or younger?’ Colette probed.
‘Sue’s at least ten years older. I’ve only met her a couple of times, she doesn’t visit her parents that often. She’s very career orientated and very superior. A bit up her own ass actually. Thinks she’s an “intellectual”. Looks down her nose at Niall’s music and wouldn’t be “seen dead” at a trad session. We won’t be bosom buddies, for sure,’ Hilary observed ruefully.
‘So it’s serious? Is this what you’re telling me?’ Colette was taken aback at the speed of Hilary and Niall’s romance.
‘Yep!’ Hilary grinned. ‘We’re going to look at houses after Christmas!’
That news had put a dampener on her visit home. It was unthinkable that Hilary would be married before she was. Colette had gone back to London with a mission. It was time to reel Des in.
C
HAPTER
T
HREE
‘Now, son, are you sure you’re eating properly?’ Nancy Harpur asked anxiously, wishing she could get her hands on her only son to give him a decent feed.
‘Mam, honest, I am,’ fibbed Jonathan, averting his eyes from the biscuit jar, the bread bin with the crusty baguettes and Maltana, and knowing that his small freezer compartment contained a packet of processed chicken Kievs, while his fridge had a chunk of mouldy cheese, a black carrot, two splits of champagne and a bottle of Chardonnay.
‘What are you having for dinner today?’ Nancy demanded quick as a flash.
‘Chicken and veg,’ he riposted. ‘Lovely buttered carrots just like you make them.’
‘Good boy!’ she approved, appeased. ‘So how is work going?’
‘It’s OK. Busy.’ He nibbled on a bread stick, having no intention of telling his mother that he hated his job in the Civil Service and that his boss was a homophobic bully and he felt sick to his stomach going in to work every day. His mother didn’t need to know any of that. ‘I’ve got another interior design commission,’ he said, changing the subject. ‘And I’ll be needing curtains made up. Gorgeous gold brocade. I’ll bring the material down as soon as I’ve bought it.’
‘Grand, I’ll clear the decks so. I’ve been busy this last week with the sewing,’ Nancy said briskly, delighted with his news.
‘And I’m doing a lighting design course tomorrow, so I’m looking forward to that.’
‘I’m delighted you’re doing so well for yourself in Dublin. So pleased, Jon, you deserve it. You’re a great lad,’ Nancy praised, and Jonathan smiled. His mother was his greatest champion, always had been, and always would be. He adored her.
‘How about we plan a weekend for you to come up soon and I’ll bring you shopping, and to the theatre, and we’ll have dinner somewhere posh?’
‘Ooohhh lovely!’ Nancy enthused. Going to spend a weekend with Jonathan was always fun from start to finish and it was a treat to spend time in the capital and go shopping in fancy Grafton Street, although Roches Stores on Henry Street was her favourite department store of all.
‘Perfect. We’ll plan it when I bring the curtain material down. Love ya, Mam.’
‘I love you too, son,’ Nancy returned and Jonathan smiled as he hung up the phone. He would take Nancy to BT and buy her a new outfit, although she would protest as she always did and say Clerys or Roches Stores would suit her just as well. He would bring her to those stores too. She particularly enjoyed shopping in the basement section of Roches, which had everything from china to bed linen, and other household goods and knick-knacks. On her last shopping spree there both of them had bought a set of little forks in a round wooden barrel to eat cobs of buttered sweetcorn with. ‘Ever so posh,’ Nancy had enthused, debating whether to buy fish knives as well. ‘I don’t be giving swanky dinner parties like you do.’
‘Why don’t you cook a dinner for some of your quilting friends? If everyone hosted a dinner every so often, it would be something for you all to look forward to,’ Jonathan suggested, tossing the knives into the shopping basket.
‘Aren’t we all fed up cooking? That’s why we go out for a meal,’ Nancy retorted, putting the knives back on the shelf.
‘Mother, you’re absolutely right!’ Jonathan agreed. ‘Let’s go to the Shelbourne for afternoon tea, and we can go to the pictures and have dinner afterwards in The Commons or the Troc, and spot the celebs and theatre folk and discuss what they’re wearing. I love it when you pick holes in their crooked seams and hanging hems.’ He grinned.
‘Well honestly, Jonathan, some of those designers should be ashamed of the finishes on their clothes. Clothes that cost a fortune, I might add,’ Nancy declared. ‘I’d be embarrassed to send someone off wearing a dress or jacket with threads hanging and seams and necklines and armholes puckered. Some of those designers are right chancers, I can tell you, looking down their noses at us when they go to London and get too big for their boots. Remember one of those snooty ones, in the sixties, who designed for the jet set, and she was passing off the lace crochet as her own. And I happen to know the lady who made some of those pieces. Beautiful intricate work and she never got the recognition for it,’ Nancy said indignantly. ‘When you make it big with your interior design don’t forget where you came from,’ she added, wagging her finger good-humouredly.
‘I won’t, Mam,’ he had said, fondly enveloping
