‘Hilary is lovely, really down to earth, a bit scatty, and good fun. Just my sort of woman! And you should see her showrooms. FABULOUS, darling.’ Jonathan took a slug of coffee and forked half a sausage into his mouth. ‘The other one now, the Colette one, was a right little madam. I know she wanted me to leave, she kept giving me the evil eye, and if I’d felt that Hilary wanted me to go I would have, but I kinda felt that Hilary wasn’t overly excited to see her. Colette was all Me! Me! Me! You know that sort,’ Jonathan observed tartly.
‘Oh dear! Me! Me! Me! And You! You! You! I’d say that was good,’ Orla murmured wickedly.
‘Cheeky hussy,’ Jonathan grinned. ‘Her clothes were gorgeous though, all designer, and the Louis Vuitton bag, and the Cartier watch. Lashings of dosh, I’d say. The husband works in finance and she works in fine art. Lots of name-dropping. Her parents are that legal pair that are always in the papers. The O’Mahonys.’
‘Ooohh posh! You’re coming up in the world, Mr Harpur.’
‘Yes indeed, on the fringes of High Society! Hilary and I are going to be THE interior and lighting designers to go to,’ Jonathan smirked.
‘Right, Mr Interior Designer, I have to go. I’ve got basketball practice and I’m meeting the girls in town afterwards.’ Orla took a last gulp of coffee and got off the bed.
‘And how are your lady pains?’ he asked solicitously.
She made a face. ‘I’m dosed up with Solpadeine. The exercise will help. What are you doing for the rest of the day?’
‘I’ve to go and buy gold brocade curtains, and source a glass coffee table and some lampshades. And then I’m meeting some of the lads in the George.’
‘We probably won’t see each other until tomorrow then. Brekkie and the papers in Omni around eleven? I’ll drive.’ Orla arched an eyebrow.
‘Perfect,’ he said as she blew him a kiss on her way out.
What a delightful weekend it was turning out to be, Jonathan reflected, lying back against his pillows as the sun spilled in through the big bay window and a lark sang in the branches of the minty green rowan tree that was bursting into soft-blossomed bud in the front garden.
How different he felt from the day before yesterday when he had been so demoralized after his confrontation with Gerard. He’d made a new friend in Hilary, had a great time on the course and was eager to move forward in his design career. Optimistic, that’s what he was, Jonathan decided, relieved that the feelings of depression he’d felt coming on had receded. It was hard work keeping the darkness at bay sometimes, but on days like today he felt ready for anything. He sprang out of bed and headed for the shower. Today was not the day to linger in the snug confines of his bed. Today was a day of purpose. He had things to do, places to go and people to see. And then tomorrow he and Orla would have breakfast together and sit reading the papers in a cosy booth in Bewley’s in Omni, and then perhaps have a walk in the Botanics, and he would come home and work on his portfolio and his latest project in the afternoon. He wanted to bring his new client to approve the furnishings he’d selected, as soon as possible. He wanted to be ultra prepared.
Jonathan was carefully folding a selection of small swatches of material to put into his shoulder bag when the communal phone in the hall rang. He knew Tommy, the occupant of the bedsit beside his, was out, as was Orla, so he went to answer it.
Surprised, because they’d only spoken in the last two days, he heard his mother’s voice at the other end of the line. ‘Hello, love,’ she said, but he knew by her tone something was up.
‘What’s up, Mam?’ he asked, instantly alert.
‘Some sad news, Jonathan. Poor Gus next door died yesterday evening. Took another massive heart attack. I waited until I had the funeral arrangements before I rang you and the girls. The removal’s tomorrow evening and he’ll be buried after ten Mass on Monday. You’ll be down for the removal, won’t you? I don’t think Rita would expect you to take a day off work and I certainly wouldn’t but tomorrow is a Sunday so that will be grand. I’ll be there on Monday but we can all be at the removal tomorrow,’ his mother said firmly.
Jonathan couldn’t speak. He literally froze. His abuser was dead and his mother wanted him to go to his removal service. He couldn’t do it, he just couldn’t! He swallowed hard. ‘Ma . . . Mam,’ he stuttered. ‘I have something arranged for tomorrow. I’m not going to be able to make it.’
‘Oh Lord, Jonathan. Couldn’t you rearrange it? He was a kind neighbour. He was good to me. To us,’ Nancy said in dismay.
‘Mam, I have to go now, I’m meeting a client. I’ll ring you this evening,’ Jonathan fibbed, desperate to get his mother off the phone.
‘Well, get a Mass card at least, and try and rearrange whatever you have on tomorrow, Jonathan. You should be there if at all possible,’ Nancy urged.
‘OK, bye, Mam, bye,’ he said hastily and hung up. Jonathan was shaking as he walked across the hall and closed the door behind him. The memories came surging back against his will and he was instantly transported to that untidy, smoke-polluted sitting room with the brown tweedy sofa and the big chipped oval mirror over the fireplace. The memory of the curtains being pulled, the belt being unbuckled, Gus’s raspy breath as he forced him to his knees brought tears to Jonathan’s eyes. The recollection of
