Carolyn for Christmas Page 4

  “We thought it would be nice to give them a break. You know, your brother’s working hard with that big company up in Dublin, and Suzanne has enough on her plate now the kids are getting that bit older. Not everyone can be as footloose and fancy-free as you.”

  Saoirse bit her tongue so hard she thought she could taste blood. Could Suzanne not cook for her own kids? The woman didn’t work! Saoirse ran her own business and employed a dozen people. Footloose and fancy-free is the last thing I am!

  But Saoirse said nothing—it wouldn’t do any good. It never did.

  She resigned herself to the fact that she’d just be busy all Christmas Day.

  * * * * *

  Dozens of children—little ones, big ones, and plenty in between—tore happily around the function room of the Shelton five-star hotel on Dublin’s posh south side.

  Their parents stood at the edges of the room or sat at tables adorned with Christmas crackers and party poppers, most too deep in conversation to notice or even care what was going on with their children. The free-flowing champagne, beers, and thirty-euro-a-bottle wines were likely responsible for their very relaxed states.

  The decoration of the room was a little more formal than Carolyn would personally choose—real sprigs of holly and mistletoe and handmade wreaths on the wall, rather than tinsel or paper chains—but she had to admit, it looked great.

  Her company, Kavanagh and Byrne’s—one of the biggest accountancy firms in the country—put on the event every year and invited all of their top clients and their families. A little decadent, and perhaps reminiscent of the economic boom years, but it had become one of the highlights of Carolyn’s work year. She had been looking forward to it for weeks.

  She liked it even better than the employee Christmas party, if only because of how adorable the kids looked in their best outfits, eagerly waiting for Santa to come. Even the Santa was top quality: a nice old man with a full, fluffy white beard and velvet suit, who didn’t need padding to create his belly full of jelly.

  Carolyn volunteered to help out with the party every year—corralling their guests to their tables and making sure the menu was as agreed. Her boss had suggested the year before that maybe this sort of thing was below her pay grade.

  “Nonsense,” Carolyn had told him. “I love it.”

  She meant it. The kids were the big appeal. She didn’t care for some of their parents—too full of their own self-importance and expensive wine to appreciate the event at all. But the kids—they always made the evening special for her.

  Kids had been playing on her mind lately. With her mother being sick, she’d started to reassess her place in the world. She had one aunt, one uncle…and that was it. She’d be a good mother—she had the best example in the world—but as she chewed on a fingernail (a habit she hadn’t manage to break, despite being able to afford expensive manicures these days), she wondered if she was yearning for kids at the moment for the right reasons.

  She’d briefly considered having a one-night stand with a friend to get pregnant—she was one hundred percent a lesbian but she could have hetero sex for the sake of this—but she didn’t know if she trusted anyone enough to ask to get her up the duff. She was keenly aware of how tough things were for her mother as a single parent. That was the late eighties/early nineties though. Surely Ireland had progressed since then?

  She jumped in surprise as someone grabbed onto her leg. She looked behind her to see a crown of blond curls and a pouting boy beneath them.

  “Well, hello there.”

  He peered up at her, his big hazel eyes sizing her up. He let go of her leg with one hand so he could suck on his thumb.

  “That’s a lovely shirt you’re wearing,” she tried, nodding to his outfit. “I really like the colour. Blue is one of my favourite colours. Is it one of yours?”

  He blinked a little at her, but stayed quiet. She tried another tack.

  “My name is Carolyn. What’s your name?”

  He pulled his thumb out of his mouth for a second, still keeping the thumb close to his lips.

  “Simon,” he said, his tongue lisping on the “s”. It was all he said before shoving his thumb back into his mouth.

  “It’s very nice to meet you,” Carolyn said, kneeling down gently so he let go of her leg. She put out her hand and he looked at her quizzically a moment. Then, with a grin, he took it, shaking it hard. She ignored the fact that his thumb was still wet with spit, and smiled warmly at him.

  “So, Simon, what is Santa going to bring you this year?”

  She’d asked the right question; she was rewarded by his face lighting up in excitement.

  “I’m getting a twuck,” he confided in a very serious, no-BS tone. “A lellow twuck.” He looked at his hand a moment and then held up a couple of fingers. “Two lellow twucks. And…and…and a twactor.”

  “Two trucks and a tractor?” Carolyn whistled long and low. “You must’ve been a really good boy for Santa to be bringing you all that. Have you been a good boy?”

  Simon nodded solemnly. “Yep. I eat all my vegetables and I am nice to my sister and my brother. Even though they won’t let me play their game.”

  “Oh, well, that’s very sad,” Carolyn sympathised. “Big brothers and sisters can be like that. But maybe when you get your yellow trucks, you can let them play with them, too. It’s nice to share.”

  Simon nodded. “That’s what Mrs. Sarah says.”

  Carolyn didn’t have a chance to ask exactly who Mrs. Sarah might be, or why she chose to add “Mrs.” in front of her first name and not her surname like normal people, because a grating, nasal voice hit her ears first.

  “Simon! Where have you gone to, Simon?”

  Carolyn followed the voice and saw that it belonged to a woman who looked kind of familiar. She was from Carolyn’s hometown, she thought—dressed head to toe in high-end boutique items, her fingers dusted with giant diamonds. Her accent was, most decidedly, not from Carolyn’s hometown; it was one of those weirdly Americanised, fake accents people had somehow managed to buy along with their designer labels in the Celtic Tiger years.

  Carolyn raised a hand in a wave.

  “I believe I have the very man you’re looking for right here.”

  The woman rushed over and grabbed Simon by the hand. She barely acknowledged Carolyn.

  “You’re not supposed to be running around. You’ll get your nice clothes all dirty and then Mummy will be very cross with you.”

  Simon dipped his head again.

  “Oh, he was being no trouble at all,” Carolyn said. “He was just telling me about the trucks that Santa might be bringing him.”

  The woman looked at Carolyn briefly. “He’s crazy about them. I’ve been trying to convince him to ask for a games console or something more expensive, but he won’t budge. Truck-mad.”

  Carolyn nodded like she understood what the issue was, but the woman was scanning the room, not looking at her.

  “Oh well, as long as he’s happy, I suppose,” she said.

  “Yes…” the woman said distractedly. She turned back to Carolyn. “Anyway, thanks.” Her eye lingered this time. “You know, I’m sure I know you.” She pursed her lips, her brow knitting into light furrows. “Oh, I have it!” she said brightly. “You were a couple of years behind me in school, weren’t you? You lived on St. Michael’s Close?”

  Her nose screwed up in distaste as she said it, as if the name of the estate was some pungent flavour in her delicate mouth.

  “That’s right,” Carolyn said, not rising to the bait. “I was in your sister-in-law’s class. Saoirse. Your name is Suzanne, isn’t it?”

  “Mm-hmm,” the woman said, though she didn’t ask for Carolyn’s name. “Small world.” She gave Carolyn the once-over, taking in her black pencil skirt, red belt, and starched white blouse.

  “And what are you doing with yourself now—what has you all the way up to Dublin today?” she asked. “Are you on the catering staff?”

  Carolyn bristled.
It didn’t matter how much money you spent on your clothes, people from your hometown never changed the way they saw you in your childhood.

  “You know, I think our table could do with more drinks, if you’re taking orders,” Suzanne was saying.

  Snobby bitch, Carolyn thought. Makes sense Saoirse is some way related to her.

  Carolyn pulled her scarlet-lipsticked mouth into what she hoped passed for a polite smile.

  “I’m actually a solicitor at the firm. One of the senior team, actually. I’m just helping out with proceedings here.”

  “Huh,” Suzanne said. The tone hinted that she didn’t quite believe Carolyn. “You know, my husband, Tom Barrett, does a lot of business with Kavanagh and Byrne’s. I’m surprised he hasn’t mentioned you before.”

  That may be because he’s neck deep in a fraud case. And he doesn’t even realise how the shit is going to hit the fan for him soon, Carolyn wanted to retort. She was well acquainted with Tom Barrett’s case—she’d chosen to stay far away from the proceedings, though, to avoid any conflict of interests.

  She didn’t reveal that juicy titbit. Instead, she kept the same, shaky smile on her face.

  “Must be working with another one of our team, then,” Carolyn said lightly.

  It didn’t matter anyway. Suzanne had obviously lost interest. She was back to scanning the room, looking for anyone more interesting she could speak to.

  “Well, we had better…” Suzanne said. She didn’t finish her sentence or even look at Carolyn, just waved her hand theatrically back at her.

  Carolyn bent forward to meet the retreating child’s eye.

  “Nice talking to you, Simon. Hope Santa brings you all you could want.”

  He gave her a small wave and smiled around the thumb that was planted firmly back in his gob.

  “Oh, I’ll tell Saoirse you said hello,” Suzanne said as she strode away.

  Carolyn didn’t get enough time to tell her not to.

  * * * * *

  Saoirse sat the headphones gently over her long, blonde hair, careful not to mess the curls she’d carefully tonged in that morning. She cleared her throat a little while the DJ across from her shuffled his papers and looked through the questions printed out for him.

  The chair she sat in was leather—scuffed but comfortable—and the studio was just a small one, located above a local newspaper business.

  It had been a long time since she’d been in this radio station to do any PR work. At the start of her business, she’d come in often, but as the business grew and she had more people to delegate to, appearances at smaller media outlets had dropped off her schedule. Now, she only really appeared on the national stations.

  The DJ, Dermot, was a nice older gentleman—one of those people, she’d thought often, who looked nothing like he sounded. Though on the radio, he sounded like a fun, young guy, he dressed in the kind of comfortable jumpers and easy-iron slacks that sneaked into an Irishman’s wardrobe once the kids were raised.

  He put the papers down and turned to her. “Thought you’d gotten too important for us, Saoirse,” he teased off-mic while a song played out to the listeners. “Few years since we saw you last.”

  She winked.

  “I could never leave you for too long, Dermot,” she teased back. She took a sip of water to be sure her voice stayed lubricated for the interview.

  “Actually,” she confessed, “this concert is a big deal to me. I wanted to make sure it got all the attention it needed.”

  He nodded, held up five fingers to cue her up, and then counted down until they were back on air. She shook herself into readiness.

  “That song was for Kathleen and her daughter, Gwen, who are on their way to do some Christmas shopping today. Have a great day, you two.

  “And now, in the studio, we have an old friend of mine—Saoirse Barrett, it’s great to have you here.”

  Saoirse leaned into the mic.

  “Great to be here. It’s always such a pleasure to be with 102 FM.”

  Dermot adjusted a couple of knobs on the sound desk as he spoke, subtly and without dropping the conversation.

  “You’re here to tell us all about the South County Singers’ Christmas concert. It’s something you do every year, and I know from previous years what a great time it is. Can you tell us what we can expect this year?”

  She smiled—not because of the question, but because of that old PR trick of smiling so people could hear it in your voice—and leaned in towards the microphone again.

  “We’re really excited about the concert this year. It’s happening on Christmas Eve in the town hall. Anyone who wants to come can expect to hear some of the best singers in all of Leinster. Bring your friends, bring your granny—bring your postman, if you want. You won’t be disappointed.”

  Dermot looked at his printed page.

  “And I hear that the choir is bigger than ever this year. Tell me about the work that’s gone into it.”

  Saoirse smiled again.

  “Well, we’ve been hard at it for months now. When all of your listeners were just getting over Halloween, we were already putting the set list together and practising our scales.

  “And this year it’s for a new cause—the Leinster Cancer Support Service. All of the funds raised will go towards helping them out. They do such important work—bringing patients to radiology appointments, running beauty classes for female patients, and generally being a lifeline to anyone undergoing cancer treatment and their families.”

  Dermot nodded in approval.

  “I’ve seen some of the great work they do. They’re indispensable for a lot of people in the county and in the whole region. And how much are tickets?”

  “Tickets are twenty euro,” Saoirse answered. “That includes a mulled wine and mince pie reception, and face painting for the kids, if you bring them. It’s going to be a lot of fun.”

  Dermot checked his notes.

  “You can buy them on the door if there are any left but I think this will be a sold-out show. So you can visit the South County Singers’ website to book yours in advance.”

  Saoirse smiled a smile so hard it hurt.

  “That’s right, Dermot. Get your ticket early or you could miss out.”

  Dermot swivelled his chair towards Saoirse and leaned in closer to his mic.

  “And the lovely Saoirse is not just promoting this event,” he said to the mic with a conspiratorial tone. “She’s one of the singers you’ll see on the night. Tell me, Saoirse, can we expect to see a lot of you on the night? Are you giving a solo performance?”

  Saoirse flushed and laughed what she hoped was an airy, careless laugh.

  “Oh, watch this space. I just might be.”

  Shit, she thought as soon as she’d answered. Did that sound presumptuous? Now she’d look like an eejit if she didn’t get that solo.

  Dermot ran through the tie-up of the interview but Saoirse didn’t take in much of what he said. She hoped to God that solo was hers. Otherwise, she was going to look very foolish.

  * * * * *

  Ordinarily, being anywhere near that woman was enough to bring Carolyn out in a rage stroke. But right now, the fury that boiled her stomach was almost too much to bear.

  Carolyn paced back and forth behind the school stage, willing herself to calm down. She’d been fairly confident that she could redeem herself with Damien just that morning. She’d been practising every morning before work and every evening after she’d visited her mam in the hospital, running through the toughest bits of the song as she drove the commute home.

  But then Mags had phoned her, all excited, because she’d heard about the concert on the radio.

  “Look at Little Miss Kind-of-Famous,” she’d said with a rare reverence in her voice. “Hitting the big time on us now.”

  Carolyn had laughed at that. She’d been in work at the time of the interview—but from the second Mags had phoned her about it on her lunch break, Carolyn was itching to get home.

  “
I haven’t even heard the segment, Mags. I don’t know how arrogant I even need to be yet.”

  She promised she’d inform her of her decision once she’d listened to the interview.

  As soon as Carolyn had gotten home, she’d rushed straight to her computer without even taking her coat off. She found the podcast of the show online easily and readied herself to share it with everyone on Facebook and Twitter.

  The second the interview had started, though, her stomach had sunk to her feet. She knew that irritating voice. What the hell was Saoirse doing speaking for the whole choir? Who exactly had nominated her to go on air and to talk about how great she was?

  By the time she got to the end of the interview and heard Saoirse hint that the solo was hers, Carolyn had wanted to set fire to her monitor to exorcise it of the whole awful clip.

  Of course Damien had to make Saoirse the soloist now. How was he going to say no when she’d all but announced it to the world (or at least to the three-hundred-kilometre radius 102 FM played to)?

  Now backstage, after she and Saoirse had both given their performance again, Carolyn was sure it was only a matter of time before Damien gave her the bad news.

  She didn’t have to wait too long. Marie, one of the sopranos, stuck her head around the door to the backstage.

  “Damien’s looking for you,” she said gravely. Marie gave Carolyn a small, sympathetic smile. “Good luck.”

  Every muscle in Carolyn’s body crackled with tension.

  “On my way. Thanks.”

  Reflexively, she shoved a fingernail in between her front teeth and chewed anxiously. A shard of nail polish came away in her mouth so that she had to spit it out into her hand.

  Great.

  She rubbed the hand against the front of her suit trousers—she’d had no time to change after work this evening—and brushed herself clean.

  Now or never, Carolyn. Just get it over with.

  Damien was waiting for her as she came through the stage door, the rest of the forty-strong choir on the opposite side of the stage, pretending like they weren’t eavesdropping. Saoirse stood behind Damien looking at her brown-leather boots. Not even the decency to look Carolyn in the eye.