‘The owner of this place is actually a friend of mine,’ Lainey whispered as she and Eva waited at the reception desk in the centre of the bar. Eva looked around, taking a few moments while her eyes adjusted from the bright light outside. It was a very large room, filled with people. She turned in a circle, taking it all in. Each corner of the cafe was decorated in a completely different style. One corner was tropical, like a Hawaiian bar. The next was a stark and stylish black and white. The third was like a 1970s lounge room, all funky sofas and lampshades. The fourth was straight off the Casablanca film set, all whirring overhead fans and a big piano, currently silent.
As the receptionist found a table for them, Lainey spoke to Eva in a low tone. ‘My friend made his money running one of those Irish theme pubs, then sold out of that to start this. He’s about to open another one in Carlton, on the other side of town. Can you work out what it’s actually called?’
Eva stared at the logo. It was the number four over the number four, like a mathematical equation. ‘Four out of four?’
‘It is a bit obscure, isn’t it? It’s actually Four Quarters, do you see?’
‘No, not really. What does it mean?’
‘This city is completely football mad - Australian Rules, you know it?’
Eva nodded.
‘Each game has four quarters, so he picked up the idea and called it after that. His designers change the look of the four quarters every few months, to keep people interested. The last lot were great - a space-age area, a French cafe, a florist’s shop and a 1950s milk bar. People give him suggestions too, for what they’d like to see. It’s like a grownup version of the lands at the top of the Faraway Tree, don’t you reckon?’
Eva nodded. It was a very simple idea that could have looked very odd. But it obviously worked each quarter was jammed with people.
‘He even serves different sorts of food in each quarter,’ Lainey said. ‘It’s really taken off. Especially at night-time. People start in one corner and work their way around.’
They were shown to a table in the Hawaiian section. Eva sat back while Lainey went to the bar. She felt half drunk already. Jetlag was actually quite pleasant, she decided. As though nothing around you was real.
Lainey came back with the drinks. ‘Cosmopolitans, just the thing for us international gals.
,
Now, shall I quickly bring you up to date with my boyfriend sagas, just to set the scene?’ Eva smiled. These were exactly the sort of conversations she’d been looking forward to. That other stuff, the photo, all that had happened ten years ago, it was in the past. She’d leave it there, she decided, where it belonged. She nodded. ‘Yes, please. Every one of them.’ ‘Well, you know about Peter, from two years ago. Short but very sweet. Him, not the relationship. But no zing, so we broke up. Then I had a long-distance fling with a fellow from the Sydney office. But then I was promoted and he wasn’t, so that ruined that. I’ve had a few dates since, and dear old Adam downstairs is eager and hopeful, but as you can see, I’m actually single at the moment. Have been for a year now. Criminal, isn’t it?’ ‘What’s wrong with the men in this city? Are they blind?’ ‘Oh, I’ve had the offers,’ Lainey said. ‘But I don’t want quantity, I want quality. I’m too old to waste time dilly-dallying around, trying new ones on for size and finding out too late they don’t fit properly. I’m waiting for the real one now, I’ve decided. Mr Gorgeous. The one that makes me weak at the knees. Makes my heart skip a beat. Makes my stomach swirl —’ ‘You’re not waiting for Mr Gorgeous. You’re waiting for Mr Cholera.’ Lainey laughed and held up her drink. ‘Exactly.
To Mr Cholera! Now, what about you and a nice holiday romance? That’s what you need, isn’t it? What about I ask Greg to the dinner party and you can see what you think of him?’ ‘Who is Greg? And what dinner party?’ ‘Didn’t I tell you? I’m having a dinner party the night before I go to Brisbane so some of my friends can meet you. I just hope Greg will be able to make it at this short notice.’ ‘Lainey, slow down. Who is Greg?’ ‘The guy that owns this cafe. He’s mad about anything to do with Ireland, I know he’d love to meet you. And now I think of it, I reckon he’s exactly what you need to get over Dermot.’ Eva looked at her friend and shook her head. ‘Exactly when did you become a matchmaker, Lainey Byrne?’ Lainey grinned and held up her glass in a toast. ‘About ten seconds ago.’
In Sydney at that same moment, Joseph stood at the window of his hotel room, his mobile phone to his ear. In front of him was the harbour, all blue glinting water and white sails. To his right was the Sydney Opera House. To his left he could just see the Sydney Harbour Bridge. This felt more like a tourism commercial than a work trip, he thought. ‘Joseph? You there?’
‘Sorry, Dave. Distracted by the view from my window.’ His university friend gave a booming laugh. ‘Wait till you see what I’m organising for Friday night, then. The finest wine, women and song Sydney has to offer. So I’ll see you at my place at Bondi, okay? Around nine?’ Joseph noticed the upward inflection at the end of each sentence. ‘Dave, is that the beginnings of an Australian accent I hear? Already?’ ‘If you can’t beat them, join them, that’s my motto. Anyway, better go. Welcome again, enjoy your conference and see you Friday. Ciao!’ ‘You’re speaking Italian as well as Australian?’ ‘German as well. Aufwiedersehen!’ Joseph laughed. ‘Goodbye. See you Friday.’ He checked the time. He’d been in Australia for four hours and had already managed to get some work done, before he’d even left the airport. Standing at the luggage carousel, he’d watched bags of all shapes and sizes emerge through the rubber curtain and begin their sashay on the moving catwalk. The designer in him had dismissed key elements in most of them. Too gaudy. Too rigid. Too unwieldy. Some were just dead ugly. He kept a particular watch for backpacks, though there were few brands he hadn’t already studied in great detail. Some were so full they were nearly bursting. One or two actually had rips. The material he’d used in his backpack made a rip
nearly impossible. He saw one backpack with what appeared to be a nappy taped onto the backstraps, presumably for extra comfort. He’d thought of that too. His design had cotton wadding built into the strap material. A driver had been waiting for him at the airport concourse, holding up a sign bearing his name. Twenty minutes later he’d arrived at this stylish waterside hotel, where two porters, speaking into headsets, had been waiting to greet him at the lobby. He’d been checked in before he even reached the desk, his key being passed over with a flourish. His room was more like a fashionable apartment than a sterile hotel suite. There had been a welcome card awaiting him from the conference organiser, with a reminder about the technical rehearsal at the nearby venue later that afternoon. He checked the time. He wasn’t due there for another two hours. But he’d slept well in his business class seat from Singapore to Sydney, he didn’t need to go to bed. And he was in work mode now. He might as well go there and get it under way. What was he talking about, he was in work mode now? He was always in work mode these days. He picked up his presentation notes and headed out the door.
In Dublin, Meg was taking herself on a tour around the contents of the front-counter display cabinet, notebook in hand.
Sitting in the storeroom, Ambrose overheard her muttering to herself.
‘Goats’ cheese. Artichoke hearts. Anchovies. Semi-dried tomatoes … what’s this one, Uncle Ambrose?’
He peered out. She was holding something up in a pair of tongs.
Standing up with a small groan, he walked closer. ‘That’s pickled ginger. You use it in Chinese food.’
‘Oh, right. I love Chinese food. We did a few classes at Ardmahon House about international food and my teacher Maura said that one day there won’t be such a thing as regional cooking. That as the world gets smaller, as people keep travelling the world so
much, all the different cuisines will get mixed up. And it’s getting like that in Dublin already, isn’t it, with all those new restaurants? And here too, Uncle Ambrose in fact, you’re a trendsetter, aren’t you? Bringing in lots of Italian and Greek and other foreign food to Ireland, don’t you think?’
By God, this young one could talk, he thought, watching as she moved across to the olive oil section of the shop. She was like a wind-up toy. An overwound toy, sometimes. So different to Eva’s grownup ways and ever-ready humour. As he walked back to the storeroom, Ambrose thought of Eva’s surprise when he offered her the shop. What would she decide? he wondered. To stay with the shop or go back to her art studies? He really didn’t know. It was so hard to tell with Eva sometimes. She was one to keep her thoughts to herself. He liked that about her. He liked a lot of things about her. She was a lovely girl, warm and friendly, terrific with the customers. Such a shame she had so little confidence in herself. Ambrose knew she had it in her to run the shop, manage the whole business. He just hoped she knew it too.
With a sigh, he took out the stepladder. Time to get back to work. He’d climbed two steps when Meg’s voice behind him made him jump.
‘Uncle Ambrose! What are you doing up there?’
‘The storeroom clean-up, Meg. The job Eva and I dread each year.’
‘Oh, can I help you to do it? I love this sort of thing. I could even set up a system, reorganise it a bit, if you like.’
Ambrose looked around the little room. The storeroom had never been in any particular order but they had all muddled along very happily. So what if it sometimes took a bit longer to find things than it should? What was the rush? But there was Meg, itching to get stuck into it. Oh why not? he thought. If Eva came back and agreed to take over the shop, it would be a good thing for her. And if Eva came back and said she didn’t want to take over the shop, then it would make it easier to pack everything up in readiness for selling.
‘Yes, you can, Meg. Let me get myself a chair here in the doorway. I’ll be the general, directing from afar. You be the soldier on the battlefield.’
Meg beamed at him. Now she really felt like she was helping out. She put her hands on her hips and looked around. ‘It is in a bit of a mess, isn’t it? But I’ll have it all sorted out in no time. Now, what about I put all the pasta and grain in one corner? And the dried produce and all the fruit and nuts could go together too. That way you could come in and get just what you needed, quick as a flash, couldn’t you?’
Ambrose nodded weakly. He wondered if he’d made a mistake giving Eva that extra week off after all.
‘Feel like a nightcap, Evie? Out on the balcony?’ ‘Great idea.’ Eva opened the double doors and went outside, breathing in the cool night air, listening to the sounds of Melbourne filtering over. The city was becoming more familiar to her each day. While Lainey was at work she’d turned into the Queen of the Tourists, catching trams and visiting the zoo, galleries and museums. She’d read the Melbourne restaurant guide from cover to cover, her mouth watering at the descriptions. ‘Make a list,’ Lainey had urged her. ‘We’ll try and get to as many as we can.’ Eva liked the sound of the lively Greek taverna in Collingwood. The casual Vietnamese restaurant in Richmond. One of the Spanish tapas bars in Fitzroy. And the tiny bar in a city-centre Janeway that sounded like it was all low lighting and high attitude. Tonight they’d been to Lainey’s parents’ house in
the outer suburbs for a barbecue. On the way there, they’d taken a detour through the inner-city area of Carlton. ‘You’ve got to see this,’ Lainey had said. ‘It’s called Lygon Street. We’re in Carlton, Melbourne’s Italian area. You’d swear you were in Milan or Rome some nights.’ Lainey was right. All the footpaths were crowded with tables. Young Italian men were driving slowly up and down the road in hotted up cars, calling out to big haired, glamorously dressed young women who were doing their best to pretend they were ignoring them. ‘It smells like garlic and coffee and something, doesn’t it?’ Eva said. ‘It’s garlic and coffee and sex, if you ask me,’ Lainey replied. ‘This street is like a mating pen.’ From there they’d driven on to Lainey’s parents. Mr and Mrs Lainey, Eva called them. She had since she was five. Her mother had once heard her calling them by their first names and been horrified. ‘You have to call them Mr and Mrs,’ Mrs Kennedy had said. ‘It’s only polite.’ Mr and Mrs what, though? Eva had wondered, too young to understand about surnames. She’d decided on Mr Lainey and Mrs Lainey and it had stuck ever since. Eva had handed over the presents she’d brought them from Ireland - shortbread and giant bags of Tayto crisps - and caught up on the news since she had last seen them during their first and only holiday
back to Ireland, many years previously. Mr Lainey’s building company was still doing well, he said, hard work but good. Mrs Lainey was working in the library, assistant to the chief librarian now, and loving it. They hadn’t lost their Irish accents at all. The Meath tones were as strong as ever.
Lainey’s three brothers were a different story. Eva couldn’t believe they were the same three boys. She remembered Brendan, Hugh and Declan as cheeky schoolkids, knock-kneed and pale-skinned. Certainly not the three strapping fellows alternating tossing a football around the back garden with cooking platters of chops and sausages on the enormous barbecue.
Over dinner Mrs Lainey asked what Eva was up to in Dublin these days. She seemed surprised at her answer. ‘A shop? I thought Lainey said you’d been to art school.’
Eva remembered then that Lainey had inherited her bluntness from her mother. ‘Well, yes, I did go to art school.’
‘But you’re just working in a shop now?’
Eva nodded. She was tempted to say that perhaps it might soon be her shop, but it was still too soon to talk about it. She hadn’t even told Lainey yet. She wanted to keep mulling it over in her own head, let her ideas about it settle before she opened them up for scrutiny.
‘So you weren’t really creative, after all, then? Was it just a phase, do you think?’
Eva had forgotten Mrs Lainey could also be so tactless. ‘Well, no, not just a phase. I really do like to paint. And sing, actually. I’m just not doing it for a living at the moment.’ ‘Oh dear, don’t take offence,’ Mrs Lainey said quickly. ‘There’s nothing wrong with working in a shop. What would we do without you shop assistants?’ She’d changed the subject then. ‘You know, Lainey is practically running that event management company she works for. She’s just great. She’s worked her way right up to the top, so she has.’ ‘She’s great,’ Eva had agreed. But the comparison had been obvious. Lainey had gone from success to success in Australia, while Eva still worked in a shop. Lainey was successful, Eva wasn’t. As Lainey came out on to the balcony now with their drinks, Eva turned to her and blurted out what was on her mind. ‘Did you always think I was fooling myself about my painting and my singing, Lainey?’ ‘What?’ ‘Your ma said perhaps I’d just been going through a phase. When I went to art school. That I wasn’t really creative. Dermot said the same thing to me, actually, the night we broke up.’ Lainey flinched at her mother’s words. Her mother could be terrible sometimes, speaking without thinking. ‘I always loved your paintings. But how long is it since you’ve done any?’