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‘Maybe you’re right,’ Georgie said. ‘I was certainly exhausted last night.’ She couldn’t remember the last time she’d slept so soundly. ‘And, by the way,’ she said softly, ‘taking on a marketing role in the distillery…’ She stopped, trying to find the words.
‘I know. That is, I think I understand. You want to do it, but that doesn’t mean it’s going to be a doddle,’ Iris said easily and then she reached down into the oven and took out a slice of boxty and popped it on Georgie’s plate. ‘Look, sis.’ It was years since Georgie had been called that and it pulled her up short, but surprisingly it wasn’t altogether unpleasant. ‘I wasn’t making light of you going in there and taking it on. You know, neither Nola nor I would be any good in the distillery.’
‘Well, I don’t know, you could both have big futures as gin testers!’ Georgie joked.
‘Yeah, well, I’ve had a lot of practice.’ Iris raised her coffee as if to make a toast. ‘Seriously though, I know you’ll do a great job and like you said, the running of the place is down to us now. I think, quite aside from any notions father might have had of us all living happily ever after and meeting up in London every weekend, he’d have wanted us to spend our time here making the most of his life’s work before we make a decision on what will become of it all.’
The generosity of Iris’s words affected Georgie in a way she hadn’t expected. Between the cooked breakfast and the easy atmosphere of the kitchen, it gave her a lovely warm, if unfamiliar glow.
It was only later, as she was heading out for a walk that she began to think about it differently. Of course they would want her making the gin the best it could be – it would seriously impact on the value of the place. Neither Iris nor Nola had ever given a fig about the distillery, their father, or Georgie, once they’d managed to secure their own perfect futures. Cross with herself as much as anyone else, Georgie pulled on the spare wellingtons at the back door with a vicious tug. A bloody slice of homemade boxty shouldn’t make her forget it either.
*
It wasn’t an entirely conscious decision, but Nola stayed in London until the last minute when she had no other choice but to leave her flat. She’d sent out what felt like a million query letters to agents, with head shots and her meagre list of credits attached. Yes, she was hoping against all hope that some divine power might pull her from the jaws of having to return home to Ballycove, but in the end, she knew there was nothing for it. She was running out of money and, she had to acknowledge, maybe she’d run out of time long before Maggie Strip had pulled the plug.
So, she packed up her bags, crammed what would fit into a couple of huge suitcases and donated as much as she could to the nearby charity shops. Some of the stuff she’d accumulated over the years wasn’t even good enough for that, so she’d left it behind. In the end, she had to drag herself out and lock the door. It felt as if she was finally giving up on her dream. Worse, she was returning home with her tail between her legs and the unmistakable taste of failure on her lips. To cap it all, the notion of having to spend six months with her sisters was just about the only thing worse than knowing she was basically destitute and unemployable in the only profession she’d ever set her heart on.
Outside, the taxi driver had blown his horn three times now and she knew he wouldn’t wait any longer. This was London; he might already be making his way towards his next fare with her bags tucked up in his boot.
The plane ride over wasn’t much better. Nola felt as if she’d cried an ocean by the time she landed. Iris had offered to collect her in their father’s old car, which she had to admit was kind, otherwise she’d have had the mother of all times trying to lug her cases from one bus to another just to make it home. On her way through arrivals, she nipped into the bathroom to repair as much as she could of what remained of the make-up she’d applied that morning in the flat before she’d left. The last thing she wanted was either of her sisters figuring out that she’d been crying on the way over.
‘You made it.’ Iris was already racing towards the exit after she met her at arrivals. They made their way quickly to the car, managing the bags between them. ‘I’ve parked on double yellows.’ Which explained the rush. In her haste to avoid a parking fine Iris pulled the car out of the tight parking space too quickly, almost slicing the nose off another passing car. She jammed on the brakes, throwing everything in the car about. Nola reached down to pick up Iris’s phone, which had slid from the dash. She hadn’t meant to look. She certainly wasn’t one to go prying, especially in Iris’s phone, who she’d have assumed would have nothing more interesting to look at than knitting patterns or maybe a sleep app. But there it was: Bumps and Grows – the baby app – had been left open.Oh my God.Iris was pregnant! Nola pushed the phone into the glove compartment as if it were on fire, her heart pounding. They spent the remainder of the journey in stony silence, each lost in thought, Nola trying hard to digest the news that it looked as if she was going to become an aunty.
*
The following morning, Nola woke relieved to see that at least the torrential rain that had been promised for the night before had passed over Ballycove. ‘Make hay while the sun shines,’ her father used to say. Well, she thought, she would take that advice today.
Breakfast wasalmosta pleasant affair, cooked by Iris today. Mary was due in each day to cook dinner and tidy up, but there was no reason they couldn’t be civilised about breakfast too. Georgie had organised a rota; they would each have a day to cook breakfast and clean up afterwards. Swaps were allowed. Honestly, Georgie could make a luxury stay in the Ritz feel like a military operation. Still, at least Iris could cook; she wasn’t sure if Georgie still remembered how. Breakfast was a full Irish, and the taste was enough to make up for the stilted conversation.
‘I think I’ll drop in on the Barrys this morning,’ Nola announced as soon as the breakfast dishes were cleared away.
She was delighted to see that Moira Barry’s house had not changed very much at all. When she sat at Moira’s kitchen table, it was as if she’d never left Ballycove to begin with and the reassuring feeling that she had landed somewhere safe was one she knew was worth returning for.
‘You have to tell me everything,’ Moira said as she plopped down opposite her. Nola had already heard all the details of her daughters’ lives: Helen, her old chum, had recently divorced and the other Barry girl was living in a town she hated with two kids who seemed to be running rings around her.
Nola knew she could tell Moira anything; when she’d been young, it was Moira she’d come to when her own mother had not been there. ‘Are you sure you want the truth of it?’
‘Go on, what does the fridge magnet say?’ She pointed towards the far end of the kitchen. ‘The truth sets you free.’
‘All right, here goes…’ And so it all tumbled out of her. From the great highs of the success of being one of the most recognisable faces on British television, to sitting in a kitchen in the village she’d vowed never to return to again. ‘I suppose, it sounds naïve now, but I hadn’t realised how much of my life depended on that one role.’
‘It was as plain as day you were the best one in that programme. I never missed an episode and I’m sure I’m not the only one who tuned out as soon as they decided to kill off your character.’ Moira topped up her tea. ‘Surely you could just get another part?’
‘It sounds simple, doesn’t it?’ Maybe it should have been, but Nola remembered clearly the downward spiral her life had fallen into after her last day on set. It was strange really, because right up to the filming of her very last scenes, it hadn’t really bothered her at all. ‘After it was all over, I slid into depression. I mean, I didn’t realise it at the time. I’d never experienced anything like it before. But one day I woke up and knew I just couldn’t go on. I could hardly get out of bed, never mind brush my hair or go for auditions. Myfriendsvanished one by one. They just stopped taking my calls.’ Nola fought back tears, because even now, she didn’t quite understand how those people who had always been there with a party invitation could have cut her from their lives so callously when she needed real friends the most. ‘And of course, you’ll know from the tabloids that my relationship imploded when Oliver fell for the next actress to arrive on set after I left. I was completely alone.’
‘I thought you were great in that tea advertisement too,’ Moira said loyally. ‘It was such a pity about the court case afterwards.’
‘I have no-one to blame but myself for that.’ God, she still felt that stab in her stomach like a physical pain at her own stupidity every time she thought about it. She thought it would be the making of her, spearheading a case that highlighted the differences in pay between male and female actors in the industry. She had been incensed when she realised her co-star in the advertisements for Britain’s Best Loved Tea was being paid ten thousand pounds more than her. ‘I never bargained on losing the case, nor the fact that even taking it to begin with marked me out as a troublemaker that no-one would want to employ afterwards.’
‘Surely there were other things you could have done? Writing or directing or—’
‘I knocked on every production company door I could think of. In the end, I’d have done anything – worked front of house, made the tea, swept the floors – but like I say, at that point, I was marked out as trouble. London had firmly shut its doors on me. Things got so bad, I ended up in a squat for a while. I even asked Georgie for a job, but by that point, we were hardly close…’ She found she couldn’t go on. That was probably one of the lowest points in her life, the moment she knew that she really had hit rock bottom.
‘I think we’ll need another pot of tea, my dear,’ Moira said gravely. She was holding Nola’s hand and, mercifully, the kitchen that she remembered from her youth as being so busy had remained quiet while she spilled out every last detail of her miserable life for Moira. ‘You poor, poor girl,’ she said, then began to smile. ‘You know, you might have arrived here at the best possible time.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Well, hear me out now. Don’t say no, until I’ve said my piece.’
