Second Time Around

Aware that Matt had been silent for some moments and was now staring at him, Ben said, ‘So tell me why I should give you the commis chef job?’

Matt took a deep breath, held it, then let it all out in an audible rush. He stared straight at Ben and said, ‘Because I’m different. Because I don’t just follow recipes and do things by rote. I create.’ He raised his hands upwards as if tossing something into the air and his voice, quiet to start with, grew louder, the passion in it swelling like a pot coming to the boil. ‘I use my imagination. I’m not afraid to experiment and try new things. And I care. Everything I do has to be perfect.’

Ben put down his pen and stared at Matt, mesmerised by the lad’s self-belief.

Matt looked at the palms of his hands and a muscle in his jaw twitched. ‘My hands were made to cook. This is what I was born to do. I’ve been fascinated by food and how to cook it ever since I was a child. Ask my Mum.’ He looked directly at Ben then. ‘There’s nothing in the world I would rather do. And one day I’m going to have a chain of restaurants and they’ll be the best in all of Ireland. My food’ll be better than anything Paul Rankin or Rachel Allen or any Irish chef has ever done. You wait and see.’ Then he threw himself back in the chair and blinked back tears.

Ben, slightly stunned, said nothing. He’d never before met a more self-assured nineteen-year-old nor one who seemed so certain of his path in life, his destiny. And he was filled with a rush of bitter regret. If he’d had the confidence, the passion, to fight for what he’d wanted seven years ago, he wouldn’t be sitting here today at the age of twenty-eight, trapped in a job and a lifestyle he hated so much. At the time he thought he’d done the right thing, the only thing. But he’d not been true to himself. He’d sacrificed his lifetime’s ambition to rescue his father, to give him a reason to go on. But with every day that passed, while Alan’s dreams came to fruition, Ben’s became a little more distant, a little harder to recall.

‘I shouldn’t have said that, should I?’ said Matt abruptly and he stood up, his tall frame towering over Ben. ‘Maybe I’m not the guy for this job. I’m sorry I’ve wasted your time.’

He turned then and started to walk to the door on the balls of his feet, hands shoved in the front pockets of his jeans.

‘Wait,’ shouted Ben and Matt turned round.

Ben held out his hands as if presenting this truth in them. ‘I can see you’re passionate and ambitious – and that’s fantastic – but you have to start somewhere. You can’t wade in at the age of nineteen, fresh out of college, and start running a kitchen.’

Matt nodded and said, deflated, ‘I know. And that’s why I’m here. I really need this job.’

Ben imagined what his father would say. But Alan wasn’t here. ‘I’ve read your references, Matt. I believe you’re as good as you say you are. And there’s no doubting your commitment. But there’s a big difference between catering college and hacking it, day in and day out, in a commercial kitchen.’

‘I know that,’ said Matt.

Ben, eyeballing him, went on, ‘You have to be prepared to work harder than you’ve ever done.’

‘I am.’

‘And you have to respect the hierarchy. You have to be able to take orders. If you can’t do that, there’s no place for you in this kitchen, in any commercial kitchen.’

Matt nodded and said hopefully, ‘I haven’t blown it then?’

Ben shook his head and decided there and then, in that moment, that he was going to take a chance on this lad no matter what his father, or Jason, might say. This project was, after all, meant to be his. ‘Not as far as I’m concerned,’ he smiled. ‘You will have to convince Jason as well though.’

Matt’s thick black eyebrows moved up a fraction in surprise. Then he grinned and punched the air and cried, ‘Yes!’

‘I’ll put in a good word for you with him.’ He’d have to do more than that – he’d have to persuade Jason to take on a boy who, on paper, was less well qualified than some other applicants. But none had impressed him like Matt. And none of the others had sparked in him the desire to help them.

Matt came over, grasped Ben’s hand in both of his and shook it vigorously. ‘I won’t let you down, Ben. I promise.’

‘Don’t forget that Jason’s the boss. So maybe keep your plans for a culinary take-over of Ireland to yourself for the time being, eh?’

Matt laughed. ‘Okay. I understand.’

Ben got them both a coffee and said, ‘Let me tell you a bit more about our plans. It’ll help when you meet with Jason.’ They talked about the restaurant’s image, the number of covers, the clientele they aimed to attract, the type and quality of food they would serve based on the province’s abundant supply of high-quality produce.

‘That’s definitely the way to go,’ offered Matt. ‘Quality over price. People don’t want to eat cheap rubbish any more. They want to know where the food on their plate comes from.’

Ben smiled and thought of how Matt’s ethos contrasted so markedly with his father’s. Alan had latched on to the ‘finest local produce’ mantra only because he was astute enough to realise it was what people wanted to hear – and that put bums on seats. He knew good food, but his primary interest was in the business side – menu pricing, cost control, cash flow and profit margins. But that focus, thought Ben with a grudging respect, was why he was such a good businessman.

His people skills however, while good, weren’t quite as well honed. Though Ben had never spoken about it, Alan realised that he was unhappy in his job. But, unable to identify with any personality type other than his own competitive and work-obsessed one, Alan assumed Ben was bored. He thought Ben needed a new and exciting challenge and told him so. It did not occur to Alan to ask Ben what he wanted and Ben, in turn, knowing how the truth would wound his father, kept silent.

Hence the new restaurant in Ballyfergus, a start-up venture with no guarantee of success. Ben worried that he would fail, that he simply wouldn’t be able to summon the necessary energy and drive to deliver what his father expected.

So, far from looking forward to it, Ben was dreading it. And not just the long hours. He’d no desire to live in a small-town rural backwater like Ballyfergus. He didn’t want to leave Belfast and his flat full of books that he loved so much. Living near the university had helped him keep his dream of a teaching career alive. The only advantage he could see in moving to Ballyfergus was that it would mean getting away from Rebecca.

A short while later, as Matt and Ben strolled companionably across the pale ash floor of the restaurant towards the exit, they passed close by the dark-haired woman and her friend.

‘Matt!’

Abruptly they both stopped and looked over at the table and Matt’s face broke into a grin. ‘What are you doing here?’ he cried and, peeling away from Ben, went straight over to the table and embraced the sexy woman in black who was now standing with a white napkin dangling from her hand. How did Matt know her, he wondered. When they separated, she said, laughing, ‘I could ask you the same question.’

‘I came to see Ben here,’ he replied, ‘about a commis chef job.’

‘Oh,’ she said and blushed a little.

Ben came forward, not daring to look directly at the woman’s face in case he betrayed his uneasiness. He could smell her sweet, citrusy perfume now and see the gentle rise and fall of her chest, and lower still, the curve of her shapely calves.

‘Ben, this here’s Donna.’

Ben smiled and shook her hand.

‘… and this is my Mum.’

Mum! Startled, he looked straight at her then. This gorgeous creature was Matt’s mother? It was impossible. But then he saw the likeness in the oval shape of her face; the strong jaw line; the wide, pleasing mouth. And he saw, now that he was closer, that she was a little older than he’d assumed. Her skin creased at the corners of her eyes and she had deep laughter lines on both sides of her mouth when she smiled. She was no less beautiful than he’d first thought but disappointment tempered his admiration. She must’ve been very young when she’d had Matt. She looked directly at him, with eyes the same colour as Matt’s, every pretty feature illuminated and enhanced by the warm smile her son had inherited from her. ‘I’m Jennifer. Lovely to meet you, Ben.’

He managed to mumble something in reply and Jennifer said, ‘Well, how did the interview go?’

‘Great,’ said Ben.

‘I’ve still got to pass an interview with the Head Chef,’ added Matt.

‘More a formality than anything,’ said Ben boldly, without taking his eyes off Jennifer, realising as he said it, that it was a lie. Yet he was desperate for some reason to impress this woman – and please her.

‘Oh, that’s wonderful, Matt,’ she said and turned her attention to him, leaving Ben feeling as if a shadow had just passed overhead, blocking out the rays of the sun. She placed the flat of her palm on Matt’s cheek momentarily, causing him to redden with embarrassment, and added, ‘I’m so pleased for you. This looks like a great place to work.’ She dropped her hand and scanned the restaurant. ‘And Belfast isn’t so far away, is it?’ she said, as if trying to convince herself of something. ‘You’ll have to move up here, of course. Get your own place.’

‘The job isn’t in Belfast, Mum. It’s in Ballyfergus.’

‘Oh! Where?’ she said, her question directed not at Matt but at Ben.

‘Near the town centre,’ explained Ben, hiding his anxiety behind a smile. If Jason refused to employ Matt, he’d have to tell him that he couldn’t have the job. ‘On the site of an old fish and chip café. Peggy’s Kitchen, I think it was called.’

‘Oh, I know exactly where you mean,’ said Jennifer, her face lighting up. ‘It used to be a mecca for bikers from all round East Antrim. It closed down years ago. I’d heard it’d been sold.’ And turning to Matt she added, her face radiant with joy, ‘Imagine getting a job in Ballyfergus! Isn’t that just wonderful?’

Ben looked at Jennifer’s left hand. There was no band on her ring finger, but that didn’t mean anything. She certainly wouldn’t look at a guy like him. She’d want someone mature, a man who was secure in himself and his place in the world, someone confident and successful.

But even though he knew he had no chance with her, he wanted to know everything about her. Matt had mentioned that he lived with his mother and his résumé listed an address in Ballyfergus. He had not been looking forward to it but, all of a sudden, Ballyfergus seemed like an attractive proposition …

As if he could read Ben’s mind, Matt said, ‘Mum has her own interior design business in Ballyfergus. Just in case you’re looking for someone to design the restaurant.’

So she was both beautiful and smart. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, addressing Jennifer. ‘A company’s already contracted to do the interior. Calico Design. We’ve used them before.’

She waved away his apology with a hand gesture and simply laughed. ‘Good choice. Matt, stop being forward.’

‘Well someone has to be,’ he said good-naturedly and turned to Ben and added, ‘Mum’s not very good at self-promotion.’ Jennifer blushed and Matt went on, ‘I have to help her out now and again.’

‘Oh, don’t listen to him,’ she said, her eyes sparkling with merriment.

Matt pulled his mobile out of his pocket and looked at the screen. ‘I gotta go, everyone.’ He said his goodbyes and held out his hand to Ben. ‘Thanks mate.’

Then he left and Donna went to the ladies’, leaving Ben and Jennifer standing alone together.

‘Well, wasn’t that a coincidence?’ she mused. ‘Us coming here for lunch at the same time Matt turns up for an interview with you.’

‘Serendipity,’ said Ben, unable to stop himself from staring at her. She returned his gaze without so much as a blink and they stood like that for a few frozen seconds.

A loud entrance broke the eye contact. It was Rebecca, bare legged and short skirted. Ben’s heart sank. What was she doing here? She strode across the room, her high heels clipping loudly, her long fake-tanned legs the same colour as the varnished wood floor. She glanced from side to side, making sure everyone in the room was looking at her. And they were. Rebecca was a stunning model, signed with his mother’s modelling agency, Diane Crawford Models.

Rebecca flicked her head and long hair cascaded down like a curtain of spun gold. She wore as much make-up as a geisha – and a smile like a sticky plaster.

‘Ben,’ cried Rebecca, throwing elongated, thin arms around his neck and, to his absolute horror, planting a kiss on his lips. He detached her arms, tentacle-like, and wiped pink, gloopy lipstick from his mouth with the back of his hand. He managed a nervous laugh and she glowered at him from under eyelashes as thick and black as spider’s legs.

‘Rebecca! What are you doing here?’

‘Aren’t you pleased to see your girlfriend?’ she pouted childishly.

‘Well … yes … of course,’ he stumbled.

‘I had a modelling job in the area – a promotional thing in Castlecourt – and was just passing,’ she said airily. That explained the inappropriate make-up. She placed a proprietorial hand on his arm and lowered her voice. ‘I got your text. Thought I’d pop in rather than wait till tonight.’

She flashed a fixed, professional smile at Jennifer and he said, taking her cue, ‘Well, it’s been very nice meeting you, Jennifer. And I hope to see you and Donna in Ballyfergus when we open.’

‘You can count on it,’ said Donna, who appeared from nowhere.

Rebecca hooked her arm in his and led him away to the bar. ‘Who was that granny you were talking to?’ she giggled, with a cool, cruel glance over her shoulder.

‘Don’t be so rude. And keep your voice down, for heaven’s sake. She’ll hear you.’ He turned his back, like a shield, towards Jennifer’s table, filled with an urge to protect her from Rebecca’s spiteful comments.

What had he ever seen in her? Apart from a pretty face. Of course, when they’d first met six months ago – courtesy of his mother who was always trying to pair Ben off – Rebecca had been perfectly charming. Fun even. It was only fairly recently, when the chemistry between them had worn off and she began to relax around him, that her true personality had emerged.

Rebecca gave him an icy look, planted her bag on the bar and climbed onto a bar stool, her tight skirt barely covering her crotch. She looked at him calmly with almond-shaped, blue eyes. Each dark brown eyebrow was a perfect, thin arch. ‘So who is she?’

‘I just interviewed her son, Matt, for a chef’s job,’ he said, finding it difficult to make eye contact. ‘She happened to be in here with her friend at the same time.’ Ben glanced at the exit just in time to see Jennifer and her friend walking out.

‘So she is old enough to be my mother,’ said Rebecca. When this elicited no reaction from Ben bar a cold look, she smiled, transforming her face to photo-perfection. ‘So what did you want to talk about? Oh, did you get the tickets for the X Factor Live show at the Odyssey?’

‘I don’t want to go, Rebecca. I’ve told you that a hundred times.’

Her face fell, like this was the first time he’d imparted the news. ‘Look, this isn’t the time or the place to talk,’ he said, looking around self-consciously. ‘I’m working.’

He should have finished with Rebecca a long time ago. Lately he’d begun to wonder if her ardour had more to do with what he was – a Crawford – than who he was as a person. Last week she’d given him a price list of everything she wanted, nay expected, for her birthday, a gesture so mercenary it had shocked him. And today, those cruel, unnecessary remarks about Jennifer – well, they only confirmed that he was doing the right thing.

‘No you’re not, you’re talking to me. Anyway,’ she said, casting a careless glance over her shoulder, ‘they can manage without you for a few minutes, can’t they? You’re the boss after all. No one can tell you what to do.’ And she actually snapped her fingers to attract the attention of Chris behind the bar.

Ben’s face reddened with embarrassment. ‘It’s all right, Chris,’ he said, jumping up, as the stony-faced barman approached. ‘I’ll get it.’

He served her drink. She made no offer of payment, not that he’d have taken it. ‘I have to get back to work, Rebecca. Can you meet me later?’

‘You’re going to finish with me, aren’t you?’ she said flatly.

He ran a hand through his hair. ‘Let’s talk tonight, Rebecca.’

‘You are, aren’t you?’ she said fiercely, her eyes glinting with angry tears.

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t want to tell you here. Like this.’

She glared at him and drummed her painted nails like weapons on the granite surface of the bar. ‘Why?’

‘We’re just not suited, Rebecca. You’re a great girl but we’re not very compatible, are we?’

‘Tell me about it,’ she said viciously. ‘You and your stupid books and old black and white movies. And wanting to sit in on a Saturday night like an old fart reading bloody poetry when everyone else is out partying. Jesus, I don’t know how I put up with it.’

Ben felt his face colour. He thought she liked their nights in. Was this how she’d felt all along?

She grabbed her bag and wriggled off the stool, pulling the hem of her skirt down with her right hand. ‘Well, you can go screw yourself, Ben Crawford,’ she shouted, as a hushed silence descended in the room and all the diners strained to hear. ‘I never want to see you again.’

Chapter 3

Lucy was the last to leave the three-storey terrace house on Wellington Park Avenue that she shared with five other second-year girls. She locked the front door and lugged the bag of dirty laundry down to the bus stop. There was a washing machine in the house but it was coin operated and she’d neither the money for that, nor to buy the washing powder. It cost nothing to do laundry at home.

She did not have to wait long for a bus into Belfast city centre. Settling into a seat by the window she jammed her knees into the back of the seat in front, nursed the bag on her lap and looked out on the overcast, calm afternoon. Already the leaves on the trees that lined the many avenues around Queen’s University were starting to turn and soon the grey pavements would be littered with their crisp, bronzed beauty. The nights would start to close in, forcing her indoors to her room, making it harder to resist what she knew she must.

At the next stop a group of students, boys and girls, laden down with bags, got on the bus and she listened with lonely envy as they chatted about their plans for the weekend. The other girls in the house often invited each other home for the weekend, but Lucy was never on the receiving end of one of those invitations. And she had no desire to bring any of them home. They weren’t her friends. They were housemates, nothing more. Because try as she might she simply couldn’t get on their wavelength – a mindset that seemed to revolve around dyed blonde hair and too much make-up, short-skirted fashion and boyfriends. Their conversation was so shallow and she didn’t understand much of it anyway, peppered as it was with references to TV shows she didn’t watch and music she didn’t listen to. To Lucy’s mind they spent far too much time partying, while she sat alone in her room most nights poring over books – not because she wanted to but because she was afraid of what might happen if she didn’t.

And so Lucy was both amazed and annoyed, in equal measure, that not only had these girls managed to make it into second year, most of them had done it with better exam results than her. She attributed this to the fact that her Applied Mathematics and Physics course was more demanding, the assessment process more challenging, the examinations more rigorous – it must be so. She tried not to dwell on the fact that one girl was reading Biochemistry and another Physics – subjects that could hardly be dismissed as lacking in intellectual rigour. For the idea that these girls might be pretty, popular and clever was too much to bear. She would never be pretty, her singular character precluded her ever being popular and she could barely scrape a pass in exams.

Once off the bus, the strap of her heavy bag digging uncomfortably into her bony shoulder, she popped into a newsagents and, after a long deliberation, settled on a card and box of chocolates for her mother’s birthday. The card, one of those jokey ones with penguins on it, wasn’t exactly suitable but the selection was poor. And, at one pound sixty-nine pence, it was all she could afford. In her closed fist she clutched her last five pound note, wilted and damp from her tight, sweaty grip. Reluctantly, she handed it to the shop-owner with a weak smile. The change, when she counted it, wasn’t enough to buy a sheet of wrapping paper. Outside the shop she crouched down on the pavement and stuffed the purchases into her bag with a terrible sense of guilt. Even though they didn’t always see eye to eye, her mother deserved better.

She walked briskly to East Bridge Street then, her shoulders hunched against the cold, head down against the roar of the endless, screaming traffic, her shoulder-length hair, the colour of dirty straw, hanging lank round her face. She crossed her arms, feeling the wind through her thin grey jacket, and thought over the events of the past week. It wasn’t that she had forgotten her mother’s birthday on Wednesday, not at all. It was just that she’d forgotten to put aside some cash for a decent present – and she’d run out of money on her mobile so she couldn’t even call. She was on a pay-as-you-go contract, not that her parents knew this. The phone company had cancelled her monthly contract after she’d failed to pay her bills.

She could kick herself now. She should’ve bought a card and present – maybe a handbag from TK Maxx – earlier in the month, before she was skint. But, to be honest, her mother’s birthday was the least of her worries. She’d had to go and see the bank manager this morning, an extremely distressing experience that had her truly, deeply worried for the first time. Up until now she’d managed to keep him off her back with hints of family wealth. Her father had guaranteed her overdraft – a safety net, he’d said, for dire emergencies only.

But today, the bank manager wasn’t having any of it. He’d let her have twenty pounds along with a stern warning that enough was enough. If she couldn’t manage her money, then he would have to warn the guarantor, her father, that the debt could be called in. She hooked a hank of hair behind her right ear and bit the inside of her cheek. If her father started digging around in her finances, he would unearth the root cause of the debt. She could not allow that to happen.

How had she got herself into such a mess? And how was she ever going to get out of it?

On the train, two suited businessmen sat down opposite her and opened the sports pages of the Belfast Tele. She sniffed back the tears with determination and fingered the gold watch on her wrist, an eighteenth birthday present from her father. She could sell the watch. Better still, she could pretend she’d lost it and claim the insurance money. And then, appalled by the idea of such deception, she yanked the sleeve of her jacket over the watch and turned her back on temptation.

The train creaked into motion and rolled out of the station. She would have to seek the answer to her problem – the immediate one of money, at least – in Ballyfergus, in the form of her parents and their deep pockets. And then, she resolved firmly, though not for the first time, she would take herself in hand. She would conquer this thing. This time she meant it. She closed her eyes, inhaling slowly, allowing this resolve to fill her up. And, when she opened her eyes, she found her spirits brighter, her outlook less gloomy.

The train picked up more passengers at Yorkgate, then on to Whiteabbey, Jordanstown, Greenisland, names that, as a child, had signified the world beyond Ballyfergus. A world she had been curious, keen even, to explore until discovering that the place she loved best was her hometown.