Are You Ready? (2 page)

Ben lay half-awake with one eye on the Liverpool match playing on the small flat screen at the end of his bed. He had drunk way too much last night, and even his favourite team playing Man United wasn't going to stir him from his bed, but he supposed that since his best friend was getting married, he had had no option but to get very drunk on the stag night. It had been a great night, and poor Jeremy had been in bits by the time they left the nightclub, but it had reminded Ben how far behind he was on the dating scene. There was a knock on the door.

‘Guess who's come to keep you company? Ben, guess who?'

‘Oh God, Mum, do not bring Mango in here, do not. Oh, too late! Here he comes.'

‘Darling, he loves you, and you adore him. He just wants to keep you company and help you get over your hangover. God, the smell of drink in here is worse than the Guinness brewery back in the eighties,' his mum Maura said, as she stood in her son's room in her
pink dressing gown and matching slippers.

‘Mum, I do not want Mango the parrot in here with me. Even if we do all love him, I'm thirty and a man, and do not need a child's pet beside me all day long. I've told you that a million times.'

‘Ben O'Connor, you will not speak of your childhood best friend and beloved member of this family like that. Now, I'll ignore what you said and put it down to you being sad that you are the last single man of your group of friends, and instead I will go to the kitchen and make you a BLT. I'll ring the bell when it is ready.'

Ben looked at the slammed bedroom door and then at Mango. Living at home when you were thirty wasn't easy, especially as his mother still treated him like he was ten. Ben had tried to break free, and had left home two years ago, and rented an apartment with a friend. But eventually the friend had bought his own place, and Ben had felt renting was a waste of money, and decided to move back home to his parents and their big home in the leafy suburbs, in Foxrock, so that he could save for a place of his own. He missed the freedom and the parties, but what could he do? He tried to save, but property in South Dublin was very expensive. His dad had offered to help him with a deposit for a place, but it was the monthly repayments Ben knew he couldn't really afford on his own, not with his salary. Of course, as his mum reminded him, if he had a girlfriend they could split the monthly payments, but Ben was a single as his parrot Mango. Of course, at times he wanted a girlfriend, but he just
found it hard to meet anyone he liked. There had been plenty of offers, and his last girlfriend Susie had been great, and they had been serious, but the minute she had started using sentences with ‘when we have kids' in them he had had to break it off. It had been an awful break-up. He had loved her, but not enough to move in with her, let alone get engaged or start talking about kids.

His mum had been delighted to have him back home to cook for and chat with, but of course with that came the daily question: ‘Any girls?' Even if he went to the garage he was greeted with it as he walked in the front door, as if he was going to meet his future wife at Esso.

Even Mango seemed to look at him with disappointment nowadays. As if a parrot could tell he was single and thirty! Mango had been his pet since he was thirteen and Ben did love him, but the older you got the more girls and football generally consumed your heart. Yet Ben's mum still looked after Mango for him, and presumed he wanted to have the bird at his side morning, noon and night. Suddenly his mobile rang; he found it under the bed.

‘God, what a session last night! Best night ever, I'm hanging.' It was the husband-to-be, Jeremy.

‘How come you're awake?' Ben croaked.

‘Well, Lisa has it all planned out for us to go looking at wedding cakes today. So I'm up and dressed. Do you want to go swing by Eddie Rocket's before I head off, to get some hangover chips and a burger?'

‘I'd love to, Jeremy, but Mum has a BLT waiting for me, it's the pleasure of living at home!'

‘What? Ben? Ben, I can't hear you. God, don't say that bird Mango is squawking in the background! BLT or not, for God's sake, man, you need to get out of your parents' place. They are great parents, don't get me wrong, but you are thirty, you know. Anyway I'll talk to you later.'

As Ben put the phone down his mum rang the ‘kitchen bell', a cable-car bell from San Francisco that he had brought back with him when he'd spent the summer working in the West Coast of America almost ten years ago. It still worked, and his mum used it to round up everyone for dinner or any meals in the kitchen. As he traipsed down the stairs she shouted up to him not to forget ‘your best friend, Mango'.

Oh God, he thought, he didn't want to hurt her feelings but this would have to stop. No more parrots and living at home. He needed to change his job, his living arrangements and his life, as soon as possible.

Sarah Doyle pushed back her long blonde wavy hair as she began printing out the catalogue for tonight's opening. The work going on show was from the newest upcoming Dublin artist, Willow McIntyre. Her work was different and strong, yet calming. Sarah really loved her art pieces, and was glad she could enjoy the new ones on her own for a few hours, before they were hung from the art gallery wall and discussed to death by every art critic in Dublin.

Sarah worked in the Stone Studio, a small yet hip gallery in Monkstown village, only a few minutes from where she lived. Having studied art in college, and struggled to become an artist and sell her work for years, she had finally got a job that suited her perfectly. Maggie McCartney's gallery was just the kind of place Sarah used to visit in the hope of one day exhibiting her own work. She had actually shown her portfolio of work to Maggie, but Maggie had kindly explained that it wasn't commercial enough to be sold by her, but that there was some part-time work going in the gallery.
Sarah had worked in a variety of awful part-time jobs, from a busy call centre to a grumpy dentist's surgery, where she had answered the phone and dealt with terrified patients, so working in a gallery seemed ideal. And Sarah's artist's eye meant she was very useful to Maggie when it came to hanging pictures, staging shows and choosing paintings. So Sarah worked part-time in the gallery, yet still tried to create her own pieces when she could. But gradually her hours in the gallery grew longer. And months later, when Maggie announced she wanted to spend less time in Dublin, and more in her villa in Marbella, Sarah was offered the job of running the Stone Studio full-time. The day Sarah accepted this job was bitter sweet: yes, she was excited to be offered such an interesting job, but she also knew that her own dream of becoming a full-time artist was now dead. Sarah found this hard to accept, but soon she began to enjoy the job more and more. To be paid to spend time talking to and working with artists, and helping them sell their pieces, was great. She knew how happy and proud they felt when she rang to say she had sold one of their works. Even if she couldn't be an artist herself, at least she could help other creative souls.

Sarah was a people's person, and really enjoyed helping someone find art for their home. She was always interested to discover what kind of home they lived in, what colours they liked, and where they wanted to hang their purchases, and she worked hard to find the right piece for each customer. Finding out how others lived had always fascinated her. One day she hoped
to own a house like all her customers did, and have a husband to spend all day Saturday walking around art galleries with, and spend hours debating what artist might be right for their kitchen.

But for now she had her mum, and within another few months hopefully enough money for a deposit on a small place of her own. But no amount of saving would get her enough money for a husband. She found it so hard to meet anyone, and although she loved going out with her friends, she was beginning to settle into a ‘spinster' routine more easily than she wanted to. Her friends were always trying to set her up on dates, but it never worked out, and more and more she found herself making excuses as to why she couldn't meet the ‘perfect man' or ‘ideal future husband' for a drink or date. She told her friends how she was too busy working or had to help her mum, and although these excuses were often true, she sometimes simply lied: she preferred to spend the night curled up in front of the TV with her mum, talking about life rather than living it.

Suddenly the door swung open and Clodagh, the final-year art student who worked at the Stone Studio part-time, ran in.

‘I'm so sorry, Sarah, the flipping bus broke down, but I'm here now. I'll quickly go and change.'

‘OK, and then can you bring up another twenty wine glasses, Clodagh? And we need to count these catalogues to make sure we have enough for tonight. We've Willow McIntyre's new exhibit opening in one hour, there's work to be done.'

As Sarah locked up the gallery she breathed a sigh of relief that the evening had gone so well. Willow's pieces had been both critically liked and commercially loved by the gallery's customers. She had sold over half of them in two hours. Sarah was delighted by the money the gallery had made and by how happy Willow would be. Even though Willow looked like a hippy who did not have a care in the world, and wouldn't notice whether her art had sold or not, Sarah knew that – like any artist – Willow would care, would be over the moon to see a little red dot beside a piece, and know someone had loved it enough to buy it and display it at home. Sarah had not seen enough of these red dots on her own work to have made it as an artist, but she still knew what it felt like. Helping other artists really did make her happy.

She glanced at her watch and knew she was late. She was meeting her sister Mel and her husband John for drinks in the pub in Monkstown, just up from the
gallery. They had been married for two years now, and were a great couple, and Sarah loved hanging out with them. She got on well with John, and he always made her feel comfortable in their house, even when she spent hours discussing her love life, or lack of it. He was always trying to set her up on dates and help her meet Mr Right, though she often joked he just wanted her out of their house. But she knew he did care, and it was this kindness that had attracted Mel to him years before.

As she walked in the bar, she laughed at how she didn't think John or Mel would have any time left for setting her up with men soon, as Mel was eight and a half months pregnant and ready to pop! She was so excited for her older sister, and knew she would be the best mum ever.

‘Sarah! Over here!' Mel shouted over the music and loud pub conversations. The two sisters were very alike. They both had long blonde hair, long noses, long legs and long feet – which were the family curse!

‘How was the opening?'

‘Great, a big success, you should have called in,' Sarah replied.

‘We would have, Sarah, but we thought it unfair as “the bump” would have taken over the entire small gallery's space. And when Mel heard you were serving cheese she knew she couldn't make another show of herself like the last gallery opening!' John laughed hard, recalling the last opening, where Mel, who had been craving cheese and crackers like a demon throughout the pregnancy, had lost the complete run
of herself and started crying when the artist's mother took the last cracker. It had all been very embarrassing and John had had to run out to Spar to buy more, and then quietly bring Mel home, where he had plenty of emergency stores of cheese and crackers hidden away.

As Sarah sat down she saw John's brother Tom, and another guy she didn't know, sitting at the end of the table. As Tom caught her eye he smiled and stood up to give her a kiss. Tom was really tall, with sandy hair and kind blue eyes, and Sarah had noticed many a girl eyeing him up every time they were out.

‘Sarah, this is Ross. He is just back from living in America,' Tom said.

As she shook Ross's hand Sarah could see Tom, Mel and John all look at her excitedly. Oh God, she thought, this is another set-up. What a nightmare! Mel could have at least warned her. Sarah was wrecked from her evening at work, and hadn't even brushed her hair, or put on any make-up. Ross and Tom both started to chat to her, and though she was annoyed by being ambushed, she relaxed when the lads starting telling her funny stories of their days in school, and before she knew it was having a great time, and on her third beer. Then Ross went to the bathroom, and Sarah had a chance to comment on events.

‘Mel, as nice as Ross seems, you could have told me what you were planning before inviting me for a “drink”. You know I'm getting sick of being set-up. It is embarrassing.'

‘I swear I didn't know Ross was coming. Trust me, I just wanted it to be you and Tom,' said her sister.
‘Tom brought Ross along unexpectedly. Myself and John wanted to ask you and Tom something, something important.' And with that Mel started crying. She was so emotional nowadays that Sarah just turned to John, who was frantically trying to order cheese, any kind, off the waiter. Once he had, he turned back to the others.

‘Myself and Mel wanted you guys here tonight to ask you a big favour. We would like to ask you to be godparents to our soon-to-be-born child – or one large lump of cheese, as I fear! But seriously, what do you say?'

Sarah was in shock. She was so delighted, she jumped up and hugged them both. ‘Of course I will. I would be honoured to be your child's godmother. Wow! I don't know what to say!'

Tom looked like he had been hit over the head with a plank of wood; he sat in shock, eventually managing to speak.

‘What exactly do I have to do? Oh God, does this involve making sure they don't drink until they are eighteen or something? Because much as I would love to be a godfather I don't know if I could handle not drinking around the child until then!'

‘No, it doesn't involve that,' Mel laughed. ‘You will both be great godparents, we are so happy you're taking on the job.'