Mismatched (2 page)

She peruses the document, and I watch her carefully, biting my lip. It figures this woman’s a good friend of Margaret’s. Still, there’s no point in causing trouble with the lawyers. I just need to get the bar signed over to me, and then my life, which has been in suspended animation since I took over managing the place, can begin.

“Right, here we are. To my granddaughter, Erin Ignatia Margaret O’Neill I bequeath…”

I wince at my full name. In Ireland people think, why limit yourself to one name when you can have several? More opportunities for your friends to take the mickey, in my experience. ‘Ignatia’ provides endless combinations for piss-taking fun.

I have to force myself to concentrate. I should have accepted Ridlee’s offer to come with me and decode this legal jargon. Sitting up straight in my chair I clear my throat and fix my gaze on the lawyer.

“…One half of my bar, The Pot O’Gold, and the attached apartment, including my cat, Orpheus…”

“Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait!”

Mrs. Hanby looks at me over the rim of her bifocals.

What?” I lean in, even though I know I’m not hard of hearing. “Did you say ‘half’?”

She re-reads the last couple of lines quickly. “To my granddaughter, Erin, blah, blah, blah, I bequeath one half of my bar, The Pot O’Gold, and the attached apartment, including my cat, Orpheus who requires…”

“
Half
?” Standing up, I lean over the desk and attempt to read the will upside-down. Hanby covers it with her elbow like one of those little swots at school who would never let you see their paper during a test.

“Get a hold of yourself, Ms O’Neill.”

I sit. Then the tears start coming and they won’t stop. All my work. All the effort I’ve put into the bar, and she only gives me half. I sob uncontrollably.

The iron-lady softens. “Oh, no, don’t cry,” she says pushing a box of tissues across the table to me. “Here, have a tissue. I know this is a shock, and you’re still grieving, obviously.”
 

I sob more. How could she do this to me? It’s nothing short of betrayal. I understand that she had strong ideas about making your own way without help from family or friends — she hated nepotism of any kind — but this, this is down right cruel. Did she secretly hate me or something? I can’t even ask her to explain any of this. My heart is broken and I’m angry, but I also miss Margaret, damn her.
 

“I’m sure it will all work out for the best,” Mrs. Hanby says, almost kindly.

I stop sobbing with supreme force of will and pull myself together. Time to change tack.

“It’s just that I miss her so much,” I hiccup.
 

“Of course you do!” Now she’s on her feet and coming round the desk. She puts her arm around me. “She loved you very much, you know. She talked about you all the time.”

Funny, she never mentioned you. Or the fact that she was going to do me out of half my inheritance, which I built from scratch.

“She was a great lady,” is all I say aloud. And it’s true, she was. As shrewd a business woman as I ever knew, but in more of a bartering system way. Usually she was happy to be paid in goods or favours, which is why the large sums of money come as a bit of a shock.
 

I sit up and blow my nose hard, using two tissues. “But what shall I do with half a pub? It’s my only livelihood. Do we cut it down the middle? And who
is
this person who owns the other half?” I sniffle and then look up from under my lashes.
 

Mrs. Hanby appears to be struggling with her conscience. “I really shouldn’t say,” she mutters almost to herself.
 

I hold my tongue.
Patience, Erin. Let her get there on her own
.

“But then, you’re going to find out anyway, so it may as well be now.” She circles back round to her side of the desk and takes a sticky-note pad in hand. Writing something down, she peels the top one off and hands it to me triumphantly.

“Padraig Flanagan,” I read.

“Oookaaay…” I pause. Timing is everything here. “There are a lot of Padraig Flanagans in the world, you know.”

“Yes, but not in Ireland.” She looks at me as though she’s just given me the winning lottery ticket.
 

“Well, actually, I think you’ll find they’re more or less concentrated there. And contrary to popular opinion on this side of the pond, Ireland is not the kind of country where everybody is related to, or at the very least knows, everybody else.”

“Well, my dear, that’s the best I can do for you. Maybe you should start with your grandmother’s hometown.” She stands. “I don’t meant to rush you out, but I have a very busy day ahead.”
 

I stare stupidly at the sticky-note, but the brusqueness of her voice propels my body into action and I find myself standing and being led to the door.

“Thank you,” I stammer, though I’m not sure what exactly it is that I’m thanking her for.

“Gina will courier over copies of the will that relate to you, your mother, and your uncle and any other relevant documents. Have a nice day!”

And she’s gone.

Gina, the real secretary, has appeared and leads me to the elevator. On the way down, I try to make sense of what just went on in there. I shuffle awkwardly out into the autumn sunshine and stand on the pavement, my head reeling. There’s only one thing for it. Pulling out my phone, I text Ridlee.

SOS … LMIRL

Ping
- Her reply comes instantly.

SUP?

I admire her gallant attempts at text abbreviations. We usually end up spelling everything because neither of us has nailed this textspeak thing the way other people our age have. We just can’t remember what all the acronyms mean. I write back.

Need to C U. UnLtd booze @ mine. ASAP!

I start walking toward the subway. I had imagined myself riding home from the lawyer’s office in a taxi, the official owner of The Pot O’Gold and maybe a few quid richer for good measure. But instead, here I am: half owner of the business that I spent years building and no cash prize from Granny. So it’s home on the T for me.

Don’t get me wrong; I loved my grandmother, for all her flaws, but she died at a good age — ninety-six, it turns out. It’s been a month now, and I’ve accepted her being gone. But this half a bar business? Now,
that
is unacceptable.

Ridlee will know what to do
. I walk on, my step a little lighter. “Yeah, Rid’ll know what to do,” I say aloud. Just knowing my friend will be there for me makes everything better, less hopeless.

CHAPTER TWO

RIDLEE

“RIDLEE HERE!” I CHIRP INTO the phone, pretty much high on life since I just got some seriously awesome news. Everything is falling into place in my life, just as it should. “Keep it short and keep it sweet, cuz I’ve got wheels up in ten. And when I say wheels, I mean ankles.” I snort at my completely inappropriate joke. There’s only one person in the world who can truly appreciate my humor, and she’s on the other end of the phone right now. I wouldn’t dare talk this way to my co-workers or anyone else for that matter. To them, I am completely serious, entirely straight-laced, and always focused on my goals. And right now, my goal just happens to be getting laid.

“Who is it?” Erin says with suspicion lacing her voice. “It better not be that knacker Jeremy.”

“Jeremy is not a knacker, first of all. He’s a rapper, I told you that already.”

“He stole your iPod, Rid. Rappers rap. Knackers steal. Completely different career paths.”

“He borrowed my iPod while simultaneously forgetting to ask permission, which technically isn’t stealing since he was missing the malice aforethought required by law.” I sniff with feigned annoyance. “And it doesn’t matter because I got it back.” Erin’s right; Jeremy is kind of a tool, but he does have a couple of redeeming qualities. So what if they’re only any good to me in the bedroom? It’s not like I’m going to marry the guy.

“Remind me once more why you continue to go back to that
g
ee-bag? Personally I wouldn’t ride him for practice.”

“And, remind me again what a gee-bag is, back on the old sod of Ireland?”

I can hear Erin sighing. She’s been trying to teach me Irish slang, but sometimes I get confused. “Gee-bag.
Gee
as in
fanny
, but our fanny, not yours; the front fanny. You know,
vagina
. A.k.a. minge, poonany, bearded oyster, vertical smile, cherry-pop, beaver. Do I need to go on?”

“So Jeremy’s a vagina-bag? Iiinteresting. Well, I can’t argue, I guess. He is pretty talented in that area.” I turn the corner, headed towards my car that’s parked on the street outside my employer’s office building. I imagine him naked and sigh.
 

“We are talking about the same Jeremy, aren’t we?” she says, doubting my evaluation of his skills.

“Big dick? Size of a baseball bat? Loves going downtown?” And completely inappropriate for me, which is perfect. I don’t need complications like love and relationships with needy men getting in the way of my upwardly mobile life. “The guy who
borrowed
my iPod.”

“Ah, right. Got it. That’s him. Anyway, enough about that gobshite. I need your legal advice.”

“Excellent, considering as how I just got the news that I … wait for it …”

“No!” she squeals. “You didn’t!”

“I did. I totally did. I passed the bar exam!” I’m so excited I can hardly stand it, and my voice is all over the place as a result. “I’m officially a lawyer in the greatest city on earth!”
Fist pump!
I grin at the homeless man who starts drunkenly fist pumping along with me. I’d kiss him if he didn’t smell so bad.

“Oh my God, gwan ya good ting!” Erin sighs happily. “Oh, I’m so proud of you. This is excellent timing, ‘cause I’m completely and utterly serious when I say that I need to hire you.”

“For what?”

“I went to the bloody solicitor’s office today.”

“Lawyer, Erin. Solicitors don’t exist here any more than unicorns do.”

“Okay, that gimp of a
lawyer’s
office.”

“She sounds nice.” In the seven years I’ve known my best friend Erin, I’ve learned many Irish swear words. In fact, I’m undergoing a kind of Jedi training in Irish slang, so Erin keeps the language colorful for me at all times. It’s not taking too much effort at the moment.

“Okay, so she was really quite friendly, all things considered, but she’s still a manky bitch.”

“A super nice picture you’ve painted for me there, sweetie, but may I remind you once more that I am a business lawyer and not a probate attorney?”

“Get away te fook with your hair splittin’. It’s six of one or half a dozen of the other. You know the law, so just wear your big-girl lawyer pants to the pub tonight so we can strategize our arses off.”

‘Fuck it’ is Erin’s favorite response to anything bothering her, but when she’s especially angry like she is now, her Irish accent gets really strong and it sounds like she’s saying fook. I can’t help but smile at it, even when she’s mad. Seven years of
fook it
, and I’m still not tired of hearing it. Someday, I’m going to go to Ireland with her crazy ass.

“Is it that bad?” I press the button on my Audi A1 keychain and open the locks. Settling into the car, I inhale the delicious leather scent. My signing bonus from the firm paid for this baby. That and the loan I took out that I will be paying off in my first year as an associate with one of the biggest law firms in Boston.
Aaaaand another fist pump!
The engine actually purrs as I pull out into traffic and attach my phone to the holder on the dashboard. Erin’s voice comes out over my car speakers.

“It’s worse. Worser that worse.”

I frown. “That’s … unexpected.”

“You’re foockin’ tellin’ me. I never saw it comin’. The old biddy blindsided me but good.”

“What’d she do? She didn’t cut you off, did she?” I know how devastated Erin would be if this were the case. She wouldn’t be talking to me on the phone like this; she’d be jumping off a building. It can’t be that bad.

“Pretty nearly so, yeah. The old wench. You know, only the good die young, Rid. You know that, right?”

“So you’ve said about a thousand times. What’d she do?” I’m ten blocks away from the knacker … I mean Jeremy. He better not have stolen any more of my stuff.

“She only gave me half the pub. Half, for fook’s sake! If she wasn’t already toes up, I’d throttle her meself and bury her behind a dumpster.”

“What?” I slam on my brakes to avoid running over a bicycle messenger. “Bastard!” Flipping him off gives me very little satisfaction since he doesn’t stick around to enjoy it.

“She is a right bastard, you got that straight— though, teaching point here, Rid … we usually use ‘bastard’ for males. But I’ll tell ye who is a right fooking bastard— Padraig Flanagan, that’s who! I’d love to get my hands on that bollox.” Erin’s growling now.

“I’m lost. Who’s Padraig Flanagan?” I turn left, the view of my apartment coming into focus. I’m already tingling with desire imagining Jeremy there, waiting for me. It’s been a really long week.

“He’s the fooker who’s now fifty-fifty with me in the pub. Aren’t ye listenin’ t’ anthin’ I’m sayin’?”

“Who is he, though? A cousin?”

“How the hell do I know? I’m just the idiot who poured her heart ’n soul into the place and brought it up, like a fooking phoenix from the ashes, to the shining pot of glorious gold it is today.”

“Yes, you are, sweetie.” I turn into the underground parking and glide into my parking space as I adopt my most soothing tone. “Don’t you worry one little bit over this. We are going to fix it right up and then get you started on turning the P.O.G. into the number-one Irish bar chain on the entire East Coast.”

“East Coast? Why think so small? Try entire United States.”

“Okay, then. United States it is.” I get out of my car and lock it up, my blood pressure going through the roof at the idea of sliding into my silk sheets as Jeremy slides into me.

“I’ve lost you, haven’t I?” Erin asks, sighing in defeat.

“Hmmmm…?” I’m stepping onto the elevator as my cell phone signal fades out.

“See you later t’night, ho. Go get your flange serviced.”