The First Time I Said Goodbye (11 page)

“Get a grip on yourself, man,” Mike laughed, hauling him across the room to the bar and ordering him a pint of stout. “Is the Iceman melting? Which one is it has caught your eye?”

He felt protective of her – he didn’t want to say which one. He didn’t want his men ogling her. He didn’t want her to become a topic of gossip or speculation. If he told them, Mike would no doubt make her the object of his own attention and he didn’t want that. She seemed better than that.

“Shut up and drink your stout, Mike,” he said, noting that his voice sounded a little strange and strangulated. God, he hadn’t even spoken with her and she was already making him lose his senses. He couldn’t show his men any sign of weakness. They would never let him forget it. But still he couldn’t help but look across the room at the beautiful, mysterious girl and when he saw her get up from her seat and walk towards the bar, something in him shifted. He knew that he had to say something. That he didn’t really care what the men thought. That Mike might well make his life impossible for the next however-long, but it wouldn’t be as tough as it would be if he let her get away.

“Can I buy you a drink?” he asked, his voice strangely croaky again.

She turned, looked at him suspiciously, and he thought she would tell him to get lost. But then she smiled, that smile which he already knew he would never tire of seeing.

“If you’re offering,” she said, her lilting accent making him smile too. Her cheeks were rosy. He imagined she was perhaps a little tipsy.

He bought her a drink, and one for each of her friends and helped her carry them back to her table. They didn’t speak much. Just enough for her to tell him her name and that she worked in Tillies. While the work was hard, she said the “
craic
” was good. She didn’t imagine she would be back at the Base, she told him, and his heart sank. It sounded cheesy, he knew that, but even in the dark surroundings of the bar with its smoky corners he felt a strange light inside of him and he could barely draw his eyes away from her face as she spoke, her voice quiet, her accent lilting.

He knew, just as he had known he had to speak to her in the first instance, that he had to persuade her to come to the Base again.

“Maybe I could change your mind?” he offered.

She blinked back at him. “I’m not sure,” she said. “I’m not one of those girls who goes for GIs. I only went to the Base because my sister wanted me to – and it wasn’t the nicest experience of my life.” She blushed.

He watched the colour in her face rise, the gentle pink flush her cheeks and he felt his own flush in return.

“I can promise you a nicer experience,” he said. “If you just trust me.”

* * *

Derry, June 2010

There were three missed calls from my mom on my cell. I say ‘missed’, but the truth was I hadn’t missed them. I just chose to let them go to my answering service. I felt bad every time. I never refused my mother’s calls – not even when I was sharing an intimate moment with Craig. If my cell rang and it was my mom then I would always answer it. But I, perhaps childishly, didn’t want to just now. I reasoned with myself that it was because I didn’t want to hurt her feelings even though I knew that she was being hurt by my not answering in the first place. It was a strange logic but it worked for me. I wanted to figure out how I felt, and what I would say. Perhaps more than that I wanted to work out what I wanted to know from now on in. I could ask her, I reasoned, to tell me no more. I’d happily wander the streets of Derry and drive the hills of Donegal. I’d accompany her on a day trip to Belfast and on that weekend she wanted in Dublin but I didn’t need to know about Ray, about what had happened and, most especially about what she knew or didn’t know about the big navy reunion before she booked her tickets.

I had called Craig the night before – probably inadvisably, considering I had consumed two glasses of wine and things were still quite strained between us. I had made a silly attempt to tell him what had happened – but I knew my words were jumbled, more through emotion than the influence of the wine.

“I don’t know what to do,” I had said, my voice tight, inwardly begging him to say the right thing and to come up with the right answer to how I was feeling even though I didn’t know what it was myself. I had stood there, shivering in the garden of Sam’s cottage, hauling the sleeves of Craig’s oversized hoodie, which I had brought out with me, over my hands.

“Come home,” he said, softly.

I couldn’t bring myself to tell him that I didn’t know where home was any more.

* * *

“This is it,” Sam said, tapping a code into a panel in the wall and switching on the lights in Second Hand Rose.

I’ll be honest, I was expecting a smell of moth balls despite what Sam had told me about the store being a little more vintage than thrift. I was expecting, despite his flawless interior design at home, a series of basement bargain tables, some roughly hung dresses and perhaps a basket or two of well-worn pairs of shoes tied together with twine or elastic.

Second Hand Rose was quite different. As Sam switched on the lights a series of exquisite white chandeliers dotted around a perfectly white ceiling lit up a beautiful space. The perfectly white ceiling matched the perfectly white walls, which were dotted with platinum-framed vintage mirrors and gorgeous art pieces I instantly coveted. Clothes were exquisitely displayed, open-fronted wardrobes styled to perfection holding a myriad of them, as did the distressed tables. Jewellery boxes spewed out cocktail rings and costume jewellery which glinted under the light of the chandeliers above. There was nothing tatty, nothing “old” about this place. As I walked through the store, touching the delicate fabrics, the soft laces and silky satins, I felt, dare I even say it, jealous of this place. That jealousy grew when I looked at Sam and saw that small smile of pride on his face. I recognised it. I had it myself the day Bake My Day opened – and indeed for the first few years. I’d loved work. I mean, I’d loved my work. I was sickeningly happy with all aspects of it, even the tax returns and the cleaning up after a major bake. Even when I was scraping crumbs of cupcakes off the floors after customers left for the day. The bakery was my safe place – my happy place. It was a very public sign of my success. I didn’t have to work at creating a wonderful atmosphere because one just seemed to exist there. I had spent hours upon hours designing the place – choosing the colour schemes, the counter tops, designing the menu, choosing the cups and saucers, the plates and the napkins. I even took a stupid amount of pleasure in choosing the towels for the restrooms.

I could see looking around Second Hand Rose that Sam had that same passion for what he did – that we had that passion in common. Or at least we had had. Bake My Day was more of an afterthought to me these days and I wished it wasn’t. I wanted that passion back.

“It’s amazing,” I told Sam and he laughed.

“It does the job,” he replied. “We do well – and we run an online shop as well so we can source and sell items from around the world – all around the world.” He switched on the Mac behind the counter and fired it up. “Let me show you what we have on order at the moment. This is pretty special. I’m putting together a display just for it. I may never sell it but I’m going to enjoy looking at it for sure.”

He clicked on a few links and pulled up a picture of a stunning lace gown – which looked for all intents and purposes like a bridal gown. It had delicate lace ruffles and a softly structured bodice. Instinctively I wrapped my arms around my waist, imagining for just a second slipping into the gown and how it would make me feel. I glanced down at my jeans and my fitted T, my Converse boots and the belted cardigan I wore. My hands moved from my waist to my hair, roughly pulled a loose curl back behind my ear. The picture on the screen was just a dress – but I tried to remember the last time I wore a dress. Apart from my father’s funeral, of course. When was the last time I had dressed up, fixed myself up, done my hair and my make-up, had the wow factor about myself?

“It’s Dior,” he said proudly, standing back. “Cost a fortune. Too much really. A little indulgence but I had to have it. I know I’m not one of those out-and-out screaming gay folk but I am partial to a bit of Dior and I just decided to treat myself.”

“It’s stunning,” I muttered, embarrassed to find tears pricking my eyes.

“It is, isn’t it?”

He smiled at me and I forced myself to breathe. I gazed at the screen and back at the shop around me. He shooed me away to have a look around while he attended to some paperwork.

“Don’t worry!” he called from behind the desk. “I don’t have much work to do and then we can head out for the day.”

I was thinking this place reminded me of my mom’s bedroom and dressing-up as a child. It felt nice. It felt safe. And it was pretty.

“Actually, can we stay here?” I said. “Remember when you said you’d set me to work here? I’ll do it, you know. I like the pretty things. So many pretty things!”

“Well, if you’re sure?” Sam seemed a little hesitant. “I don’t want to take advantage.”

“You’re not,” I said. “I know maybe I don’t look the part for a glam chic boutique but this place is just amazing. I could easily while away a few hours.”

“It’s your holiday,” he said, shrugging his shoulders. Then he decided to make my notion a little more bearable. “Choose something to wear,” he said. “Make yourself more presentable. No offence or anything but I have a reputation to keep up and while jeans and Converse are perfectly acceptable attire to drive up to the Giant’s Causeway in, they don’t scream ‘professional saleswoman’.”

I nodded and absolutely didn’t take offence. To be honest, having seen the interior of Second Hand Rose, I wanted to try on as much as would fit in my size so I had to hide a small smile of excitement from my face as Sam started working his way through the rails of clothing before lifting out a cotton sundress, with a delicate floral pattern, capped sleeves and a thin red belt around the waist.

He held it up to me. “Elfin,” he said. “You could definitely get away with this and I’d guess it is near enough your size. This one is from the late 50s – a timeless wee number. I added the belt myself when it came into the shop. And you know I’m pretty sure I have some chunky beads that would go with it and maybe a pair of pumps.”

Whirling around the shop he collected the other items and directed me behind a curtain into a small changing room. I undressed, catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror. It wasn’t a pretty sight. If the truth be told, and this wasn’t something I was proud of, I had become quite skinny. My boobs had never been my strong point anyway, but they looked pathetic now – my bra a little too big. My face looked gaunt. I wasn’t really used to gauntness – working around baked goods, tasting all those recipes, generally ensured a certain fullness to my features. The strong lights in the changing room showed the dark circles under my eyes and I pinched my cheeks to try and bring a little colour into them. Taking a deep breath I slipped into the dress, adding the red chunky beads and slipping my feet into a pair of cream pumps. I looked at myself again – it was an improvement. Tucking my hair behind my ears, I saw a hint of something I hadn’t seen in a while and when I smiled at my reflection it didn’t feel forced. It seemed bizarre that it was happening in the ch
anging room of a small shop thousands of miles from home, but there it was – a spark of something, a recognition of the relatively carefree person I once was. Plus, the dress really did make my boobs look more impressive than they were. That was a start.

* * *

Derry, October 1959

“He seems lovely,” Stella’s mother had sniffed.

“He is,” Stella said, trying to ignore the slight hesitation in her mother’s voice.

It had been four weeks since Ray had persuaded Stella, against her better judgement, to let him take her out to the Base Social Club for a date. She had been a nervous wreck. It had been fair to say the date was the talk of her section in Tillies for a few days before. Her friends had told her that the Yanks were known for their generosity and for being gentlemen. She tried not to think of the one Yank who had become a little frisky with her. She knew, somehow, that Ray was different. She knew as soon as he spoke to her that he wasn’t the kind who had a girl in every port and a different line for each of them. She knew that he was as much outside of his comfort zone as she was. He seemed shy, even though he was clearly a superior to some of the men around him.

“I can’t have you with a bad impression of us Americans,” he said. “I have our national pride to consider.”

She knew by the way he smiled he hadn’t only been thinking of national pride and a little part of her right there and then was smitten. In fact, she had told Dolores as much as they made their way home that evening, arms linked together.

“Ah, our wee Stella! Falling for a handsome Yank! I have to say he does have a look of Rock Hudson about him. He’s one of the quiet ones, you know. The girls tell me he’s not been out with one of us before. Keeps himself to himself. A few of the girls have made a play for him but he’s always been distant. You have something special, Stella.”

Stella had blushed. She had never considered herself to be anything anywhere near special, but as she walked home with Dolores she felt a little something light up in her. Maybe she wasn’t as plain as she thought. Maybe she did have something to offer. She couldn’t help but keep grinning as they arrived home and sat down for tea with her mother and father at the top of the table.