Second Time Around

To Janet Marie, my elder sister

Table of Contents

Title Page

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Erin Kaye’s thoughts on writing Second Time Around

Reading Group Questions

Read an extract from Always You

About the Author

By the Same Author

Copyright

About the Publisher

Chapter 1

Jennifer walked through the door of The Lemon Tree on busy Donegall Square in Belfast city and noticed him straight away. Conversation competed with piped pop music, somewhere a phone rang, and fleet-footed staff clattered noisily up and down the open metal staircase. Yet, there he stood, behind the brightly-lit bar, dark head bent, arms folded across his chest, listening intently to a black-shirted waiter. Athletic shoulders strained against the yoke of his pink shirt and the rolled-up sleeves revealed pale-skinned forearms, thick with dark hair. His lower half, clad in jet black jeans, was slim, almost thin. And he had to be ten years younger than her. Jennifer, trailing behind her friends, and surprised by the sudden yearning he stirred in her, blushed and looked away.

A waitress wearing slim-fitting trousers showed them to their table, a wooden tray clasped against her chest like a breast-plate. Jennifer slid onto a bentwood chair and the waitress, businesslike, thrust a menu into her hand. She opened it and tried to concentrate on the words swimming before her eyes. What was she doing, eyeing up a guy so much younger than her, a man who wouldn’t give her a second look? And even if he did, she’d run a mile. She’d forgotten how to flirt. And the rest of it. It had been three years since she’d been with a man.

‘I know it’s Friday lunchtime but I think you need a birthday cocktail!’ suggested Donna, a full-figured bottle blonde.

Jennifer smiled her assent, determined both to enjoy the company of her best friend – and to give her the courtesy of her full attention. They did this – went out somewhere nice for lunch – twice a year, on each of their birthdays. And, because they lived in Ballyfergus, a town some twenty-five miles away, it felt like a very special treat.

‘The food’s supposed to be fantastic,’ said Donna who, despite being over forty, retained an enviably youthful complexion. ‘Donegal oysters are just coming back into season now September’s started, aren’t they?’ She went on without waiting for an answer, ‘I wonder if they’re on the menu yet …’

The drinks came, they ordered food and Jennifer took a sip of the cranberry-coloured cocktail. She smiled as Donna related a funny story about one of the receptionists at the clinic where she worked who came in so hungover she threw up in a plant pot. But, in spite of her best efforts, she could not ignore the man behind the bar. She kept her eyes firmly fixed on Donna but she was aware of his every move and gesture, her attention drawn to him against her will. For the first time in her life she wished she was younger, that she could start all over again. That she could make a man like that desire her.

‘Are you okay, Jennifer?’ said Donna. ‘You seem a little distracted.’

Jennifer’s face reddened. ‘Sorry.’ She ducked her head of dark, straight hair and blurted out, without thinking, ‘It’s just that I feel old this birthday. For the first time ever.’ She looked around the restaurant, suddenly aware that the two of them looked out of place, dressed up in heels and smart clothes while the tables all around them were taken by younger people in casual, summery chic. Even their choice of sophisticated drinks marked them out as from a different generation. She looked down at her slim black pencil skirt, tight across the hips, and her black satin-trimmed jersey shirt, and felt foolishly, inappropriately, over-dressed.

‘You’re only as old as the man you feel,’ said Donna suggestively and, when this elicited a feeble smile from Jennifer added, more soberly, ‘Your fortieth birthday’s supposed to be the depressing one, you know, not your forty-fourth. By our mid-forties we’re meant to have it all sorted, aren’t we?’ She waved an arm in the air, the collection of bangles on her wrist rattling like chains. ‘We’re meant to have a family, a fabulous career, great self-image, oodles of confidence, a raging libido – oh, and a hunky man on our arm to satisfy it.’ Donna chortled and paused for dramatic effect. She wasn’t the female lead in the town panto every year for no reason. ‘And I’d say you have it all, apart from the hunky man.’

‘It’s not easy meeting someone at our age.’ Jennifer touched the back of her neck, momentarily shocked by the short, sharp line of hair at the nape. She was still unaccustomed to the new haircut, a sleek graduated bob that she’d only had done that morning. In a moment of madness quite unlike her she’d given the hairdresser free rein to restyle her tired, mid-length hair. It had been a good move. The style was modern and edgy, yet still long enough at the front to feel feminine. While she was pleased with it, the new hairstyle had failed to lift her mood. ‘I sometimes think I never will.’

‘Of course you’ll meet someone,’ countered Donna.

Jennifer lifted the glass, threw her head back and downed the cocktail in one, wondering fleetingly if the guy at the bar had noticed her unladylike quaffing. ‘Well the way things are going, it looks like I’m going to be rattling round that house on my own for the rest of my days. Matt’s applied all over for commis chef jobs and, when he gets one, he says he’s moving out. I don’t want him to go.’

It was grossly unfair of her to expect companionship from children who were old enough to make lives of their own but she couldn’t help it. Her only company for so many years, she had come to rely on them. ‘I’m dreading it. It was bad enough when Lucy left for uni. And it’s unlikely Matt’ll get a job locally, not in this economy,’ she added glumly. ‘He’s even applied to Dublin.’

‘Well, if it cheers you any, he’s not likely to get a job down there,’ said Donna, ‘Not with the state of the Irish economy. I hear emigration’s on the up again. Apparently kids are leaving in their droves for the US.’

Jennifer looked at Donna in alarm. Far from cheering her, this news filled her with dread. What if Matt too had to emigrate to find work? To the young and dispossessed the idea of emigration was enticing, romantic even, and the well-trodden path, polished smooth by the feet of those who had gone before, was an easy one to follow.

‘You know, sweetheart, he can’t stay at home forever,’ said Donna, a warm smile spreading across her honest, broad face. ‘He has to make his own way in the world. They all do.’

Jennifer shrugged. ‘I know that. And I want that for him, of course.’ She paused, trying to find the words to articulate the depth of her melancholy. ‘But the prospect of living completely alone for the first time in decades …’ She shook her head.

‘Lucy will still come home for the weekends, won’t she?’ said Donna.

‘That’s true,’ Jennifer was forced to acknowledge. But it wasn’t the same as having children living at home full time.

‘And you’ll still have Muffin,’ said Donna cheerfully and Jennifer flashed her a grin. Donna was a glass-half-full person, the most positive, upbeat woman Jennifer had ever met. And she loved her for it. She rearranged her features into a withering look. ‘He’s a dog, Donna.’

‘Beggars can’t be choosers.’

Jennifer laughed and went on, the smile fading from her lips, ‘It’s made me turn a spotlight on my own life and I just think “Is this it?”’

Donna nodded gravely and said, ‘Jennifer, my dear, I think we’re looking at a case of ENS.’

‘What?’

‘Empty Nest Syndrome.’

The waitress appeared with the food and Donna ordered two glasses of white wine. Jennifer stared with no interest at the beautifully presented chicken Caesar salad she had ordered, her appetite suddenly gone.

‘It makes perfect sense, when you think about it,’ said Donna, who, sadly, had never been blessed with children of her own. But she was a trained psychologist and she knew what she was talking about. She picked up her knife and fork. ‘Come on. Tuck in.’ She popped a piece of salmon in her mouth and added, chewing, ‘You’re just in a bit of a rut, Jennifer. You’ve lost your mojo, girl, and you need to get it back. You need to get out there and meet new people.’

‘You’re right,’ said Jennifer bravely, though beneath the table her knees would not stay still while her underarms prickled with sweat. She glanced involuntarily at the bar. The stranger was nowhere to be seen.

She thought back to the girl she had once been, a girl who’d dreamed of adventure and romance – and believed that life would deliver it. Somewhere along the way – round about the time she’d married David – she’d lost her sense of discovery.

It wasn’t his fault. They’d had a baby on the way and not much money back then and dreams suddenly seemed like expensive, unattainable luxuries. David had been reliable, trustworthy, dependable – everything she thought one needed in a husband and a father. Combined with her emotional neediness and artistic temperament, it had not been a recipe for a happy marriage. Turned out what she wanted was excitement and laughter and unpredictability after all.

And now twelve years after the divorce, her life, while happy and satisfying in many ways, had become just as predictable and boring as her marriage ever was.

But if her life was a disappointment she realised, with painful clarity, she had only herself to blame. She’d been too busy ensuring that Lucy and Matt made the most of all the opportunities available to them.

Instead of swimming herself, she’d collected subs at the door on Swim Club night. Instead of going for a run on a Saturday morning, she’d stood on the sidelines in the rain watching Matt play rugby. She’d ferried them to Guides and Scouts, music, dance and art classes, panto rehearsals, hockey and football training. Not that she’d do it any differently if she had to do it over again. She’d given of her best to her family and she’d no regrets about that.

As if she could read Jennifer’s thoughts, Donna leaned forward, patted her friend on the back of the hand and said, ‘This is your time, Jennifer. After all the years of doing for your kids and prioritising their needs, it’s time to put yourself first.’

Jennifer smiled. ‘I hear what you’re saying but it’s a difficult idea to take on board. I don’t know about you, but I feel guilty and self-indulgent pleasing myself.’ She looked at her hands. ‘And if truth be told, when I do have time to myself, I sometimes don’t know what to do with it.’

‘The curse of motherhood,’ said Donna wryly. ‘It’ll wear off eventually.’

Jennifer frowned, placed her elbow on the table and rested her chin on her hand. ‘I do need to meet new people. But I don’t know where to start.’

‘Well I do,’ said Donna decisively. ‘Let’s get you signed up with an online dating agency.’

‘Oh, I don’t think so. It, well, it seems like such an unnatural way to meet people.’

‘Oh, rubbish,’ said Donna. ‘It’s how I met Ken.’

‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’ said Jennifer and she put a hand over her mouth. Donna and Ken, a big, burly policeman with a heart of gold, had been together for four years. She blushed furiously and said, ‘I didn’t mean to … it’s just that –’

‘Oh, that’s all right,’ said Donna, waving away Jennifer’s feeble attempt to backpedal like a bothersome bug. ‘You just have to look at it a different way. It’s the modern equivalent of meeting a guy in a pub. You like the look of somebody, share some information and, if you think you might get on, you arrange to meet. Simple.’

Jennifer squirmed in her seat and then a premonition came to mind – a vision of eating a lonely supper at her kitchen table, staring at the empty chairs where Lucy and Matt had sat for the last twelve years since they’d moved into the house in Oakwood Grove. No, the status quo had to change – and she mustn’t be afraid of it.

And yet, she still believed in the romance of a chance encounter, the spark of chemistry when a handsome man’s eyes met yours across a crowded room …

Something made her look up and there he was, the man in the pink shirt, only a few short strides from her. Standing in the middle of the restaurant with a tray of drinks in his hands. And he was staring at her without a flicker of a smile. No, not at her. He was staring into her eyes, his black pupils so dilated that the hazel-brown irises surrounding them were all but eclipsed. His gaze was penetrating, knowing; it touched her very soul. And she held it, startled, uncomfortable in the intensity of his gaze, but riveted nonetheless.

‘Drastic times call for drastic measures,’ persisted Donna, her voice breaking the spell. Jennifer, her heart pounding, broke eye contact, and the man moved away.

‘The man of your dreams isn’t going to land on your lap sitting at home in Ballyfergus,’ lectured Donna. ‘You have to go out there and get in the game. And it’ll be fun. Trust me. I met some great guys,’ she added, omitting to mention the many creeps she’d also encountered in her quest. ‘I’ll help you set up your profile.’

Jennifer, slightly breathless, struggled to regain her poise. It had been a long time since any man had looked at her that way. And none so gorgeous as him. She closed her eyes and saw him still, his clean-shaven image burned into the backs of her eyelids. His dark, softly curling locks skimming the collar of his shirt. And yet it seemed so improbable. He was so handsome. He could have any woman he wanted. Why would he want her? Perhaps she had imagined the stare. She opened her eyes. She must have. He could’ve been staring at someone else, or staring into thin air.

‘Jennifer?’ frowned Donna. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Yes, I’m fine. Just a little woozy. You know, after the cocktail and the wine.’

After the waitress had brought over a glass of water, Donna said with a satisfied smile, ‘You won’t regret this. When Matt finally walks out that door you’ll be so busy having fun, you’ll hardly notice him gone. Speaking of which,’ she added, craning her neck to see past the diners at the next table, ‘isn’t that Matt over there?’

‘It couldn’t –’ began Jennifer but she turned to look and the words died on her lips. It was Matt. And he was smiling and talking to the man in the pink shirt. They spoke briefly and then disappeared through a dark wood-panelled door at the back of the restaurant.

Jennifer said, as much to herself as Donna, ‘What’s Matt doing here?’ And what business did he have with that man?

‘Job interview?’ offered Donna.

‘Of course.’ Jennifer pulled a face to signify irritation with her own dimwittedness as much as her surprise. Casually dressed in jeans and a hoodie, he certainly didn’t look like he was about to have an interview. And he hadn’t said anything to her. But why would he? He’d had lots of interviews lately and he hadn’t known that she was coming here. It had been Donna’s surprise. A ‘happening place’ she’d called it. ‘Yes, he must’ve come for an interview,’ she said, scrutinising with freshly invested interest the busy, noisy restaurant. ‘And if today’s anything to go by, he wouldn’t be short of work. This place is heaving.’

‘It always is,’ said Donna authoritatively. ‘It’s one of the best restaurants in town. They get all their fish from Ewing’s on the Shankill Road.’ In response to Jennifer’s blank face, she added, ‘They’re the finest fishmongers in the city. They supply all the Crawfords’ Belfast hotels too.’

‘The Crawfords?’ asked Jennifer, trying not to show too much interest. Everyone but the man behind the bar was dressed entirely in black. It occurred to her that he must be the manager.

‘You know,’ said Donna. ‘They own The Marine Hotel in Ballyfergus.’

‘Oh yes,’ said Jennifer, the name ringing a bell now. The Crawfords were one of the province’s most wealthy, prominent families.

‘It seems they’ve been busy buying up restaurants too,’ went on Donna. ‘They took this place over a year ago and completely transformed it. It was a right dump before.’

Jennifer said casually, ‘Who’s that guy Matt was talking to just now?’ Her eyes were drawn involuntarily to the door through which they’d disappeared.

‘The one in the pink shirt? That’s Ben Crawford. Heir to the Crawford empire.’

Ben. The name suited him, she decided. She liked it.

‘Ulster Tatler voted him Northern Ireland’s Most Eligible Bachelor last year,’ went on Donna.

Jennifer swallowed. He really was out of her league, but still she could not help herself asking, ‘And is he … is he nice?’

‘I’ve never met him but I met the father, Alan, at a charity dinner once. Godawful man. Loud. Pompous. Full of himself.’

Jennifer bit her lip. Like father, like son? And he had looked so nice.

‘Don’t worry,’ said Donna, placing a reassuring hand on Jennifer’s. ‘Apparently the son’s nothing like the father. So if Matt ends up working for him, I’m sure it’ll be absolutely fine.’

Chapter 2

Ben sat behind the desk in the cramped, windowless office at the back of the restaurant. He smiled at the good-looking young man sitting opposite him as he riffled through papers on the desk – and tried to put the image of the raven-haired woman out of his mind. He’d noticed her, sashaying across the floor in those black patent heels and that tight skirt, straight away. He could not believe that he’d had the audacity to stare at her like that, slap bang in the middle of a crowded restaurant. What had possessed him?

Perhaps it had something to do with making the decision about Rebecca. He’d still to act on it, of course, and he wasn’t looking forward to it. He glanced anxiously at the mobile lying on the table. He’d texted her earlier to ask if she would meet him tonight for a drink. He’d tell her then.

It wasn’t that he had a wandering eye. Far from it, he thought, pulling a résumé from the pile. He’d always been faithful to girlfriends and he wasn’t in the habit of staring at attractive women. But this one, for some reason, had caught his eye and he couldn’t stop himself. And she had stared back, making his heart race and his mouth go dry.

Pushing these thoughts to one side, he cleared his throat. ‘I’m really sorry, Matt. The Head Chef, Jason McCluskey, should be here for the interview but he’s been called away urgently.’ His three-year-old daughter, Emily, who had a rare blood disorder, had just been rushed into hospital with an asthma attack. ‘So, although this is really unusual, I’ll be doing the interview today.’

‘Okay.’ Matt smiled for the first time. He had an open, pleasing face, the sort that inspired trust in men and admiration in women. If his cooking was as good as his looks, he’d go far.

Ben picked up a blank A4 pad and tried to concentrate on Matt. Initially impressions were not good – his hair was too long and he’d not made much of an effort in his Abercrombie hoodie and skinny jeans. Ben disliked recruiting – he felt uncomfortable with the responsibility; he did not like the fact that he held the power to determine, even to a small extent, other people’s destinies. He worried that he might get it wrong. And if hiring was stressful, firing was even worse.

Only last week he’d sacked one of the waitresses, a single mum to toddler twins, for persistent, poor time-keeping. Three times she’d not turned up for work without so much as a phone call. He’d given her dozens of warnings and more chances than she deserved but in the end, for the sake of morale amongst the other staff, he’d had to let her go. And it had torn him apart. Steeling himself, he resolved to do what he always did – his best – though always mindful that he could never fill the shoes that went before him, so different in every way from his own.

Matt Irwin, he wrote across the top of the page, and settled into the brown leather swivel chair. Aiming to put the candidate at ease, he rested his right foot casually on his left knee. ‘I’ve read your CV, Matt, so I can see you’re qualified for the job. But tell me more about your practical work experience.’

‘I’ve worked in the kitchen of The Marine Hotel in Ballyfergus since I was sixteen. It’s one of the Crawford Group Hotels,’ he needlessly pointed out, keen to show he’d done his homework, to impress.

‘That’s right.’ The Marine, then rundown and in need of refurbishment, was the first hotel his father had bought thirty years ago. Now the Crawford Group had a board of directors and owned a string of top-class hotels across the province – and Alan, having done all he could feasibly do in that arena, had decided to diversify into the restaurant market. Now that The Lemon Tree was successfully established, Alan felt the time was right to establish another restaurant in the nearby thriving port of Ballyfergus. Past success, no matter how great, did not motivate Ben’s father – he was incapable of resting on his laurels. He sought out new challenges – endlessly, exhaustingly. And it had only gotten worse after Ricky. ‘You got a very good reference from the head chef at the Marine. Though you weren’t working as a commis chef, of course.’

‘That’s right. I was a kitchen porter,’ said Matt and added quickly, ‘And there were the college placements too. At The Potted Herring. That was brilliant. They were going to give me a permanent job, you know.’

‘And then they went bust,’ said Ben sadly, with a shake of his head. Restaurant closures in the city had hit an all-time high the year before, and this year hadn’t been much better. ‘That was bad luck.’

It struck him then just how remarkable the success of The Lemon Tree was, given the depressed state of the economy. And how much of that success was down to his father’s vision and business acumen. Very few other restaurateurs were in a position to expand.

‘Yeah,’ said Matt, ‘it sucks. But I’m not the only one. No one on my course has got a proper job.’ He rubbed the thighs of his jeans with the palms of his hands. ‘Look, I know I don’t have as much experience as you might like. As you’re looking for.’ He leaned forward with his large hands dangling between his spread-out legs. Ben noticed that they were shaking. ‘But I’m very good. Better than good. Honest. Ask my tutors.’

Ben, doodling a series of light zig-zagged lines across the top of the page, remembered what his father said about employing staff with relevant experience. ‘You don’t want any greenhorns,’ he’d said. ‘Let them cut their teeth on someone else’s time.’ Ben’s hand stilled and he looked at Matt. Alan Crawford would never employ this young man. And even open-minded Jason, who was all for encouraging raw talent, might have reservations. But if no one was prepared to give a lad like him a chance, how would he ever get started?