‘Coming to the meeting this week, Fi?’ She holds out her chubby hand for the money.
‘No, ’fraid not, Rosie. In fact, I’m not going to be coming to any more meetings. I’m leaving. Just off to look up flights on the internet.’ I take my change.
‘Ah no, what a shame. We were just getting used to you,’ she says, shutting the till, and I half laugh, not sure if she’s joking or not.
‘D’you hear that, Margaret?’ I turn to see Margaret, with her newly painted blue nails with silver lightning strikes, coming into the shop.
‘What?’
‘Fi’s leaving us.’
‘Ah, no way. I’ll be the only young one in town again!’ Margaret grabs a bottle of white wine and some Pringles.
‘You two should have a party,’ Rosie laughs, pointing to our wine.
‘That’s not a bad idea,’ Margaret turns to me hopefully.
‘Oh, I can’t. I have to get back to the farm.’
‘Hey, Seamus, d’you hear that, Fi’s leaving us.’ Rosie is passing on the news to the pub’s regulars. ‘Isn’t it a shame,Padraig?’
‘Aye. Going anywhere nice?’
I shrug. ‘Maybe Malta, to see my mother.’ I cringe at the thought. But staying here isn’t an option any more, especially after I nearly made a fool of myself last night. I go to leave the shop and Margaret falls into step beside me.
‘How’s Sean?’
‘Good,’ I say, and smile.
‘His horoscope says he’s moving into a lucky phase.’
I smile again as I make my way back to the café.
‘Thought I might pop in and see him. See if he fancies a drink. I’ve got the evening off.’ Margaret holds up her bottle.
‘I wouldn’t if I were you.’ I think I should tell her straight.
‘But I thought you said that you and he weren’t …’ She looks crestfallen.
‘We’re not!’ I interrupt her, almost too keenly. ‘He’s with his partner.’
‘His partner?’ She stops me in my tracks.
‘Nancy. She’s French. She’s his oyster broker – you know, sells his oysters on for him. They go way back.’
‘Yes, yes, I know what an oyster broker is. It’s her, in the black BMW?’ She flops down onto a bench looking out to sea. She looks up at me and I confirm it apologetically.
‘I’ve seen her around. Heard rumours, y’know?’
‘I’m beginning to understand.’ I smile, thinking how much I’ve realised this place runs on rumour. I turn to look at the café. The door is shut and there’s a sign but I’m too far away to read it.
‘Ah, no. The café’s shut.’ I flap my hands against my thighs.
‘Gone to Dublin to pick up a new urn.’
I turn back to see Margaret with the cap off her bottleof wine, swigging from it.
‘Here,’ she offers it up to me.
