Foreign Affairs (11 page)

He was such a shit too, he’d actually made a pass at her. Now Paula knew that men in general found her attractive. She was rather pretty, she had to admit, she mused, as she walked past
the Star of the Sea and saw Father Doyle going in to prepare for eight o’clock Mass. Probably Father Doyle secretly fancied her as well, for all she knew. She giggled happily to herself. It
was nice that men fancied her. Conor was always telling her how beautiful she was and no doubt Niall just got carried away and couldn’t help himself. But to seriously think that she would be
interested in him with his BO and he her sister’s boyfriend. She didn’t know which she had found the more insulting. The trouble with Niall was that he thought he was such a cool dude,
well there was nothing cool dudey about Niall BO Cronin and she had told him so in no uncertain terms. He had been most upset when she called him a cretin and suggested he treat himself to a bath.
She hadn’t told Conor about Niall’s pass. He’d go mad and probably sock him on the jaw. He was always very possessive of her. Maybe she just might let it slip and see what
happened. Somehow the idea of men fighting over her was rather appealing.

Paula walked briskly through the village, her long blond hair blowing behind her in the warm breeze. She was really looking forward to today and what a beautiful day it was. It was a scorcher,
just the way she liked them. If there was one thing Paula loved it was lying in the sun. A tan always looked really well on her and accentuated the deep blue of her eyes and highlighted the blond
of her hair. Today, she was going to look very well as she already had a light bronzed glow. Today she was going to be a bridesmaid at her sister Louise’s wedding. Today was her last day in
her summer job. Today was the Day of Days and tomorrow . . . she felt like doing a little twirl of happiness. Tomorrow she would be in Dublin with Helen for the last few days in July and the whole
month of August. What joy! What bliss! Helen’s house was pure luxury and Paula had a gorgeous room all to herself. A delightful room where the curtains matched the bedspread, there was even a
matching lampshade and waste basket.

Paula loved that room. She loved it much more than her grotty old bedroom at home. God, what a mess that was! Sharing with two other sisters was such a drag. Sleeping with Rebecca was an even
bigger drag. They were always fighting. Rebecca was the noisiest person to sleep with, she was always cucking. Paula would lie in bed fuming while her sister gave a little snore and then a cuck,
and then a snore and then a cuck. It was enough to drive anyone batty. When she couldn’t take it any longer she would give her an elbow in the ribs and tell her to keep her mouth shut and
stop snoring. Then Rebecca would get mad and curse at her and there’d be a row. At least now that Louise was going they’d have a bed each. That was one of the joys of going to
Helen’s for her holidays. Not only had she a bed to herself, she had a
room
to herself with an entire wardrobe for her clothes and a dressing-table full of fabulous creams and
perfumes and talcs and exquisite nail varnishes. Going to heaven was surely only half as nice as going to her aunt’s house on holidays.

And how glorious it would be to get out of boring St Margaret’s Bay. It was so dull, it drove her nuts. Paula cast a jaundiced eye around the neat little village overlooking the Irish Sea.
A row of cottages, with the odd two-storey or dormer bungalow. Then Mooney’s Bar & Lounge. Beside it, Connolly’s supermarket and post office. Beside that, the Star of the Sea
Church. Then there was the new Credit Union building that was under way. The poshy houses, where the priest and doctor and old Colonel Rogers and his alcoholic wife lived, bordered the site. The
gardens were large and shrub-filled and all immaculately kept, in stark contrast to Walter Kelly’s ramshackle plot and tumbledown cottage which adjoined the colonel’s, much to his
immense dissatisfaction.

‘You’re not in the army now, matey, so don’t be giving me any of yer lip,’ Walter would snort when the colonel periodically took him to task about the state of his
property. When Walter went on one of his renowned benders he would stand outside the colonel’s house and holler drunken abuse until the sergeant came along with his uniform on over his
pyjamas, and dragged him home, promising him that if he carried on like this again he’d find himself up in Mountjoy Prison. He had been promising Walter this for the last ten years.

That was about the height of excitement of life in St Margaret’s Bay, Paula thought glumly as she walked past Walter’s neglected house and garden. If she thought she had to spend the
rest of her life here she’d go mental, she assured herself.

When she left secondary school in Waterford she was going to Dublin to live life to the full. Dublin was like an unbelievable dream to her. An Aladdin’s cave of delight. All the shops and
hotels. The cinemas, the theatres and art galleries and restaurants. How wonderful it would be to be able to hop on a bus and be in the city centre in ten minutes. If you wanted to get to Waterford
from this Godforsaken back of beyonds you had to hitch. Except for going to school, of course. There was a school bus for that. Louise was going to live in Waterford with her new husband, but
Waterford was really only a town, not a city, not like Dublin, and Dublin was her Mecca, living there her ultimate goal.

There was no way she’d miss Maggie’s Bay, that was for sure, she assured herself as she stopped to look across at the pier where Lancy Delaney was chatting to Mattie Fortune as
Mattie sat mending some fishing nets. Lancy Delaney, according to her mother, carried a torch for Helen. Imagine! An ould eejit like that with Wellington boots covered in cow-shit and a jumper
nearly down to his knees it was so stretched. Paula grimaced at the thought of him and her precious Helen, who was the height of elegance and Paula’s ideal.

Gulls circled above screeching and diving as one of the trawlers disgorged its haul from a night’s fishing. The sun cast prisms of sparkling light on a tranquil sea that glittered more
brightly than the most expensive chandelier ever could. Along the curve of the coast, green and gold fields were fringed by miles of clean white sand lapped by gently surging waves. The melody of
birdsong echoed from tree to tree and shrub to shrub. The air was so fresh and sea-scented it invigorated mind and body. Yet Paula appreciated none of it. She had grown up with the view and the
fresh unpolluted air and took it totally for granted. Dublin with its fume-filled streets and noisy traffic was a far more attractive proposition in her eyes.

She couldn’t understand how tourists would prefer to come to somewhere as quiet as St Margaret’s Bay in preference to a place where they could shop in huge department stores and
visit places of interest such as Trinity College to see the Book of Kells, or the Zoo and the Phoenix Park, or hundreds of other fascinating places. They could eat in the fanciest of restaurants
and then go dancing in the night-clubs in Leeson Street. Or
The Strip
as it was known, according to Monica Boyle, who boasted of having been there.

Paula grimaced as she turned into the manicured, landscaped lawns of the Sea View Hotel, where she had been employed for the past six weeks as a chambermaid, or house assistant as they were
called in the hotel. The Sea View was only in its second season, having been purpose-built by Gerry Murphy, who owned the site. It had been left to him by his uncle. Gerry Murphy was a young man in
a hurry. He had plans for St Margaret’s Bay. Big plans. Hotels, resort centres and leisure activities. Gerry wanted a big slice of the tourist action and he was determined to get it. The Sea
View had been built in record time and nothing but the best had gone into it. With sixty bedrooms, a swimming-pool, hairdressers and a crèche, it seemed like the
crème de la
crème
of hotels to Paula’s innocent way of thinking.

She loved working there, not particularly as a house assistant . . . reception was where she aspired to be. But the air of hustle and bustle and glamour and elegance were like an injection of
adrenalin into her veins. She loved watching the guests. Their clothes, their expensive luggage all fascinated her. Some day, she too was going to be able to swan into a hotel and order drinks or
room service at the snap of her fingers. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Monica Boyle heading up the path on the other side of the large dividing lawn where Tony, one of the porters, was
laying out loungers and umbrellas.

Paula quickened her step, she wanted to get in before Monica. Monica Boyle was a prize cow and Paula hated her guts. It hadn’t been her fault that Monica’s boyfriend, Peter, had
developed a crush on Paula and kept pestering her to dance every Thursday night at the local disco. Did Monica honestly think that she would look twice at Peter when she was going with a catch like
Conor Harrison? Was the girl deluded? Whatever had got into her head, she accused Paula of deliberately flirting with Peter and trying to break them up. Nothing that Paula could say to her would
convince her otherwise. Since then she’d been a real wagon and unfortunately was also working as a house assistant in the Sea View for the summer holidays. Her snide comments and sneaky
little ways had been very difficult to put up with. But who cared any more, thought Paula happily, today was her last day there.

Monica Boyle gave a great sigh of exasperation when she saw Paula Matthews striding briskly towards the hotel’s entrance. How she detested that stuck-up little bitch . .
. and how she envied her. Monica knew that when the Lord had been handing out good looks, He had skimped on her. God’s gift to men she wasn’t, especially when compared to Princess
Matthews. Monica, at five foot seven, overweight and spotty, always felt like a lumbering elephant beside the petite but perfectly rounded blonde. As hard as she might try and find a flaw . . . and
she
had
tried, Monica had to admit that when God created Paula Matthews He had given her it all. Big blue eyes, framed by perfect dark wing-tipped eyebrows. A delightful little button nose
(not like her own beak). Shiny blonde hair, skin so creamy and peachy and completely unmarred by spots it would make you weep. A body that was slim and lithe with curves where curves were meant to
be, not wobbly flabby bulges like her own. If that wasn’t enough, Little Miss Perfect oozed self-confidence and had a bright bubbly personality that made her one of the most popular girls in
the school. Whether Monica liked it or not, Miss Paula Matthews was perfection on legs. Some people just had all the luck. Still, that didn’t give her the right to swipe other girls’
fellas.

Monica gave a snort as she quickened her pace. She had been dating Peter Reilly for six months and had practically let him go all the way, the shit, when the Princess fluttered her eyelashes at
him one night in the parish disco. Paula had been there on her own because that Conor Harrison, her boyfriend, was up in Dublin. Blatantly. Deliberately. Right under Monica’s nose, she
flirted with him. And Peter had gone running, as quick as his bandy legs could carry him, asking her to dance and making a right prat of himself.

Humiliation seared her heart at the memory. Her cheeks burned as she recalled the sly nudges of her classmates, who tittered and giggled as Peter made an ass of himself, buying Paula drinks,
flattering her, saying she was the most beautiful girl in the world . . . no . . . not the world . . . the universe. Of course he’d been as pissed as a newt. He’d drunk half a flagon of
cider before going to the dance. But Princess Paula lapped it all up and enjoyed the adoration. Needless to say, the following week, when Mister Conor was back, the two-faced wagon hadn’t
deigned to give Peter a look, despite all his efforts. Then of course he’d come crawling back to her.

It had been a hard decision to make, whether to take him back or not. But a faithless, fickle boyfriend was better than no boyfriend. Beggars couldn’t be choosers, she decided after a
turbulent wrestle with her hurt pride. So she took him back, but she was being very grudging with her favours. Much to Peter’s dismay.

Well, thought Monica grimly, putting on a spurt as she saw her hated rival come parallel to her on the opposite path, Paula Matthews had better watch her step because if she could do her a bad
turn ever, she would . . .

‘Good morning, Miss Kelly.’ Paula greeted the head housekeeper cheerfully as she signed her name in the attendance book. Behind her, she could hear Monica Boyle
thundering along the corridor. Paula gave a little smile of satisfaction. She had made it to Miss Kelly’s office before her antagonist. That would give Miss Boyle the needle for the day. Now
she was in the best position to get the job of cleaning the manager’s office. There was always fierce rivalry over the job of cleaning Mr Gorman’s office. Cleaning the manager’s
office was the one way of getting noticed by him and getting noticed by the hotel manager was of paramount importance if one wanted to go further . . . to reception, for instance. Meeting people at
the front desk. Being in the thick of it. It would give her great experience for when she finally went looking for a job in Dublin, after she’d finished school. Besides which, cleaning Mr
Gorman’s office was a doddle compared to cleaning the public areas, like the foyer and toilets, which were always done before breakfast. The hotel manager was a neat and tidy person, and so
was his office.

‘What do you want me to do this morning, Miss Kelly?’ Paula asked politely just as Monica barged past her to sign on. Sheila Kelly tapped the duty roster with her pen.

‘Today’s your last day, Paula, and you’ve a family wedding, haven’t you, later this afternoon so you wanted to go a bit early?’

‘That’s right, Miss Kelly.’ Paula gave her boss a smile. Miss Kelly smiled back thinking it was a pity all her house assistants weren’t as hard-working and dependable and
as cheerful as the young teenager in front of her. She had been a bit dubious about taking her on, and Monica Boyle too, for that matter. They were both only fifteen. But Mr Gorman was all for
employing staff from the locality and once there was a letter of permission from the parents all was in order. Paula Matthews had proved to be an excellent worker despite the housekeeper’s
misgivings and she was only sorry she was leaving so early in the season.