He dropped into the local supermarket and picked up a bunch of carnations. He’d often bought flowers for Natalie, especially in the early years, but had lost the habit as work gradually consumed his every waking hour. On the rare occasions he did, she’d always seemed appreciative, but with hindsight, how could he have known for sure? He never really knew her.
He was early, so he took his time. He’d taken time over his shower and shave and chosen a favourite shirt from his meagre wardrobe but stayed in jeans to appear casual. He hadn’t expected to be going on a date, never mind two, so he hadn’t come prepared, but he couldn’t imagine Siobhán being impressed anyway.
He sauntered down a long, tree-lined avenue that led directly to the sea, each house sporting blue and green wheelie-bins neatly arranged on the pavement, ready for the next collection. He held the carnations in front of him, but when he approached other people, lowered them like a self-conscious teenager.
He reached the end of the road where the vista out to sea opened up. He checked his watch. Five minutes to twelve. He resolved to wait seven minutes and go at two minutes past, but after five, he felt his heart beating with anticipation and could bear it no longer. He held up the flowers confidently, opened the gates and strode down the drive towards the timber-clad house.
The Golf was gone, and in its place a big, brand new Volvo Estate. His first thought was that yesterday she’d gone to pick up her new car “I’m busy”, his second that it was a curious choice for a single woman with a single dog, but he’d already reached the front door and pressed the doorbell. He heard Jerry’s bark and then the dog racing down the corridor to claw at the front door. He put the flowers behind his back.
“Jerry, get down!” He heard a woman’s voice, one he didn’t recognise and an accent that didn’t sound Irish at all. The door flew open, and a middle-aged woman appeared. She looked him up and down, regarding him with a mixture of contempt and annoyance. “Yes? Can I help you?” The dog continued to bark behind her. “Jerry! Be quiet!”
He was suddenly tongue-tied, remembering the time as a twelve-year-old he asked Mrs Jones if Sheila was coming out to play. “Er, I was looking for Siobhán?” He posed it as a question, slowly and carefully so there’d be no misunderstanding but couldn’t shake off a growing sense of unease.
“Who?”
Jack felt a rising panic and sweat breaking on his brow, praying that somehow a familiar face would appear from behind and put things right, clear up the intolerable confusion. A face appeared, but it wasn’t familiar. A heavy-set man with a beer gut and comb-over pulled the door wide, holding Jerry by the collar as the dog squirmed in his grip and barked excitedly.
“Who are you?” he said, with even more belligerence than the woman.
“I’m a friend of Siobhán’s.”
“Who?”
He hoped this was all a joke, albeit a poor one, and he had no urge to join in. He just felt sick. He tried again. “The Irish lady. From Donegal.”
The woman’s fierce expression turned to a sneer of contempt and she folded her arms, the posture reminding him for a moment of the Irish lady from Donegal. She fixed him with a steely stare but addressed her husband. “He means Sinéad.”
“Sinéad?” said the man. “She buggered off! And you can bugger off too.”
“I don’t understand. I thought she lived here?”
“No, she doesn’t bloody live here. We live here. What are you, a boyfriend or something?”
Before he could answer, the woman unfolded an arm and pointed accusingly at him. “Have you been in my house?”
He felt the colour rising in his neck, and it gave her the answer. He shrugged. “Just in the kitchen,” he said lamely. Jerry barked again.
“Jerry!” shouted the man.
“I’m appalled!” said the woman, fit to burst with anger. “She invited all her bloody boyfriends round! It’s outrageous.”
“Boyfriends?”
“Yes! You’re not the only one. Using my house as a brothel. It’s disgraceful. I’m going to leave terrible feedback. She’s going to regret this.”
“Please,” said Jack. “I’m really confused. This is as much of a shock to me as it is to you. I met her, I liked her, we had a chat, we went out for dinner, that’s all. I don’t understand how she had the keys to your house?”
“She’s a house sitter!” shouted the woman, as if he were stupid.
It took a moment for the words to register. He hadn’t come across it before. “You mean…?”
“Someone you trust to look after your house and dog while you’re away.”
“I thought the place was hers?”
“Yes. You’ve said that already. No, it’s not hers. It’s ours. We got a text yesterday afternoon saying she had to leave unexpectedly. Family emergency or something. She left Jerry with someone we hardly know and disappeared. We had to cancel the rest of our holiday and rush back last night from France.”
“I’m sorry about that.”
“Yes, well we’re sorry too. It’s just not acceptable behaviour. We won’t be doing that again.”
“No we certainly won’t,” said the man.
“Do you know where she’s gone?”
“No we bloody don’t and we don’t care either.”
“Do you have a mobile number for her.”
“Yes. Don’t you?”
“No.”
“Strange,” said the woman, heavy with sarcasm, “her ‘cousins’ don’t have her number either.”
“What cousins?”
“Look – we’re fed up with this. First we get two Paddies banging on the door saying they’re looking for their ‘cousin’ Caitlín and then you come looking for a girlfriend called Siobhán and all we know is Sinéad the house sitter has run off a week early.”
“So, can I have her number?”
“She doesn’t answer. She never answers.”
“Can I have it anyway?”
The man harrumphed and went back inside hauling Jerry with him. The wife refolded her arms and resumed her best sneer. He tried to keep his expression neutral but she winked at the flowers he held limply in one hand. They seemed to be wilting in sympathy.
“Are those for me?”
He smiled ruefully and held them out. “My pleasure.” The man returned and thrust a slip of paper at him. “Thanks. I’m sorry for all your bother.” He turned away but had another thought. “Sorry. One more thing. You said she was a… house sitter?”
“Was being the operative word,” said the woman.
“So, she came from an agency?”
“Not really. It’s all done on-line these days. It’s just a web site.”
“Can you tell me the name?”
“House Minders.”
“Thanks.”
He heard the door slam behind him as he trudged back up the drive, dejected and humiliated. He looked at the slip of paper, dialled the number and waited for the predictable reply.
“The person you are calling is not available. Please try later.” He added the number to his contacts unsure of whether to use Siobhán, Sinéad or Caitlín, finally entering all three with slashes between them. For the hell of it he tried again and as he passed the new Volvo parked outside the double garage, he heard a muffled ring tone, one of the generic ones. It was probably coincidence and he looked around instinctively but there was no one else in sight. “The person you are calling is…” He cancelled and redialled and heard the ringtone again, still muffled, but louder this time. “The person you…” He dialled again and tried to gauge the source of the tune. Two wheelie bins stood next to the garage in a bay with a wooden fence on three sides. He glanced nervously back at the house to see if he was being watched but the bin bay was hidden from view. He redialled and the ringtone got louder as he approached. He lifted the lid of the green bin and then the blue, just as the tune stopped. “The person…” He dialled again. This time it was loud and clear. He tipped the blue bin forward and the contents spilled out onto the drive: bottles, plastic tubs, cardboard and newspapers tumbled forth, and amongst the scattered rubbish, a Samsung phone, squirming, flashing and singing its heart out.