Paula Spencer Read Online Free PDF Page B

wants Nicola to see that.
    She adds her milk and tests the coffee.
    God, it's lovely.
    She thinks of something. She takes out the phone. She turns it off. She presses her fingernail into the hidden button at the top. She's not sure if she's doing it right. But the blue screen goes to black. It's off.
    She's a good granny. She loves it. She felt nothing but joy when Nicola told her the news that she was expecting. That was the first time she seriously gave up the drink. She was clean and looking around. And looking after herself. And touching herself, and liking herself. She fell off the wagon that time, badly, but she remembers it as the start. She knew she'd always be trying to give it up. She knew she'd always be fighting.
    Vanessa. She was the first. And Gillian, two years later. They're five and three now. Gorgeous young ones. Like their mother.
    Like their granny.
    And the two other grandchildren. She loves them. She loves it, the whole thing. It's added to her.
    She looks away from the window and the truck outside the off-licence. Flavours. That's what it's been called for a while now. Shelves of wine from all over the world but kids still go in looking for cans of Dutch Gold. The bag of cans. She caught Leanne once. She'd hate to see Jack going in, watching him from here, in the sunshine. Having to deal with it. Or ignore it.
    There's a new sign in the window. She can read it from here. Dial-A-Can. She won't be putting that one into her mobile.
    She looks away, along the counter. To the end of the glass, and the ovens. There's flour in the air over there. Hands with a rolling pin. Good, man's arms. Flattening dough.
    It isn't him. It's another man. A goofy-looking poor fella. Mouth dangling a bit over the pizza dough.
    Ah well.
    The coffee's gorgeous. Paula will come back another day, and the fella she likes might be there. He might even own the place. That might be his wife who brought her the cake. She isn't a bad-looking girl and the Italians always stick together. Look at the two guys down the back. They probably came from miles away just to support their own. And for the taste of home.
    Would she do it with a married man? She'd do it with any kind of man.
    Not true. She's fussy. Thirty years too late. She's a gas woman. But him being married wouldn't stop her. She doesn't think it would. She'll probably never know.
    Enough.
    She stands up. Should she go over to pay before she picks up the cake box? To avoid any misunderstanding.
    What misunderstanding? They know she isn't going to run.
    She leaves the box on the table and her bag of shopping beside it. She leaves the mobile on the table. She doesn't even look at it.
    She drops two euro into the tips jar. She hears it land on more coins.
    —Thank you, she says.
    —Are welcome.
    And work. The same as ever. And that's not too bad. It's boring and it gets on her nerves but she actually likes it. She's been doing it for years. She hates the travel. She always did. But it used to be worse, when she was drinking.
    She feels fine. She feels good. The usual tiredness and stiffness. But she's calm. She's not desperate for anything. Just the cake. The cake with no alcohol in it. In the fridge at home behind as many things as she could pile in front of it. In case Jack or Leanne are rooting in there. They'd have it for their dinner. Chocolate cake and chips. Knifes and forks and all. They'd pour Bisto on it. They've had stranger dinners. But she knows. Hiding the cake is a waste of time. They'll sniff it out. Kids know. Even grown kids.
    They're always kids.
    They'll smell it first. One of them will. Whoever's home first. They'll look at it and wonder. And they'll remember. It's her birthday. Their mammy's birthday and they forgot. Then the guilt will get right into them.
    Good.
    Especially Leanne.
    There's more to cake than chocolate.
    The mornings when she'd been drinking. They were just fuckin' terrible. Running out of the house, when she could manage it. Not even knowing