Read Online Two Fridays in April by Roisin Meaney - Free Book Online Page B

at the age of sixty-six. Since thenshe’s never ventured beyond a small sweet sherry, or a very occasional Baileys.
    ‘Where’s Una? She dolling herself up?’
    Daphne fills two glasses, hands one to Mo. Here goes. ‘I’m afraid Una’s not eating with us – I got a text a while ago.’
    Mo frowns. ‘What do you mean, not eating with us? Why not?’
    ‘… I think she just couldn’t face it.’
Please don’t turn this into a battle
, she begs silently. The last thing she needs tonight.
    ‘Face what? Isn’t it her birthday? Didn’t you tell her I was coming?’
    ‘Mo, I think she decided it would be too hard to celebrate – under the circumstances.’
    ‘Rubbish! Who said anything about celebrating? It’s just dinner and a cake – it’s not as if we’re planning to pop open the champagne.’
    ‘Mo, it’s her
birthday
, and she’s—’
    ‘Where is she? Or did she bother telling you that?’
    ‘She’s in Ciara’s house. She’s eating with them.’
    Mo snorts. ‘Eating with
them
– does she think this is easy for any of us?’
    She raises her glass, and Daphne bites back a sharp retort as she sees the tremor in the arthritic hand. Suffering every bit as much as Daphne and Una today, missing Finn just as acutely as they do – and missing Leo too, of course.
    She searches for words of comfort, and finds none. ‘What kind of a day had you?’ she asks instead.
    Mo flicks the question away with a toss of her head. ‘Theusual,’ she says curtly. ‘Same day I always have. Same old ding dong.’
    Where do you go from there? Daphne sets down her glass and fills a saucepan with water. She breaks the broccoli into florets and puts two dinner plates into the warming drawer, conscious of the charged silence in the room. She checks on the chicken; few more minutes.
    ‘At least the rain has stopped,’ she says. ‘And the dinner should be good, even if it’s only the two of us eating it.’
    No response. Going to be a long evening.

    ‘I’ve been thinking,’ Mo says.
    They’re well into the meal, almost finished it, and an uncharacteristic second sherry has gone some way towards softening her humour. All the same, the words trigger a small alarm bell in Daphne’s head: her mother-in-law’s thinking could go anywhere.
    ‘It’s about the shop,’ Mo goes on, laying down her fork. She’s left a small chunk of roast potato still impaled on a prong. ‘We need to sort something out.’
    The shop. The bicycle shop, she must mean. Two Wheels Good, owned equally by both women since Finn’s death. Lord, what now?
    ‘I think,’ Mo says, watching Daphne’s face carefully, ‘that you – well, that we – should do something with it.’
    The alarm bell grows shriller. Daphne’s grip tightens on her cutlery. ‘Do something with it? You mean … sell it?’
    ‘No, I do not mean sell it,’ Mo says steadily. ‘I mean open it up again.’
    ‘Open it up? Who?’
    ‘You and me,’ Mo says tartly. ‘The two of us. Who else?’
    She has to be joking. She doesn’t look like she’s joking. Her mother-in-law is not known for her sense of humour.
    ‘Mo,’ Daphne begins carefully, ‘are you seriously suggesting that we reopen the bike shop?’
    ‘It wouldn’t have to be bikes,’ Mo says. ‘It could be anything. Toys, or … a grocery shop. I don’t know, I haven’t worked that out.’
    Toys. Her and Mo in a toy shop. The two of them behind the counter, surrounded by dolls and tubs of Lego and inflatable paddling pools. The idea is so ludicrous that Daphne would be tempted to laugh out loud if laughter was remotely on the agenda, which it isn’t.
    Instead she settles on the most obvious objection. ‘Mo,’ she says, in the same cautious tone, ‘I already have a job.’
    Mo nods grimly. ‘You have, yes. And exactly how many houses have you sold in the past year?’
    Daphne frowns. ‘What? I don’t see how that has anything—’
    ‘You’re an estate agent, aren’t you?’
    ‘Of course I am,