The Importance of Being Me Read online

  “Yes, and, well, they are lovely people I know, but re-evaluating their decision in my own head, I want to wish them good luck with that,” I say, thinking of how silent Susan was on the drop-off to school this morning, refusing to even come up and see her great-granny.

  “She hates me.” She had pursed her lips and stared into the iPhone.

  “Don’t be so insensitive. She is ill, Susan!” I had looked at her in disbelief.

  Leaving her in the car, I’d gone up to visit Alice and fed her a couple of spoons of my home-made porridge and fresh blueberries. The ward smelled of faeces and disinfectant. I wished I could take her home. I couldn’t. She needs twenty-four-hour care. She had taken three very small spoonfuls onto her desert-like tongue and smacked her toothless gums around the food. It had looked painful for her to swallow it. Then she’d closed her eyes. I’d held her frail, blue-veined hand and rubbed my thumbs across them. I will go back later, after Tom leaves. Knowing as I do, in my heart of hearts, that she wants to slip away quietly, I need to respect that. Alice Bedford was never one for making a fuss.

  “What do you mean? You’ve worked so closely with them,” Lar asks.

  “I mean it, Lar, God bless them. I hope it all works out for them and they aren’t just filling the dreadful nothingness between mother and daughters. Those girls could turn at any given second,” I say.

  “What? What does that mean? Of course it will work out! You are the queen of relocating families. That’s why I need you so much in St Ives! If it weren’t for all the work you’ve done over the past few years, Court, we’d be out of business. I’d never have thought this could be a new venture. You’ve taken us to a new level! It was really you who came up with the business idea. All I ever did was holiday swaps; now we are dealing in life swaps!” Lar is visibly excited as the lift doors part and we step in and do a 180-degree turn. Lar loves abbreviated names, and even though I keep telling him I was actually christened Courtney, he insists on calling me Court. I kind of like it. I don’t know why – maybe because it’s so personal. Father-figureish. Paternal. Maybe I’m searching inwardly for a token father to replace the one I missed out on. Sigmund Freud would be delighted with me!

  “Well, who could have seen Airbnb becoming so successful so damn fast! A relocation business was the obvious next step for you. And sorry, I’m having Susan issues. We’d another huge fight, then she refused to come out of her room all night. I had to take her dinner up to her, which was left untouched, and then she was monosyllabic at breakfast this morning and on the school run. She stayed in the car while I went to feed Granny again, refused to come up and see her. I’m weary of it all.” I heave out the words.

  “You are too soft on her. A good talking-to is what she needs. She is the kid, she shouldn’t dictate how you both live: that’s your job!” he reiterates for the hundredth time.

  “Yeah, because that’s really how we are right now: communicators! Dr Phil would have to dedicate two shows to us.” I throw my eyes to heaven, or the white square panels on the ceiling of the lift, I should say.

  We are pinged to our floor. Stepping out, I sink into the newly fitted soft beige and black carpet. It’s a mark of the man that Lar is that the bigger the business grows, the more home comforts he gives to the staff.

  “I want this place to be better than The Google. If you want to lie around on beanbags, I will buy them,” he says at every staff meeting. No one here wants beanbags. Teabags, maybe. I like my job, don’t get me wrong. I like earning money and being able to pay my bills, but it ain’t no vacation. His new offer, however . . .

  “Morning, Maria.” I lean across our receptionist’s dark mahogany desk as she’s on a call and I grab my post. Maria nods at me and smiles, her headset bobbing as she readjusts the mouthpiece, pushes buttons in front of her and transfers a call.

  See, Exchange, Experience doesn’t have a huge office space. It’s on the top two floors of an old glass building on Hatch Street. It has five members of staff and we facilitate people who want to swap homes for a short period of time. So if you live in a small country town in Germany and you want to experience living in the bright lights of busy mid-town Manhattan, we find you a like-minded New Yorker and through us you agree to switch your private homes for a week, or two, or three . . . sometimes even up to three months. Lar started up the business in the late ’90s, when it was pretty revolutionary. But by the time I came on board, the business was already in decline. Nowadays people can set up a B&B in their own home and travel all over cheaply to Airbnbs. A few years ago I got really worried that Lar would finally go out of business for good. Simply put, See, Exchange, Experience was out of date. So I proposed to Lar a development of the business: a new branch for people who want to relocate.

  I’ve been with Lar for seven years now. Oh, the acting career I craved and studied for, you might be wondering about that. Well, after I delivered my Susan I did go back out and audition, but I never landed a single gig. My heart was at home with her. Claire had thrown in the towel by that stage too and was working in a restaurant as front of house. She was great at the job, as she was so outgoing the customers all loved her. Claire had declared the Irish acting world Fattists and boycotted movies and theatres for years after. In fairness to David, he never put pressure on me to go back to work, but I knew I wanted to do something else outside the home after bringing up our daughter for nine years. When Susan was in third class, I saw an advertisement in a recruitment shop window off Grafton Street advertising for a part-time data-inputting post in See, Exchange, Experience and I thought it looked interesting. So I went in.

  “I’ll see you at the meeting at eleven, Court.” Lar drags my thoughts back to the present and moves off down the corridor, shuffling in his brown shoes towards his own office. I do the same. My private office is small but airy. I have a neat white glossed desk, iMac and a glass coffee table with a low-slung couch for clients. My sky-blue walls are covered with exotic pictures of faraway places, palm trees, golden sandy beaches, towering recognisable landmark buildings and all sorts of travel paraphernalia. One wall is decorated top to bottom in multi-coloured postcards that my clients have sent me over the years: my one request to them all. Sitting at my desk, I sip my black coffee and wake up my iMac. I just seemed to understand the business naturally. It’s not that complicated. Double tapping my NERJA SWAP / RELOCATION DEBBIE & HARRY DESMOND file, it opens quickly. I remember the family well. One of their daughters is the same age as Susan and it’s funny how you keep people who are at similar stages in their lives at the front of your head. When I was pregnant, I saw pregnant women everywhere. I noticed every pram and buggy. I heard every baby’s cry in a restaurant. The Desmonds, tanned and happy, had popped into the office the day they landed to see me post-holiday-swap and the first thing that struck me was how different their fifteen-year-old daughter, Zoe, was to mine. Zoe just looked her age and had a Harry Potter book under her arm. She was polite and sweet and her interaction with her mother was so lovely. To me, Susan looked years older and acted years older. What was her hurry to grow up so fast? I wish I knew and I dearly wish I could change it! The younger one had worn the cutest pair of Peppa Pig glasses and I had become even more nostalgic for Susan’s childhood.

  Their move to Nerja is all sailing along nicely. I have already enrolled the Desmond girls in an English-speaking school in Calle de Frigiliana and they will begin the new term in September. They actually did a holiday swap with us first, and the thing is, I knew on swap they wouldn’t want, as I call it, “comeback”. I knew that once they’d experienced the beauty of Nerja, with its quaint, relaxed way of living, outdoor life and cobbled streets, their pretty but cramped Dublin terraced cottage would seem too small.

  They had swapped with an English gentleman who was looking to trade his apartment overlooking the Mediterranean for three weeks to come to Dublin to search out his family tree. Ideally he was looking for a small house near the city centre, which is pretty hard to find – but the Des
monds had it. But when the Desmonds decided to move out there permanently, he didn’t want to sell up in Nerja, so I found the family a villa just off Plaza Tutti Frutti. Harry is a computer analyst and works mainly from home. Debbie works in a local shop. I have made them both acutely aware that Nerja doesn’t boast huge employment opportunities, but the cost of living is lower and Harry feels he can make it work. When See, Exchange, Experience was still just a holiday-swap company, lots of clients relocated, but all I ever gave them was free advice. It was my idea to turn it into a branch of the business. See, Exchange, Experience are now opening their very first office in Cornwall. We had so many clients wanting to swap homes with someone in Cornwall, and wanting to move there afterwards, that it makes sense to have a permanent base there. Ideally we can turn the Airbnb clients to our advantage. Lar has a list as long as his arm of families who want to relocate.

  Therein lies my big dilemma. Lar has offered me the managerial position in the new office, which is currently having its finishing touches done. He is aware of my situation, so his offer is initially for June, July and August while Susan is off school on her summer holidays to get the business up and running, but with a view to eventually relocating and managing the business in St Ives full-time if I want. With the job comes a large, brand-spanking-new apartment above the office that we can live in rent-free. I’d absolutely love to do it. When he first approached me with the offer I felt excitement like I haven’t done in years. I’d called Claire immediately.

  “Sounds like a no-brainer to me, Courtney, grab it with both hands! Cornwall? St Ives? It’s your dream location! You are obsessed with Cornwall! This is all meant to be!” My friend had squealed with excitement. “Plus they shoot Poldark down there, don’t they? I’ll be over for a glimpse of Aidan Turner’s naked torso!”

  “It’s not that easy though, is it?” I knew that Susan wouldn’t be keen.

  “Oh Courtney, when do you ever do anything for yourself any more? What has Alice always drilled into you? The importance of being you! Don’t lose you. Susan will love it if she gives it a chance. She is nearly sixteen; you need to start thinking about what Courtney wants now too.”

  “Granny Alice was the ultimate independent woman,” I’d said. “She did what made her happy and she always told me to do the same. She said unless you are happy in your own skin you can’t make anyone else happy. I know she was right, I know the importance of being me, it’s just Susan is a part of me too, so I’m still working out how to make both of us happy. It’s not easy.”

  But Claire was so right about one thing: Cornwall. I fell in love with Cornwall the very first day I started work in the basement office of North Great Georges Street as Lar’s data inputter. Over the years I’ve actually lost track of the amount of holiday swaps I’ve done between Cornwall and the rest of the world. You see, apart from my honeymoon I had never been outside Ireland and Lar had this huge glossy poster on his office wall that said “Visit Cornwall”. It was of St Ives, that year’s winner of a showcase of national awards, including best family holiday destination by Coast magazine and one of the ten best European beach destinations compiled by TripAdvisor. St Ives to me looked like a subtropical oasis – on Lar’s poster the beaches were golden, the vegetation was lush and the light piercingly bright. Some days I would stand and stare at that poster for ages, transfixed. I found it extremely therapeutic. It was no wonder to me when I began to research the area that the town had been attracting artists for decades, who came to capture its undeniable natural beauty. It’s just the most beautiful place in the world and still hugely popular for swaps. After Lar promoted me from data inputter, the first place I went to organise a swap was to St Ives with the Woodcock family. They wanted to take two weeks in Blackpool during the Illuminations, and we matched a family in Bispham, Blackpool, who really wanted to attend a nephew’s wedding in St Ives. It all worked out great.

  David and Susan had been excited for me at the time. I had flown over and taken the twenty-minute train ride on the popular branch line from St Erth to St Ives. I was in awe of the colourful fishing boats coming into harbour as the train snaked around the golden bays to the town. Kicking off my shoes before I checked into my hotel, I’d strolled along the white sand at Porthminster beach as I looked out for the Godrevy lighthouse, the inspiration for Virginia Woolf’s famous novel To the Lighthouse, which I’d studied at Trinity. I’d stayed at the Blue Hayes hotel and the trip had been a huge success.

  I peel the plastic lid off my fruit bowl and search out the pineapple, chasing it between the melon and the red grapes. Chewing the sweet fruit, I lean my head back on the chair. Now, things aren’t that black and white. When I sat Susan down to discuss the possibilities of us going only for the summer (I didn’t say a word about us relocating there one day) she’d freaked out. Thrown a wobbler. She had plans for the summer, she’d told me. When I dared to ask her what exactly those plans were, she informatively told me, “Wait and see.” I told her I’d need a little more information than that. I won’t bore you with the rest of the argument. Suffice to say it ended with a slamming door and a “Hey guys!” Claire and I had discussed it at length again when we were in Wong’s Chinese restaurant in town on a Friday night, getting very tipsy.

  “Have you accepted the job yet? Have you? And if not, well why the hell not?” Claire had asked me as she spooned her sweet and sour chicken onto her egg fried rice.

  “Obviously I have tried to talk to Susan, who doesn’t want to know, and I have Granny Alice to think of too. I’d have to say goodbye to her for good, I imagine. Breaks my heart to see Tom the vulture hovering over her!” I’d almost bawled at the thought when I’d answered Claire. My chilli and garlic prawns had sizzled over their little candle, untouched.

  “Eat!” Claire had waved her fork at my empty plate as she chewed. Then she’d said, “Not necessarily, love . . . I know obviously it’s a possibility, but no one knows what tomorrow will bring, do they? I think you would be absolutely bonkers to turn it down. Agreed, Tom is a total vulture. Like, did he ever visit his mother until recently?” she’d asked and I shook my head.

  “It’s not just me, though, is it? Like I say, there is so much else to consider,” I’d sniffed.

  “I know.” She’d pushed the bottle of Merlot to one side and taken my hands across the table. “Thing is, Courtney, I know I sound like a broken record, but sometimes you also have to think about yourself.” Squeezing my hands tightly, she’d gone on. “Your amazing, wonderful granny would want you to take this opportunity. Listen to your heart and you will hear that. Susan will be going off to college soon . . .”

  I’d raised my eyebrows at this doubtful statement.

  “Or whatever she does in two years, but I know one thing, Courtney – and this is hard to say, believe me – but in a few short years you will be alone, and I’m so scared that David’s going to take that house back from you. You see, rents in Dublin now, they are pretty unmanageable.” The waitress had poured more wine into our glasses and we’d thanked her and drained them.

  My phone rings out and I jump, back in the present moment.

  “Good morning, See, Exchange, Experience, Courtney Downey speaking.” I put down my plastic fork.

  “Hello, my name is Tony Becker. Is this Courtney Downey?” a strange voice asks.

  “Em . . . Well, yes . . . Like I said, I’m Courtney Downey. How may I help you?” I wade my finger around the juice of the fruit bowl. The accent is undoubtedly Cornwall.

  “Right, Courtney Downey, I need a pair of hands here with all the paperwork. The suits at the town hall are on my back about these late-night opening hours on Thursday and Friday you’re after and I need someone out here to help. I’m the builder, this is not my domain, I’ve enough on my plate. Up to my absolute eyes I am in getting this all finished: the electrics have been a bloody nightmare, I’ve lost Andy and I’m running out of time. Plus who’s picking this furniture for the upstairs apartment? Brian Fogg needs to know.”


  “Eh, sorry, who is this?” I’m crunching up my forehead now, my high ponytail swaying from side to side.

  “Tony . . . Are you listening to me, Courtney Downey?”

  I do not like his tone of voice. “Yes, Tony Becker. I am. I am listening. But I have no idea who you are.” I deliver the words slowly.

  He imitates me, tenfold: “I . . . am . . . the . . . building . . . contractor . . . for . . . the . . . St Ives . . . Cornwall . . . See . . . Exchange . . . Experience . . . office . . . and . . . upstairs . . . apartment . . . Mr . . . Lar . . . Kilroy . . . told . . . me . . . to . . . speak . . . to . . . you.”

  “Can you please talk normally?” I say, riled now.

  “He didn’t mention it then, I gather?” He coughs loudly down the line and I have to hold the receiver away from my ear.

  “No, he didn’t, Tony,” I say calmly when I hold the phone back.

  “Oh for F’s sake. Look, can you put me on to a person who works there who can fly over to St Ives and help me out down here with paperwork and furnishings. Neither are my department. I’ve a new project on a house restoration to get started in Land’s End, not to mention my other very demanding business . . . I haven’t got time for this.”

  What a hostile man. Stop raising your voice at me, Tony, I say in my head.

  “Well, thank you for this, Tony. If I can take your number I will go and talk to Mr Kilroy as soon as he is free and call you straight back.”

  “Yeah, yeah that’s what y’all say, forget it!” He slams the phone down.

  I stab Lar’s extension with my very un-Mar-nee short, unpolished, slightly chewed-on nail.

  “Yo!” he answers like an elderly rapper.

  “Who the hell is Tony Becker? He’s literally just this second shouted abuse down the phone at me!”

  There is radio silence.