The Hat Shop on the Corner Read online

  ‘Do it another night! It’s Saturday,’ begged Fergus.

  Ellie refused. Besides, she wasn’t exactly in the humour for a glass of wine or a pint in a noisy pub. She’d far prefer to stay home and try to get to grips with the finances of the business before she made any decision.

  ‘Leave her alone, Fergus,’ argued Kim protectively. ‘Just because we want to go drinking doesn’t mean Ellie has to. OK?’

  Fergus looked instantly apologetic. ‘Do you want us to get you anything?’ he offered. ‘A takeaway, a pizza, chips on the way home?’

  ‘You have eaten?’ questioned Kim, her blue eyes serious.

  ‘I was going to make myself a sandwich later.’

  ‘You have to look after yourself,’ she scolded. ‘You’ve been under a lot of stress. I’ll make you something before we leave.’

  ‘You two sit there and I’ll do it,’ insisted Fergus, disappearing off to the galley kitchen, banging around and talking to himself, as he made toasted cheese sandwiches and coffee.

  ‘There’s so much to go over,’ confided Ellie to her oldest friend. ‘Tax returns, accounts, though everything seems up to date.’

  ‘Is there anything I can do to help?’ offered Kim.

  For a second she hesitated. Kim and herself had started school on the same day and despite being total opposites – one tall and fair and sporty, and one small, dark and arty – had become instant best friends. In senior school when a crowd of thirteen-year-old girls had begun to tease Ellie unmercifully, it was Kim who had told the bullies to leave her alone. In turn, when Kim had admitted she hated French and was bound to fail it in her Leaving Certificate exams, it was Ellie who insisted for the following four months that all their conversations were held in French.

  ‘Non, non, non!’ Despite Kim’s protests it had worked. Following a degree in commerce, Kim, who was a whiz with figures, now worked in Davy’s stockbrokers. She was a numbers expert but it wasn’t fair to ask her, when she was all dressed up in her flirty red skirt and black boots, to give up her Saturday night to pore over account books.

  ‘Maybe next week, some night after work, if you’ve got the time you could run over everything with me?’

  ‘Sure,’ promised Kim.

  Ellie hadn’t realized how hungry she was until she devoured Fergus’s tasty grilled cheese sandwiches layered with onion and Worcestershire sauce.

  ‘Bit of energy for the night,’ he teased.

  ‘Listen, thanks, you two,’ said Ellie, half tempted to abandon the work and join them. ‘I don’t know what I’d do without you.’

  ‘See you next week,’ they both promised and she listened to them tramp down the wooden staircase of the tall Georgian house, slamming the door as they left.

  Tucked up in bed later that night with a calculator and pen and paper, she thought about Fergus’s assessment of her. Perhaps she was a little crazy, totting up figures like a lunatic instead of being out with her friends. She pushed the thought away as she studied the blue ledger. Her mother’s business seemed to have gone up and down like the proverbial roller coaster for a number of years. Some months were busy and others deadly quiet. Times when Madeleine had large sums of money on deposit in the bank and other days when they were almost broke. Yet her proud mother had never alluded to a shortage of money. Never said a word. Why had her mother hidden so much from her, especially during those precarious patches? Ellie frowned, wondering how she had persisted in her childhood assumption that everything would always be all right, that her elegant, capable mother could resolve any problem.

  As she trawled through the accounts Ellie realized that, despite everything, her mother’s hard work and the small hat shop had for the past twenty-five years kept them both. Paid for their spacious first-floor apartment just off Leeson Street, and her private education with the Loreto nuns on the Green. Funded her through years of college and her post-graduate year in Paris, provided holidays in Provence and kept them in a style that few single-parent families enjoyed.

  Falling asleep, she tried to imagine her life without the shop. She would return to her job as a buyer for Hyland’s, the busy textile importers down near the Quays. Her boss had been kindness itself, giving her an extended period of leave during the final weeks of her mother’s illness and putting no pressure on her to return to the office until she felt ready. Her mind was racing as she kept thinking of the small shop with the hatstands in the window, unsure if returning to Hyland’s was what she still wanted.

  Her heart sank when she saw the state of the shop doorway on Monday morning. She didn’t want to imagine what someone had been doing in it. She fetched the brush and mop, pouring a good dose of disinfectant into the water as she washed down the tiles, the cat looking disdainfully at her as it slipped inside. This morning she intended going through her mother’s order book, checking for any outstanding payments, trying to discover if there were any business matters she had overlooked. She was typing letters to customers who still owed money when the phone went.

  It was Neil Harrington, enquiring if she had managed to read through all the documents he had given her. Was she ready to sign them?

  ‘Yes, I have looked at them, but I’ve been so busy with the shop and sorting out my mother’s affairs that I haven’t studied all the clauses,’ she admitted, feeling like a guilty schoolgirl who’d been caught bunking off.

  He began to ask her about one of them.

  She had to put her hands up and confess to not understanding it. ‘I did try. It’s just that I’m not very good at these contracts and things.’

  She could sense his disapproval at the end of the line and before she knew it she found herself accepting his invitation to a lunch at which he would run through his client’s offer in layman’s terms.

  ‘Thank you, that would be very helpful.’

  Putting up the ‘Closed’ sign on the door as she went to meet him at the Hibernian Club, Ellie wondered if she had gone mad. She had passed the large, imposing club on the Green a million times over, and was curious to see inside. A man at the reception directed her to the reading room, where Neil Harrington sat behind a copy of the Financial Times.

  ‘I’m glad that you could join me,’ he said, folding away the paper. ‘It’s a bit more private here than most restaurants.’

  He was wearing a grey pinstripe suit, she noticed as she followed him into the high-ceilinged dining room. It had a perfect view of the park and the waiter seated them at a discreet corner table.

  Ellie fought to control her embarrassment at realizing that, except for a very elderly woman being assisted into a seat by her son, she was the only female in the room. She buried her gaze in the menu.

  ‘I can recommend the lamb or the steak and kidney pie.’

  Neil Harrington waited while she made up her mind. Ellie decided on the monkfish and he opted for the steak and kidney pie.

  ‘Would you like some wine?’

  He ordered a bottle of Chablis, and Ellie promised herself she would sip her one glass slowly. Over their starters he told her about the law firm where he worked and the kind of clientele Harrington Smith had built up over the years.

  ‘So it’s your firm? You don’t just work there?’

  ‘My grandfather founded it sixty years ago and my father built it up!’

  ‘Family businesses are special,’ she mused aloud. ‘It must be great working alongside your father.’

  ‘My father died eight years ago,’ he said abruptly.

  ‘I’m sorry!’

  ‘He was a good man, respected by everyone. It was a huge loss.’

  Ellie cursed her own insensitivity, realizing that he had pulled back from her and was trying to control himself. She of all people knew what it was like to lose a parent. Without thinking, she reached for his hand. Neil Harrington’s gaze met hers.

  Grey-blue eyes under heavy dark eyelashes. Momentarily her hand lay on top of his, before, embarrassed, she pretended to scramble for her napkin. There was an awkward silence
between them.

  ‘If you want, I will talk you through the documents and then we can have a look at the paperwork.’

  ‘That would be grand.’ She smiled, relieved the tension between them was broken.

  He talked slowly, making sure she understood, as he explained about the wide-ranging plans for the street and where her property came into it.

  She watched as he tucked into the pie and three roast potatoes with gusto, noticing he had no wedding ring on his finger. Maybe he lived alone and needed a bit of sustenance. The fish in its creamy sauce was delicious, especially when washed down with another glass of the perfect Chablis.

  She forced herself to concentrate on what he was saying as he went through how the contract could be structured to be tax-efficient for both parties.

  ‘You will of course have to employ your own legal adviser,’ he said.

  ‘Can’t you do it for me?’

  ‘Conflict of interest,’ he responded.

  ‘I’d like to have you looking after my interest,’ she said aloud, suddenly appalled at herself when she realized he was studying her face as if she had two heads.

  ‘I mean someone like you,’ she mumbled. ‘My mother’s solicitor, Tom Muldoon, must be eighty if he’s a day and I’m not sure he’d be up to all this.’

  Oh God, she was making it worse, she thought, noticing the creases round his eyes as he ate his sticky toffee pudding.

  ‘Did he handle your mother’s will?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘Then perhaps you should go along to see him. Age really doesn’t come into it.’

  That was her put back in her box.

  ‘Perhaps I will.’

  ‘But first, how about we take coffee in the lounge? We can spread out the papers there and I’ll run through a few things with you. Have you a pen? You could make a few notes about what to ask Tom.’

  Sitting in the magnificent red-painted room with its leather couches and comfortable chairs, she felt her head swirling as he began to talk her through paragraphs and clauses. She downed two cups of black coffee in succession in an attempt to sober up quickly so she could focus on his explanations.

  ‘You do understand what I’m saying?’

  She nodded, wishing that, like the little black cat back in her shop, she could just curl up on a cushion and sleep. She forced herself to concentrate and began to scribble notes, hoping that she would be able to make sense of them later.

  A middle-aged man in an immaculate navy blazer and yellow-patterned cravat approached their table.

  ‘Hello, Neil! Good to see you,’ he interrupted. ‘I was hoping we’d run into each other.’

  Neil politely introduced her to Jerome Casey, the proprietor of Casey Coleman Holdings, the developer who was offering to buy her out.

  ‘This is Miss Matthews.’

  She was momentarily taken aback.

  ‘Hope I’m not disturbing anything?’ the newcomer asked.

  For some absurd reason Ellie began to blush, drawing even more attention to herself.

  ‘No, not at all,’ Neil assured him. ‘Ellie and I are discussing business. Miss Matthews is one of the proprietors on South Anne Street to whom we have issued contracts. She has very recently inherited a property there.’

  ‘Well, Miss Matthews, you will see we have made a generous offer for what has become essentially in property terms a bit of a backwater. As you can imagine, the redevelopment costs are enormous.’

  Ellie had no idea what to say and could see that, under his charming veneer and polished appearance, Jerome Casey was a tough businessman, used to getting his own way.

  ‘Neil, once everything is to Miss Matthews’s satisfaction I will leave it in your good hands to conclude negotiations as quickly as possible.’

  Neil said nothing.

  ‘Perhaps when you have finished,’ suggested the older man, taking his leave of them, ‘we could meet in the reading room as there is something I want to discuss with you.’

  Neil cast a glance at his watch as Jerome walked away over the plush carpet.

  Ellie felt guilty, conscious that she had taken up far too much of his time. ‘Neil, listen. We can finish up now. I’ll talk to my mother’s solicitor like you said.’

  ‘I hope that I have been of some help,’ he said, standing up politely as she gathered her handbag and notes. ‘But once your Mr Muldoon has looked over the documents perhaps we could meet again soon to get the contracts signed and finalize the property sale. Casey Coleman Holdings are anxious not to have any further delays on this project.’

  Ellie took a deep breath. It was important that she remember that to someone like Neil Harrington she was nothing more than a little glitch in his tightly arranged business schedule. Something to be smoothed over so as not to upset a client like the mighty Jerome Casey.

  ‘Thank you for the lovely lunch.’

  ‘All part of the service.’ He smiled as he grabbed up his paperwork and briefcase and insisted on walking her to the door.

  ‘I’ll let you know what Tom thinks,’ Ellie said, reminding herself to be as professional as he was.

  ‘Then I look forward to hearing from you, Miss Matthews.’

  Out in the fresh air Ellie took a deep breath, aware of the tall figure in the window still watching her as she turned towards Dawson Street.

  Chapter Four

  Tom Muldoon, the balding seventy-seven-year-old lawyer, had enjoyed a long friendship with Ellie’s mother, and was delighted to be of help to her daughter. He insisted on studying the contract in great detail and reading aloud every line of the legal document for the proposed sale of the shop.

  ‘Everything seems to be in order, Elise,’ he said, polishing his gold-rimmed glasses. ‘There is a pretty standard six-week closing period when you have to remove all stock and clear shop fittings from the premises. The amount they are offering, while not substantial, is very generous, as the shop is not being sold as a going concern but more as a vacant property.’

  ‘Mr Muldoon, what is your advice?’ she asked, honestly.

  ‘This is exactly the question your mother asked me a few months ago,’ he admitted, ‘and I am afraid I will have to give you the same response as I gave Madeleine. If you are happy to sell, see your little hat shop closed down and hand over the keys to these big property people, then do it. I don’t believe you will get a better offer. However, if you want to keep trading and making those beautiful hats of yours that my late wife used to yearn for so much, then you should sit tight. Legally there is nothing they can do. You own the building. They can build their big fancy stores and malls around you while you keep trading, and perhaps some of those new shoppers they attract will find their way to your shop also.’

  She listened carefully to what he was saying, asking him, ‘What did my mother think?’

  ‘Madeleine was unwell and hadn’t the energy to continue,’ he explained. ‘She didn’t want to burden you with the business or force you to stay in Dublin.’

  ‘I do travel overseas a bit with my job,’ Ellie admitted, ‘but Dublin is my home.’

  ‘Madeleine thought that if the proceeds from the sale of the shop were put on deposit, they would give you a very secure income and provision for the future,’ said the old man, staring at her kindly. ‘You know she always had your well-being at heart.’

  ‘I know she did,’ admitted Ellie, ‘but I’m still not sure what to do. My mother loved that shop and I guess I do too.’

  ‘Then take your time,’ he advised. ‘You young people always think you have to rush into everything. Believe me, time is one thing you still have on your side.’

  The elderly solicitor was right. Ellie phoned her boss, John Hyland, a few days later and told him about the shop and asked for a period of unpaid leave of absence.

  ‘Are you sure I can’t tempt you with this buying trip to China in a few weeks?’

  ‘I don’t want to let you down, John,’ she explained reluctantly, ‘but I do need the time.�
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  Ellie decided to clear the shop’s remaining stock, for if she wanted to sell the business the shop needed to be empty and if she decided to keep it she would have to make space for a new hat collection. She placed the last of her mother’s marvellous creations in an enticing window display with pink and yellow tulips she had purchased from the flower seller at the end of the street.

  To untrimmed straws and brims she had added ribbon and flowers and feathers, even edging a boring brown felt with pink ribbon trim. The remaining feathers and flowers had been pulled together in a rather eclectic mix of headpieces in wispy styles that would suit most women. She was pleased with the results and the constant trickle of customers who were happily buying and depleting the remainder.

  ‘Are you selling up?’ they asked. ‘Moving somewhere else?’

  Ellie maintained a sphinx-like smile, not knowing the answer herself.

  Francesca Flaherty and her sisters Louisa and Mimi had just completed a shopping assault on Brown Thomas and a number of exclusive boutiques around the Grafton Street area. They were laden down with bags when they spotted the hat-shop window with its gay display of colours and a ‘Sale’ sign in the window.

  ‘Look at this, Frannie!’ squealed Louisa, a leggy blonde sporting a geometric print jacket and co-ordinating skirt. She pulled open the door and immediately tried on a red felt slouch with a black leather trim.

  Within a few minutes each of the sisters had added to their purchases with a bargain hat and colourful headpieces.

  ‘Would you have anything to go with this?’ asked Francesca, as she eased an exquisite pale pink suit from a Design Centre bag and laid it across the counter.

  Ellie shook her head. ‘No. Nothing that exact shade, and you should try and match it. It deserves something special.’

  ‘Well, what would you suggest then?’

  Before she knew it Ellie found herself chatting about the merits of different styles. The three sisters confided that they were off to the races to support a darling horse called Polly’s Party that Francesca’s horse-mad husband had recently bought.

  ‘She’s a real chestnut cutey with a blaze on her forehead and good form,’ admitted Francesca.