Second Time Around. Erin Kaye

An asset that will deliver customers right to this front door of ours.’

      ‘Right,’ said Ben insolently.

      Alan, who must’ve forgotten about Jennifer, slapped a closed fist into the palm of the other hand. ‘You have to have vision, son!’ he cried, his tanned face suddenly taking on a reddish hue, though it was hard to tell if he was angry or excited, both emotions producing in Alan similar physical manifestations. ‘You can make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear.’

      Suddenly, apparently oblivious to Ben’s ill temper, he chuckled heartily at his cleverness. Then he opened his arms wide and turned in a small slow circle like a contestant on Strictly Come Dancing, the soles of his shoes tap-tapping lightly on the floor. With his eyes closed, he might have been in a trance. ‘I can see it now. Carnegie’s! That’s what we’ll call it and it’ll be the talk of the town.

      ‘People will come from far and wide. Ballymena, Ballymoney, Whitehead and Carrickfergus,’ went on Alan, reciting the local names like a prayer, the vowels hard, tight fists, so that ‘Bally’ became ‘Balla’ and ‘head’ came out as ‘heed’. ‘And from all the towns and villages up the coast as well. It’ll be great, Ricky.’ And he stopped spinning right in front of Ben and, smiling, opened his eyes.

      Ben stared at him in horror. Every once in a while this happened. Ricky’s name would slip unawares from his father’s lips – the name of the child he wished was standing in front of him, not the one who was. Ben swallowed and tried to arrange some other expression on his face, something that would cloak the searing shock like a stage curtain. He pressed the palm of his right hand on his heart and felt its fierce, too-fast beat.

      ‘What’s wrong with you, boy?’ said Alan crossly, the smile fading to be replaced with a frown. ‘Can’t you visualise it?’

      ‘I … I can. But why “Carnegie’s”?’ said Ben, throwing the question to Alan like a bone to a dog, anything to deflect his beady-eyed scrutiny.

      Alan exhaled loudly, his enthusiasm waning, it seemed, in the face of Ben’s lack of it. ‘Didn’t you notice the old Carnegie library across the street?’ he said irritably.

      ‘Ah yes. “Let there be light”,’ said Ben, quoting the motto at the entrance to the first library Andrew Carnegie ever built – in his hometown of Dunfermline, Scotland, in 1883.

      ‘Huh?’ said Alan. The quote was most likely meaningless to him, yet Alan, who’d left school at fifteen, would not seek clarification. Whilst he made a big show of being true to his humble ‘school of life’ roots, he did not like his ignorance exposed. ‘Yes, well,’ he went on, ‘as I was saying, it’s not a library now – some sort of Arts centre or museum. Remind me on Monday to look into giving them a donation. Anyway, Carnegie’s has just the right overtones for our restaurant. Classy, elegant. It has an old-school ring to it.’

      Ben couldn’t disagree with any of this and yet the fact that his father had proposed the name irked. ‘But don’t you think I should have some say in naming the restaurant? Especially if I’m supposed to be running the business.’

      ‘You are, Ben, you are,’ said Alan and he came over and placed a heavy arm across Ben’s shoulders. ‘Now, I know you’re nervous but don’t worry. I know you won’t let me down,’ he said, his words striking fear in Ben’s heart. He removed his arm. ‘Now, if you’ve got a better name for the restaurant, I’d like to hear it.’

      Ben ventured, ‘Crawfords.’

      Alan’s mouth puckered up like he’d just, unsuspectingly, bitten into a lemon. ‘God no, not our own name. It lacks class. And you’re forgetting the chain of bakery shops in East Belfast that go by the same name. Have you got any other ideas?’

      Ben deliberated for a moment, then shook his head. ‘Carnegie’s is a good choice,’ he conceded, wishing he’d thought of it.

      ‘Good.’ Satisfied, Alan darted over to the table once more and pointed at the plan. ‘Now tell me about this. What’s that hatched area at the front of the restaurant?’

      Ben stood beside his father and saw immediately what he meant. ‘That’s the waiting area.’

      ‘Waiting area?’ said Alan, wrinkling up his nose the way he did when he smelled something gone off.

      Jennifer slipped back into the room from the kitchen and, ignoring them both, proceeded to measure the boarded-up front window. Ben said quickly, ‘Well, more of a bar area. Not that there’d be a bar as such, but a relaxing area where people could come in and order a drink while they look at the menu and wait for their table.’

      Alan squinted before speaking, as if he was trying very hard to see merit where there was none. ‘It’d look pretty, son. But you do know what’s wrong with it, don’t you?’

      Ben shook his head. If he knew, would it be on the bloody plan?

      ‘You don’t have room for it in a restaurant this size. You’d lose too many covers giving up this much footage. There’s room for another two tables at least here,’ he said, sketching out his vision with the tip of his finger. ‘And if people want a pre-dinner drink they can have it here, at their table.’ He tapped the paper hard three times with the tip of his index finger as if he was giving it and not Ben a good talking to. Ben, acutely aware of Jennifer’s silent presence as she went about her business, felt the colour rise to his cheeks.

      His father was right of course, as he was in every damn thing. When was he going to give up this charade? Acting like he knew what he was doing when he didn’t; pretending that he loved this job that he loathed.

      ‘Now, you’ll be needing somewhere to live down here,’ went on Alan, who always talked as though he was ticking items off an agenda.

      ‘Yes, I was thinking about that,’ began Ben.

      Alan, impatient as always, interrupted. ‘Well, you don’t need to. It’s all taken care of. I picked up a flat last time I was down here,’ he said, the way someone might comment that they’d picked up a loaf of bread on the way home. Looking very pleased with himself he added, ‘You’ll need to get it furnished but I’m assuming you can organise that yourself.’

      When he saw the look on Ben’s face he added, ‘You’ve enough on your plate just now with splitting your time between The Lemon Tree and this place. I knew you wouldn’t have time to go house-hunting. This way, it’s one less thing for you to worry about.’

      ‘You rented a flat without consulting me?’ said Ben, infuriated but not taken by surprise. Was there anything his father trusted him to do?

      ‘Of course it’s not rented,’ he snorted. ‘Rent is a waste of money. When you’re done with it, we’ll lease it out. Ballyfergus has a strong rental market.’

      ‘I’ll just be off then,’ said Jennifer’s voice and Ben swung round to find her standing by the door with her things in her arms. ‘Can I take the mood board?’

      ‘Yeah, sure.’ Ben went to get it and Jennifer said evenly, and without moving from her position at the door, ‘Goodbye, Mr Crawford. It was interesting meeting you.’

      ‘Yes, goodbye, Mrs Murray. It is missus, isn’t it?’

      ‘Actually no. It’s Ms. Murray’s my maiden name. I’m divorced.’

      Ben, reaching down to grasp the mood board, felt his heart leap. He had to remind himself that, divorced or not, she might yet have a partner.

      By contrast, Alan received this news impassively with a vacant nod, his face utterly still. When it mattered, he knew how to keep his thoughts to himself.

      Jennifer walked out the door Ben held open for her, the mood board wedged under his left arm. Outside, the rain had stopped, leaving great puddles on the tarmac. Wordlessly they walked past Alan’s bright red Porsche, carelessly abandoned across two parking spaces, to her car. She opened the boot and he flung the board in on top of a jumble of wallpaper