Free My Mother's Secret by Sheila O'Flanagan Page A

‘So happy it all worked out for you. That you’ve managed it when so many of us didn’t.’
    ‘Thanks. Thanks.’ Jenny was too shocked to care that Sarah seemed to be getting a dig in at her. She looked around at all of them, uncertain if she was supposed to say anything herself and feeling that she should, that perhaps this was the exact right time. But suddenly everyone was laughing and talking and knocking back the sparkling rosé, and she realised that her own throat was dry and that she couldn’t speak at all. She swallowed a large mouthful of wine.
    ‘I know you were meant to be going to Cody’s tonight,’ Roisin told her. ‘But we’ve rebooked it for next week.’
    ‘Oh. OK.’ Jenny nodded.
    ‘And if you’d like to nip up and change, you’ll find your dress and jewellery laid out.’
    ‘Oh,’ said Jenny again. ‘Thank you, darling.’
    ‘No problem.’ Roisin kissed her. ‘Was it really a surprise?’
    ‘Totally.’
    ‘Good.’ Roisin looked pleased. ‘You deserve it.’
    No I don’t, thought Jenny. It’s lovely to think that you believe I do, but … She tried to gather her thoughts. Pascal deserves it, she said to herself. He deserves to be acknowledged. As for me … She released her breath slowly. It didn’t matter, she told herself. It was a shock because she hadn’t expected it; hadn’t even dreamed that they’d do anything like this. But she wasn’t going to get into a flap about it. She’d never been someone who flapped. She always believed everything worked out for the best, and usually, in the end, it did. But she wished they hadn’t done it. She really did.
    She looked in Pascal’s direction. Her husband was laughing with his brothers, his champagne glass already empty. He glanced up and caught her eye. And winked at her.
    He’s a good man, she thought. I’m lucky to have him in my life. Luckier than anyone here will ever know.

Chapter 8
    The words that were used to describe Jenny Marshall in her school reports were usually ‘daydreamer’ and ‘flighty’. According to her teachers, she could be a really good student if she put her mind to it. Unfortunately, most of them said, she preferred doodling in the margins of her copybooks to dealing with the assignments she’d been given. The one class in which she excelled was art, where her paintings were energetic and colourful. Her other skill was calligraphy. Whenever posters were being done for the classroom, it was Jenny who would be entrusted with whatever script went with them, and she always did a great job. It was a pity, her form mistress said, that she didn’t apply herself with as much enthusiasm to subjects like maths and history. Her parents weren’t too perturbed about her reports. After all, they reckoned, Jenny was a pretty girl and they were certain she’d get married and have a family of her own. Education, Kay said, was important. But only up to a point.
    In her third year in secondary school, Jenny had to do a project on a European capital city. Back then, without the internet and Google, gathering information meant a hard slog of trawling through the library, buying magazines and – because she’d chosen Rome as her city – writing to the Italian embassy and the tourist board for information. At first she’d been less than enthusiastic, but by the time she’d completed her project, she’d fallen in love with Rome and its history, and had stuck a poster of the Colosseum that had been sent as part of the tourist board’s information pack on her bedroom wall. She loved looking at the vibrant blue sky and the ancient stone construction as she pictured herself walking around it. The tourist board had also included a picture of a crowded square with attractive women and handsome men drinking coffee at tables beneath parasols. Every time she looked at it, Jenny wanted to be with them. In fact, she wanted to be them. Life in Italy looked a damn sight more colourful and exciting than life in Ireland,