Free A Taste for Love by Marita Conlon-Mckenna Page A

worked in over in Ballinteer. The kids and their parents loved her, as she would leave no stone unturned in finding out what pupils were good at and the avenues they should explore in their career and studies.
    ‘When did you say you’re finishing up in work?’
    ‘Next Friday.’
    ‘Then what about a girly celebration meal on Saturday night?’
    ‘That sounds great.’
    ‘What about that nice Italian in Dalkey? I’ll check if the others can make it and book a table in Da Vino’s for us.’
    ‘Sounds good to me,’ Alice said. ‘I can take the DART out to Dalkey.’
    When Joy had left Alice returned to the solitary glory of the crossword in The Times , while listening to the evening news.

Chapter Eight
    Lucy stood in the queue for signing on for her social welfare payment … the dole. She hated it. Standing there at the hatch and filling in the forms like she had to do every few weeks. It was embarrassing and soul-destroying, with everyone avoiding eye-contact and hoping that they wouldn’t meet someone they knew or went to school or college with. She was grateful that her line wasn’t too busy.
    It was bad enough at her age being out of work and trying to find a job, but it was the grey-haired middle-aged men she pitied, and the big strong guys in their thirties. They had not only lost jobs in the construction business but in banking and law firms, and had a constant haunted expression in their eyes. They were lumbered with kids and family and mortgages and loans, and she had utterly no idea how they managed on the government payment they received. She found it hard enough to get by. It was awful not having a job, and she was embarrassed by it.
    ‘You’ve been paying tax long enough, Lucy. You are only getting back a fraction of what you’ve paid over the years!’ her dad had reminded her. ‘Remember that.’
    Dad was right. Since she was about sixteen she had always had some sort of job. Realizing that she really wasn’t academic, she had started working at weekends and on Thursday and Friday evenings, when she probably should have been studying. She’d worked in restaurants, bars, pizza places, clothes shops – and then got involved working at most of the major concerts held in the Point and Oxegen and the RDS and Croke Park and Slane. Hail, rain or shine she’d be there, selling programmes and T-shirts and drinks. U2, Bon Jovi, the Foo Fighters, Snow Patrol, Bob Dylan, and even the Red Hot Chili Peppers; she’d seen them all perform live and loved the buzz of the music and crowds. That’s where she’d got to know Jeremy, who would usually be trying to push some new upcoming singer-songwriter or small band, and she was thrilled when he offered her a job in the shop.
    Phoenix Records was just such a cool place she didn’t see how she would ever find anywhere like it to work ever again. Still, beggars can’t be choosers, and at this stage, with a massive overdraft and large credit-card bill, she just had to take whatever job came her way.
    Up at hatch 5 she filled in the form.
    ‘How’s it going, Lucy?’ asked Brian, the guy behind the counter. He was from Tipperary, and being a civil servant had a cushy number, with constant breaks, a guaranteed salary and job security. The social welfare office moved at snail’s pace, with Lucy and the rest of those signing on watching enviously as the staff disappeared for their regulation tea breaks and phone breaks. Still, Brian was a decent enough guy, and used to buy the odd CD from her in Phoenix Records.
    ‘Nothing doing!’ she sighed. ‘Absolutely nothing.’
    ‘Well, check in with the FÁS office and see if they have something.’
    ‘Sure,’ she promised.
    The jobs up on the board across the street in the FÁS employment office were poxy, and most involved having qualifications. Employers expected degrees, or all kinds of computer and specialist knowledge, which she did not have.
    There was one sign up on the revolving stand for an experienced