IRISH LOVESTORY - From the Frying Pan into the Fire

 

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From the Frying Pan into the Fire

The restaurant was elegantly dressed, all warm woods and golden light, the sort of place where only Thomastown’s most prosperous seemed to dine. I worked there alongside Sylvia, a young, bright-eyed Pole, and Kate, a petite Irish blonde with a quick wit. All around us bustled Indians—both in the kitchen and on the floor—save for Ahmed, a gruff Pakistani whose presence felt like a cloud in the corner of the room. Everyone else was kind, welcoming.

It was about a week in when he appeared—a young, striking Indian man who moved as though he were a customer rather than staff. I noticed him, but didn’t give him much thought. Another Indian in an Indian restaurant—hardly remarkable. After our shift, Ahmed gathered us.

“Well, girls,” he said in his rough English, grinning broadly, “this is your new boss, so be nice to him.” He clapped the newcomer on the shoulder.

The man looked momentarily uncertain, his smile soft, polite.

“Rather young for a boss, don’t you think?” Kate murmured later, as we huddled in the kitchen over bowls of Tikka Masala.
“True,” Sylvia agreed, “but he seems friendly.”
“Let’s just hope he’s not stricter than Ahmed,” I added.

Soon after, the man stepped into the kitchen and introduced himself to each of us.
“Hi, girls. I’m Surinder—but you can call me Sunny.”

He had eyes like polished mahogany and delicate, almost feminine features. Not at all what one imagines of a restaurant owner. In truth, he was the first Indian man I’d ever found genuinely attractive—my encounters until then had been with the sort whose noses were too large and teeth too uneven to inspire a second glance.

Sunny asked how we liked the job, began to teach us the craft of Indian cooking, and laid out his vision for the restaurant. We reviewed the details again with Ahmed, whose brusque, leering manner only deepened our dislike for him.

The job began to feel lighter. My pay was better, and with the girls we found a rhythm—two on the floor serving guests, one taking phone orders and mixing drinks. It all moved like clockwork. At least at work. At home, trouble was gathering.

One day, Tomáš came to me. “I’m going home,” he said.
“What? Why? I thought you planned to stay, to work on your English, like you told me.”
“That was then. Things are different now. You ended things with me, so I’m leaving. No reason to stay.”
“You don’t have to—maybe we could stay friends.”
“No, Teri. I’ve got a possible job in England. I think I’ll take it.” His voice was flat.
“When?”
“Tomorrow morning. There’s a bus to Dublin.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, though I wasn’t sure if I meant it.

We spoke no more of it. I felt both relief and a faint pang of guilt—though the relief won out.

Later, Věra came bounding in, laughing before she even reached me.
“You won’t believe this—Tomáš asked to use our phone to call his ex. I overheard him—telling her he still loves her, wants to get back together.”

I didn’t react. I simply didn’t care.

The next morning I walked him only to the door. No further. I wished him luck, closed the door behind him, and with that click it was as if the weight of the world slid from my shoulders. No more men, I told myself.

But Dicky, it seemed, had forgotten our arrangement. It had been his idea in the first place, and I’d gone along with it. Now he looked at me differently—thoughts in his eyes I didn’t want to answer. I moved my things into the spare room, kept my heart locked and the key hidden. I knew I was treading on hearts like discarded cigarette ends, but at the time, it barely troubled me. In truth, we were all using each other.

Word reached me later that Dicky had taken it badly. He avoided me, stopped speaking. The loss of our friendship was the only sting. Still, I was on a path I couldn’t yet see clearly—a winding one, leading from the frying pan straight into the fire.

Somehow—though I couldn’t tell you when or how—I drifted into something with Sunny. At first, it was purely physical, a spark I didn’t bother to smother. I stopped caring what anyone might say. My life, my choices.

Věra only shook her head. If she was aging prematurely from the stress of my love life, she never said. For that, I was grateful.

With Sunny, I felt oddly at ease. Indians were different—different in thought, in spirit, in the way they carried themselves. I liked him, perhaps more than I had expected to. He was gentle, gave me space, never tried to confine me, even as we spent more and more time together. We lived simply, from one day to the next, taking whatever pleasures love put in our hands.

But Sunny’s life had its shadows. He told me of a clothing shop he owned in Carlow, and of the man he had trusted to run it—who had stolen from him. He’d poured what was left of his money into Jessie’s. There was also a small bistro he owned on the main street, but its high rent swallowed most of the profit. He flitted between all three businesses, unable to truly hold any of them in check. And then there was his ex-girlfriend, who, he said, used their son to tug at his emotions—a situation that felt eerily familiar to me. Perhaps history did repeat itself.

My position at Jessie’s shifted once word spread that I was the boss’s girlfriend. There was more respect, less running around with scalding plates. Sunny wanted me at the till, taking orders. He trusted me above all others. I never abused that trust. I was also to keep an eye on the staff and report back to him in his absence—a kind of personal lookout.