Woman to Woman

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Aisling zipped up her skirt and turned to look at herself in the mirror. Three months ago, she wouldn’t have been able to get the grey herringbone skirt over her hips. Now she could slide into it with ease. Two months of Callanetics, lots of brisk walks and no chocolate digestives had worn her once-plump thighs and hips down a dress size.

She couldn’t help feeling smug. When Michael came to pick up the boys tomorrow, she’d go outside and talk to him something she’d avoided doing for ages just to show him how well she looked. Nowadays when he picked up the boys at lunchtime on Saturdays, they ran out the front door with their overnight bags and Aisling never ventured out to say hello. When he brought them home on Sunday evenings before seven, she sat in the sitting room keeping an eye out for his car in order to have the front door open for the twins.

She hadn’t actually seen Michael for at least six weeks.

They’d talked on the phone of course, cool conversations with lots of silences and plenty of ‘anyways’.

Two weeks ago he’d rung on a Thursday night to say he’d have to change his day to see the boys, thus ruining Aisling’s plans to help Jo house-hunt.

“I can’t pick up Phillip and Paul on Saturday because I’m going to London,” he announced.

“I’ll pick them up on Sunday morning instead and bring them out to lunch.”

Aisling was furious, both at the cool way he’d told her the news and the fact that he’d given her only one day’s notice of his change of plan. How dare he assume she wouldn’t have any plans of her own!

Thank you so much,” she hissed, ‘for giving me plenty of notice. Do you have any idea of how this is going to affect the twins, do you,

Michael? No, I suppose you don’t. It’s bad enough that you’ve left us,” she said, determined to put the boot in, ‘but letting them down like this is appalling. How do you expect two ten-year-olds to understand that you can’t see them as usual? They’ll think you’ve dumped them too.”

Aisling knew she was being vicious, full of the bitterness she thought she’d managed to conceal for so long. But she couldn’t help herself. She wanted to hurt Michael and she’d used the twins to do it. In reality, they appeared to be coping with the breakup quite well, something which amazed her.

They seemed confident of Michael’s love and loved visiting him at the weekends, excited at the idea of calling another place home. And since she’d started to get on with her life and no longer broke down crying at the drop of a hat, the happier atmosphere had cheered them all up.

“I’m sorry, Aisling,” Michael said, his voice suddenly hollow and exhausted.

“I’ve only just found out I have to go away.

Letting the boys down is the last thing I want to do.”

Hearing the desolation in his voice, she immediately regretted the way she’d tried to hurt him. It wasn’t as if she couldn’t bring Phillip and Paul out with her and Jo. They’d love the chance to spend time with their auntie Jo, who always brought sweets, told them jokes and let them fiddle around with the windscreen wipers in the front seat of the car the way their mother wouldn’t.

Anyway, Aisling missed them so much when they were gone at the weekend that she knew it would be lovely to have them with her on Saturday for a change. Guilt at her bitchiness overwhelmed her. She’d been a nasty, manipulative bitch on the phone, everything she hated in other people and Michael hadn’t deserved it.

He hadn’t phoned her since then. At least he’d had two weeks to forget what she’d said, she reflected. She wasn’t proud of shrieking that he’d left her feeling less than useless.

Damn him, she’d never meant to let herself down so much.

Now she had the chance to show him how much she’d changed, what she’d achieved. He’d get a bit of a shock to see that his wife wasn’t the same old drudge.

The sight, of Aisling Moran, career woman, would certainly take him by surprise. Not that she was exactly that a career woman, she thought wryly.

Keeping her nose to the grindstone in the employ of Richardson, Reid and Finucane did not exactly qualify her for any Businesswoman of the Year awards. Nor did ignoring barbed and often salacious comments from Leo Murphy, in between doing his typing and answering the phone. But she wasn’t about to tell Michael that. No way.

Let him admire her new figure, her increased selfconfidence and her air of calm. Aisling sighed at herself in the mirror. Who was she kidding? She certainly felt more confident about lots of things, but unfortunately, her confidence wavered when she needed it most. With Leo. Losing nearly three-quarters of a stone had given her more energy and a smidgen of her old self-assurance.

Dealing with all manner of problems with clients and other lawyers’ secretaries had given her a sense of job satisfaction that cleaning the oven never had.

But everything fell to pieces when it came to Leo. Aisling loved the days he was out of the office. She typed up letters, filed documents, made appointments and dealt with clients effortlessly.

She was good at the job, she realised happily, great at organising things and coolly competent when it came to the finer details of office work.

Then she’d hear him bounding up the stairs to her tiny office and she’d feel a queasiness in the pit of her stomach.

“How’s my lovely Mrs. Moran today?” he said sometimes, when he was in a good mood.

“Gimme my appointment book,” he’d snarl when he wasn’t.

If a woman had behaved the way Leo Murphy did, with mood swings verging on the psychiatric, she’d have been called a premenstrual nuisance or a menopausal old cow.

Leo was just moody, Caroline said the day Aisling had ventured to ask if he’d always been so ‘difficult’.

Moody. He should have been locked up, she decided. In fact, he was so nasty when he was in his bad moods, that she had almost preferred him when he was playful, patting her on the shoulder in an overfamiliar way or calling her “Honey’ or “Sweetheart.” Almost.

Wednesday had been the last straw. He’d come back from what was obviously a boozy lunch not for the first time in rare good humour.

“How are you, Aisling?” he said sauntering into her office.

He placed both hands on her desk and leaned over, as though trying to see what was on her computer screen. He was too close for comfort. The smell of brandy on his breath was enough to make Aisling recoil.

“Mr. Reid was looking for you,” she stuttered, the hairs standing up on her arms.

“He can wait,” Leo said in the precise tones of someone who was drunk but determined not to show it.

“So.” he clumsily-pushed her wire in-tray to one side and sat down on the edge of her desk, less than two feet away from her. Aisling slid her chair back furtively, but she was jammed up against the window.

“So,” he repeated, ‘how’s your husband, Aisling? Still gone?”

Had anyone else said something so blatantly rude to her, Aisling would have been furious, maybe even walked out of the room and slammed the door. But Leo Murphy wasn’t anyone. He was her boss.

The phone on her desk leaped to life, its shrill ring breaking Leo’s spell. Aisling grabbed it.

“Leo Murphy’s office,” she said quickly, wondering how she could still speak with her mouth so dry.

“Of course, Caroline.

He’s here now. I’ll tell him Mr. Reid’s waiting for him.”

She didn’t have to say another word. Leo left as quickly as he’d come, leaving her wondering whether she’d just imagined the whole scary scene.

He’d been so normal and businesslike the next day that she’d been able to relax a little, able to think she’d overreacted.

“What would I do without you, Aisling?” He smiled when she brought him a sandwich at lunchtime. She smiled briefly, glad that everything was back to normal.

But the incident still simmered in her mind, looming large in her head when the lights were out and she lay on her own in the big double bed. Should she say something to someone?

To Vivienne? Two months ago, she wouldn’t have dreamed of asking the other woman what time it was, never mind what she should do about Leo.

Yet she’d come to really like Vivienne, to admire her courage and determination. Once Vivienne had realised that Aisling wasn’t some bored housewife toying with the idea of a job and using her contacts to get it, she’d dropped her frosty demeanour. In fact, she’d become a good friend. A single mother to eight-year-old Christine, Vivienne was a veteran of the child minder search and had given Aisling lots of advice on finding the right person to look after the twins.

Maybe she should tell Vivienne about Leo, Aisling mused.

She really wanted to. But she hated to admit to anyone that she didn’t know what to do, that he’d beaten her.

Aisling unzipped her small make-up bag, found her mascara and applied some to her upper eyelashes. She quickly ran her new lipstick over her lips and she was ready. She couldn’t resist turning sideways again to see her reflection in the mirror. Yes, she could feel her hipbones, she thought happily, smoothing her hands over the soft wool of the skirt.

Vivienne caught up with Aisling as she hurried along Fitzwilliam Square. It was ten past nine and they were both late.

“Bloody Leeson Street Bridge,” fumed Vivienne, walking as rapidly as a long, sleek red skirt and spindly high heels would allow.

“Some moron stalled his car and I was stuck for three changes of the lights. That made me so late, I’m parked practically at Baggot Street and today’s the day of the director’s lunch, so I really needed to be in early.”

“I got stuck on the bridge too,” said Aisling.

“I hope Leo isn’t in yet, he’ll go mad if I’m late. But I know he’s

going out about eleven, so if you need any help with the lunch today, call me.”

“You’re a star Vivienne said gratefully.

“I could do with some help because Caroline is on holiday this week and she usually gives me a hand. And we’re using new caterers today, so I need to double check to make sure everything is perfect.”

“Just ring me, I’d love to help.”

Aisling felt slightly comforted by the fact that Vivienne was late. It could happen to anyone. If Leo was already in the office, she’d tell him Vivienne had been stuck in the same traffic jam. Then he’d know she hadn’t simply overslept and was lying about what had delayed her. That was it, she’d tell him about Vivienne and the traffic on Leeson Street Bridge.

Leo was already there when she arrived at twelve minutes past-nine, hair flying as she bounded up the stairs. He always locked his office at night and it was now open, proof that he was at his desk and listening for her.

“Aisling,” he called out, as she put a foot on the staircase to her tiny office.

“Come here.”

Breathing heavily from her sprint from the car to the office and aware that she looked hot and flushed, she went into his office.

“I’m sorry, Leo,” she apologised, ‘the traffic was dreadful and I got stuck on Leeson Street Bridge for five minutes behind …”

“I don’t want excuses,” he snapped, obviously irritated.

“I

want you here before me in the morning. I want coffee on my desk when I arrive and,” he stared at her with distaste, “I want a secretary who looks respectable and not like she’s just run the mini marathon.”

Shocked, Aisling blinked rapidly, feeling her eyes prickle with tears. If he said one more thing, she’d cry. As if she hadn’t cried enough recently.

But Leo had obviously said all he wanted to say and had started reading his newspaper.

Aisling turned on her heel and fled. Once inside her own sanctum, she shut the door and dropped her handbag.

He’s a pig, a pig and I hate him, she howled. I hate him.

How dare he speak to me like I’m some sort of slave. How dare he think he can ask me personal questions, leer at me and then treat me like this. I hate him!

After ten minutes, she felt calm enough to get him a cup of coffee. He was still reading the paper and didn’t even look up when she entered the office. She placed the cup on his desk and left as silently as she’d come in.

Then she took the mug of strong, sweet coffee she’d poured for herself and went to the women’s toilet. She fixed her hair back into a neat pony tail, washed her face and reapplied her make-up. She added a squirt of perfume from the tiny Allure sample she’d got in the chemist’s.

Finished, she took a draught of coffee and looked at herself in the mirror. She stared at her reflection as if she was a stranger seeing her own face for the first time. Dispassionately, impartially.

An attractive woman stared back at her, a woman with recently discovered cheekbones, an oval-shaped face, a strong chin and large, expressive eyes the colour of just-washed denim. It was a strong face, a womanly face. The face of a woman who was a working mother, a survivor, someone who refused to let life knock her down.

She’d done a lot in the past three months, coped with her marriage breaking up, coped with going back to work, even coped with looking after two boisterous boys. She wasn’t going to let some jumped-up bully ruin everything she’d achieved so far, was she? No way, Aisling said aloud. No way.

Watch out Leo Murphy. Don’t try your bullying tactics any more.” She remained in her office all morning, talking several times to Leo on the intercom as she transferred phone calls. He didn’t ask to see her. She was grateful to be left alone.

“I’m going out now. I’ll be back for the lunch at one he said in clipped tones on the intercom at five to eleven. Hope you crash, pig, Aisling said to herself.

He had just left when Vivienne rang. “Can you come down and help, Aisling? I saw Leo go out, so I hoped you’d be free.”

“Sure. I’ll be down in five minutes.”

Vivienne was wrestling with a sash window when Aisling walked into the boardroom.

“Damn thing’s stuck,” wheezed Vivienne, pink-faced with exertion. That painter we had last month glued everything together with paint. I’ll kill him. I just can’t open this window and it’s like an oven in here if you don’t.”

It took both of them to free the window from the painted frame, but once they did the window slid up easily. A welcome cool breeze drifted in along with the noise of cars and motorbike couriers racing over to Leeson Street.

“It’s a lovely room said Aisling, admiring the gilt-framed hunting prints and an imposing mahogany table in the centre of the room, surrounded by twenty high-backed chairs.

Aisling had peered in the door a few times but she’d never been at one of the monthly directors’ meetings where Vivienne took minutes in her perfect Pitman shorthand.

She knew that Caroline usually brought in coffee, tea and biscuits midway through the meetings, and that sometimes the senior partner, Edward Richardson, opened a bottle of vintage port if the company had enjoyed an especially profitable month.

Not that anybody ever got drunk, Vivienne explained.

“Except that time when Tom Reid was taking this flu remedy and he had two glasses of port at the meeting and practically fell asleep.”

Today was going to be different. Richardson, Reid and Finucane were welcoming two new partners to the firm and celebrating the most successful year of business in their thirty-two-year history. So Edward decided to celebrate in style.

They could have taken a room in Le Coq Hardi or any one of Dublin’s posh restaurants, but he preferred to host a private luncheon in the boardroom, a tradition dating back to the early days of the business.

There are eight clients coming,” Vivienne said, looking at a notepad where she’d drawn up a list of things to do. That makes sixteen place settings and I hope they all fit. We’ve never had so many people at a lunch before. I just hope the caterers are up to scratch,” she added fervently.

She’d been responsible for organising these annual lunches for seven years and had used the same caterers every year.

Until this year.

“I can’t believe they’ve gone out of business,” she told Aisling two weeks previously. They were so reliable and the food was always beautiful. I just left it completely up to them.

Lord knows where I’ll get anyone as good.”

Exclusive Dining, picked out of the phone book, sounded perfect. Vivienne had been crossing her fingers for ten days now, praying that everything would go according to plan.

“Is this the right room?” asked a masculine voice. A sulky looking young man in jeans and a fluorescent yellow Tshirt stood at the door with a big cardboard box in his arms.

“Yes,” said Vivienne.

“Put it over there, thank you,” she added, gesturing at a long table which stood at the far end of the room covered with a white tablecloth. He put the box down with an ominous clatter. I hope that’s not the china, thought Aisling with a twinge of unease, or they’ll be eating off cracked plates. Miraculously, nothing appeared to be broken. He took white plates out of the box one by one, banging each one noisily as he stacked them on the table.

“Sabrina is supposed to be coming at half eleven with the food, isn’t she?” Vivienne asked him.

“Sabrina’s sick. Debbie’s doing the food,” he muttered, shoving the empty packing case out of the way under the table.

“I’ll get the rest of the stuff out of the van. There are two more boxes, if you come with me to help.”

“What do you mean, “Sabrina’s sick”?” asked Vivienne anxiously.

“She was fine yesterday. And who’s Debbie, is she a partner or what? I’ve never met her.”

“She works for Sabrina sometimes,” he answered disinterestedly.

Vivienne caught Aisling’s eye and grimaced. “I’ll get the rest of the stuff and you ring Sabrina,” advised Aisling.

“I’m Aisling.” she said to the packer.

“What’s your name?”

“Bob.”

“Right Bob.” she said resolutely.

“Show me the way to the van.”

She and Bob had unpacked all the china, cutlery, wine glasses and napkins when Vivienne returned, her face as white as her blouse.

“Sabrina has a twenty-four-hour bug and she can’t work.

But she says Debbie will be here on the dot of half eleven and she’s very reliable although she hasn’t done many lunches on her own … I have a bad feeling about this,” she whispered to Aisling. You and me both, thought Aisling.

It was nearly a quarter to twelve before Debbie arrived with lunch. Vivienne had carefully arranged place settings and adjusted the four baskets of flowers with uncharacteristic nervousness.

“I hate doing this,” revealed Vivienne.

“Leave me a mountain of documents to organise or get me to type hundred-page contracts, and I’m fine. But organising catering is a complete nightmare. I’ve never been much of a cook. Christine makes better toast than I do and I certainly can’t come up with menus at the drop of a hat. Oh, here she is. Thank God.”

Debbie was energetic, fresh-faced and about nineteen.

“Hello all,” she said brightly, as she walked into the room carrying a large aluminium cold-food container. “I’m Debbie, Sabrina’s standin. Oh, everything look so pretty. The carnations are nice, I love carnations. Grab this for me, Bob?” she

She and Bob blithely carried in the cold and hot food containers, while she chatted away volubly, discussing the traffic, the weather and how she was dying for a coffee.

“Can I smoke in here?” she asked, producing a pack of cigarettes when Vivienne handed her a mug of coffee.

“I’m afraid not,” replied Vivienne.

Debbie shrugged good-humouredly and sat down to drink her coffee. The

fact that she was late wasn’t even mentioned. Aisling wondered whether Debbie had ever catered professionally before.

For all she knew, Debbie could have been a junior Masterchef winner who simply wasn’t into the formalities of catering as a business. Maybe cooking was her forte and she wasn’t interested in making the clients feel relaxed and confident about the meal.

But when she got a look at the dressed salmon, Aisling knew they were in trouble. The fish was the see-through rose colour of undercooked salmon. Food poisoning time, she

It was perfectly arranged, dressed with beautifully cut pieces of lemon and cucumber, and almost definitely half-raw.

She ran an experienced eye over the dressed crab with Dublin Bay prawns. The crab looked cooked but, if the salmon was undercooked, God only knew what condition the prawns were in. Shellfish food poisoning registered about eight on the food poisoning Richter scale, bested only by botulism. They really were in trouble.

Aisling might be nervous about her typing and scared of dealing with her difficult boss, but if there was one thing she was perfectly sure about, it was food.

“Vivienne,” she said.

“We’ve got a problem.”

“What is it?” asked Vivienne, busy positioning the white and red wine goblets in exactly the right places.

There was no point in beating around the bush. The salmon is practically raw, Vivienne,” Aisling said as gently as she could.

“Debbie hasn’t cooked the fish properly. It’s definitely still raw. And I don’t like the look of the prawns either.

We’ll give everyone food poisoning.”

“Oh my God,” said the other woman in horror.

“You’re not serious. What can we do, it’s twelve now, they’ll be here in forty-five minutes. Debbie.” she shrieked.

“Yes?”

“The food is raw!”

“Don’t be silly, it couldn’t be. I mean, I did my best,” began Debbie defensively.

Aisling bent down and tasted the coleslaw. It was faintly bitter, definitely off.

“We’re in big trouble, girls. This is off too. When did you do all this, Debbie? Coleslaw wouldn’t go off that quickly.”

Debbie’s face was shocked, but Vivienne’s was worse. They both looked as if they were going to cry.

“I swear I did the salmon the way the book said,” wailed Debbie.

“I let the water boil and turned it off… honestly.”

“Did you leave the fish in the fish kettle until it cooled?”

asked Aisling.

“No. Was I supposed to?”

“That’s part of the cooking, Debbie. What happened to the coleslaw?”

“I don’t know. I’m a pastry chef really. I’ve never taken on this big a job myself. I’m so sorry.” She looked horrified. But then so did Vivienne. For once, the cool and calm senior secretary was totally at a loss.

“Look,” Aisling took a quick glance at Vivienne’s face and decided to take charge, ‘what cooking equipment have you got here?”

“We’ve got a microwave in the van … I’m so sorry Debbie repeated miserably.

“I did my best Aisling calmed her down.

“Look, Debbie, we don’t have time to start blaming anyone. We’ve got to come up with something else fairly rapidly. Bring the microwave into the canteen. That way, we’ve got two microwaves which we can use to heat the salmon up. It’s the only way we can use it. We don’t have enough time to recook it and cool it and we better have a proper first course if we don’t have the buffet any more. OK, let me think.” Aisling stood back and looked at the food Debbie and Bob had brought up. There were plenty of salads, along with a cooked ham, a huge bowl of mixed lettuce and a cheese board.

Vivienne sat down on a chair and rubbed her temples shakily.

“I can’t believe this is happening,” she said.

“I just can’t believe it. Today is so important to Edward and I can’t let him down.”

The difference between the two secretaries’ relationships with their bosses was amazing, thought Aisling briefly.

Vivienne didn’t want things to go wrong because she’d be letting Edward down. If Aisling had arranged a lunch for Leo and it had gone wrong, she’d have been terrified that he’d kill her, never mind not wanting to upset him.

“Don’t worry, Vivienne,” she said calmly.

“I’ve an idea. Bob, get the microwave and any pots you have from the van.

Vivienne, you go with Bob to Quinnsworth in Baggot Street he can double-park while you shop. I want you to get a pound of beef tomatoes,” she instructed.

“Debbie, do you have any herbs with you?”

“Er, yes,” answered Debbie.

“I need oregano, basil, thyme, parsley and olive oil. Oh yes, we need to make a vinaigrette. Have you got the ingredients for that?”

“Yes. I’ll get everything I have.”

“Put it in the canteen, it’s downstairs, Vivienne will show you. Right Vivienne, get the tomatoes, three or four French sticks, potatoes and, let’s see, courgettes. Debbie and I will divide the cooked ham into starters with salad and when you get back we’ll cook the potatoes and salmon. We better forget about the prawns.” She reached out and patted Vivienne’s arm.

“It’ll be fine, don’t worry.”

Vivienne ran to her office to get money from petty cash.

Aisling carefully transferred the food to the basement canteen. A tiny white-tiled room with a table and four plastic chairs, a microwave, a kettle, a fridge and a grill that looked about twenty years old, it was totally unsuitable for cooking and serving a meal for sixteen people. It would have to do.

She slipped one of Debbie’s white aprons over her clothes and washed her hands carefully, her mind on the best way to turn a disastrous buffet into a top-class lunch. It was seven minutes past twelve and lunch was supposed to be ready at one. But she felt remarkably calm and focused.

She cut the salmon into large chunks which she put into one of the

large serving dishes Bob had just carried in. Debbie arrived panting, with a box of herbs, oil, butter and cooking equipment.

“We’ll use the ham, the potato and the pasta salads and make individual starters Aisling explained, breaking open a garlic bulb and expertly peeling and crushing several cloves with an old bread knife she’d found in a drawer.

Debbie handed her a sharp Sabatier knife from her box.

Thanks.” said Aisling, never taking her eyes off what she was doing.

“Keep it very simple, all right she added, assembling a speedy vinaigrette as she talked.

“Just drizzle a little vinaigrette on each plate, place the radicchio in the centre, a little of the cooked salads on the left and the ham on the right.”

Delighted that someone else had taken charge, Debbie started arranging the plates immediately. They were nearly finished ten minutes later when Vivienne and Bob arrived back with the shopping.

“You were quick said Aisling astonished.

“Necessity is the mother of invention answered Vivienne.

“I

skipped the queue by begging everyone in front of me on the express checkout to let me go first. I said I was going to be fired if I didn’t get back to the office on time and it worked!”

Debbie blanched at the mention of the word ‘fired’.

“OK, Bob and Vivienne, you peel the potatoes ordered Aisling.

“Then wash them and cube them into very small cubes. We need them to cook very rapidly. Debbie, you prepare the courgettes. We’ll just cook them in the microwave and serve them with a little butter and black pepper.”

“What are we making?” asked Vivienne as she carefully rolled up the sleeves of her blouse.

“Salmon with tomato and fresh herb salsa and courgettes and mashed potatoes. Because men love mashed potatoes and it’s the quickest way to cook them with two microwaves.” By one o’clock, all the guests had arrived and the boardroom was full. The salmon and mashed potatoes were being kept hot in Debbie’s portable ovens.

Vivienne dispensed drinks while Debbie carried the starters up from the canteen and left them on the long white-covered table.

“Make up a couple of starters with just salad, Debbie instructed Aisling when the other girl returned to the canteen.

“Just in case there’s someone who doesn’t want to eat the cold ham.”

“What will we do if there is someone who doesn’t eat fish?”

asked Debbie. They won’t be able to eat the main course.”

“Oh no, I never thought,” Aisling paled.

“I’ll do the salad.

Get Vivienne to check if everyone will eat the fish. We’ll have to give them a cold plate or maybe I can make them an omelette. You do have eggs, don’t you?”

They’re all eating the ham,” said Vivienne with a relieved sigh when she walked into the canteen ten minutes later, ‘and everyone wants the salmon. I managed to tell Edward what had happened and he says well done to you. And sent down this.” She produced a bottle of red wine and two glasses.

“I need this,” she added, filling one glass for Aisling and another for

“I don’t believe in drinking at lunchtime but today is definitely an exception.”

When the last of the main courses had gone upstairs, Aisling relaxed.

They love it,” Vivienne said, when she came back down from the boardroom.

“What a relief. I never want to go through that ever again. I’m wrecked.” She slipped off her impossibly high shoes and sank down into a chair.

“You were amazing, Aisling. You really saved the day. And you were so unflappable.”

“Cooking calms me,” Aisling replied, putting Debbie’s olive oil back in the box along with the herbs and butter.

“It’s one of my favourite occupations and one of the things I’m best at.

Unfortunately,” she added drily, “I spent more time over the last five years worrying about making a perfect souffle than worrying about the state of my marriage. And I spent much too much time eating the products of my cookery classes. My answer to everything was to bury

myself at home and learn how to make flaky pastry and cream horns and then eat them!” She laughed.

“Well, you’re certainly not eating them now commented Vivienne.

“You look great. You’ve lost so much weight.” Aisling flushed with pleasure at the compliment. Both Jo and Fiona had said the same thing yet she still didn’t know how to take flattery. In her mind she was still an overweight, dull housewife waiting for twelve o’clock to chime and her carriage to turn into a pumpkin.

“Have you been dieting?” asked Vivienne.

“Not really. I don’t have the time to cook stuff like I used to any more but I have been making a big effort to eat properly.

Working certainly helps,” she added.

“It’s easier to keep off the biscuits when you’re not staring at the fridge all day long.

Breaking up with Michael has done wonders for my figure.

Maybe if I’d copped on earlier that he was bored with me and changed somehow, he wouldn’t have left.”

Vivienne leaned over and poured Aisling another glass of wine.

“Well, I don’t think it’s ever that simple,” she said gently.

“I’ve never been married, but my relationship with Christine’s father was a long-term thing, so I know all about letting relationships go stale. You can’t say it was your fault things didn’t work out any more than you can say it’s the man’s fault. It doesn’t work like that. People change so much, that’s what happens. Nobody ever tells you that in romantic novels, do they?

“Christine’s father didn’t want the same things I wanted,” she revealed.

“He wanted to remain single and fancy-free, which was OK by me before I got pregnant. But afterwards, I wanted to settle down, I wanted security. He didn’t.”

She shrugged.

“We drifted apart and it wasn’t really my fault or his fault. Was that what happened with you?”

“I suppose so,” admitted Aisling.

“We both changed. I couldn’t see that in the beginning. I blamed Michael for everything from global warming to cellulite, but I can see

what happened now, thank God. I went one way and Michael went another. I’d stopped thinking of him in the same way, I suppose she

“He wasn’t so much my husband as the father of the twins, and breadwinner. I cut myself off from his world and he did the same to me. I notice it now because his being there isn’t much different to his not being there. Apart from late-night conversations about what the boys did and what type of dinner was overheated to a crisp in the!

oven because he was late home, we didn’t talk at all. Wow,” said Aisling, ‘this is a very intense conversation. Are you sure you didn’t put something in this wine, a bit of truth serum?” Vivienne laughed. Trauma makes you want to unburden yourself or at least that’s what it says in Caroline’s latest psychology book.”

“Caroline likes psychology books?” said Aisling.

“I can’t imagine it.”

“She loves them. She’s been doing a nighttime accountancy course for the last two years and she says she’d never have dreamed of doing it without her books. She says they’ve given her the encouragement her upbringing never gave her.”

They finished off the bottle of wine, leaving a flustered Debbie to serve dessert, a raspberry roulade with cream.

“If there’s any left over, bring it back ordered Vivienne, buttering a piece of French bread.

“It looks yummy and we’re ravenous.”

Aisling was beginning to feel distinctly tipsy. She hadn’t actually eaten any lunch and the wine, a particularly potent Rioja, had gone straight to her head.

“Eat.” advised Vivienne, making an enormous French bread sandwich with some ham and potato salad, ‘or we’ll be plastered.”

She cut the sandwich in half without too much of the filling squelching out and handed one piece to Aisling.

“Was it very difficult bringing up Christine on your own?”

ventured Aisling.

“It’s just that I’ve a friend who is pregnant and her boyfriend has left her. I wonder how hard it will be for her.”

“God help her. It’s very hard said Vivienne through a mouthful of crumbs, ‘if it’s anything like my experience. I mean, I adore Christine, she’s everything in the world to me, but there have been some difficult times. It’s hard being alone, but you know that. You’re responsible for everything, nobody else. And it can be lonely, too.”

“I know. You miss adult conversations,” said Aisling reflectively.

“It’s not even that,” Vivienne added.

“Your social life just disintegrates when you’re a single parent, that’s what I’ve found, anyway. Nobody invites a single woman to parties because the women are all terrified you’re going to run off with their husbands.” She chuckled as though remembering something.

“And the husbands all think you’re dying for it and chat you up madly!”

Aisling said nothing. Did Leo think she was dying for it?

Probably.

“You lose all the friends who are couples,” Vivienne continued, ‘and end up hanging out with your single friends. Most of whom don’t have kids and can’t understand why you can’t stay out all night or have to stay sober to drive the babysitters home. Am I making this single parenthood thing sound too attractive for you?” she inquired with a large grin.

“Fantastic. How do you ever get time to work with such a hectic social life?” Aisling asked.

“Oh, you know, I fit a few hours in every week between visiting Leeson Street, picking up bored married men and trawling through singles pubs looking for Mr. Might-Possibly-be-Mr-Right.”

Vivienne took a big slug of wine. That probably sounds very bitter,” she said quietly.

“Has it been that tough?” Aisling asked gently.

“Yes and no. I’d love to have someone in my life but it’s so hard to meet someone who wants a single mother. It’s so hard to meet someone full stop. I’m thirty-four and the men my age are all married. Or have no intention of settling down,” she added.

“Sorry, this isn’t what you need to hear, Aisling. I’ve been having a

miserable week because Christine has the flu. I’ve got the most dreadful PMT and the video conked out on Wednesday evening when we were watching 101 Dalmatians.

Lord knows how much it will cost to fix, or if it’s even worth fixing.”

“Ladies, you’ve been asked to join the party upstairs seeing as how you saved the day said a loud voice.

Pat Finucane stood at the door of the canteen.

“I’ve been telling everyone about your amazing culinary skills, Aisling, and how you managed to transform a disaster into a wonderful meal. They nearly licked their plates, you know. Those mashed potatoes were delicious.”

Aisling and Vivienne laughed at the same time.

“What did I say?” asked Pat.

“Aisling maintains that men love mashed potatoes and she’s obviously right explained Vivienne. She slid her shoes back on and winked at

“You must come over to my house for dinner some night next week and we’ll continue our moan, right?”

“I’d love to said Aisling warmly. Maybe that would be just the right occasion to talk to Vivienne about Leo.

“It’ll be spaghetti or something equally simple added Vivienne quickly.

“Or I could always ask Debbie to rustle up some fish …”

“Well done Edward Richardson stood up and clapped when Aisling arrived at the boardroom door. The guests looked totally relaxed, with pink faces and loosened ties evidence that the wine was going down a treat.

“Gentlemen, I give you the estimable Aisling Moran.” He smiled, his pale blue tie still knotted in a perfect Windsor knot.

“When you open your own restaurant, my dear, I want to eat there every night. And you could teach my darling daughter to cook while you’re at it!”

“Do you do dinner parties?” asked one man, as Pat offered Aisling a glass of wine.

“Well,” Aisling said slowly, “I’ve never cooked for anyone but myself and my family …”

“It’s just that my wife hates cooking and she’d jump at the chance to have someone like you come in and rustle up a dinner party the man insisted.

“It’s a great idea, Jim,” said Pat seriously.

“You’d be wonderful at it, Aisling.”

“Absolutely.” agreed Vivienne, accepting a glass of champagne.

“You never panicked once.”

“You could certainly cook for my parties added Tom Reid, Caroline’s boss.

“It really would be a marvelous business venture said Edward encouragingly.

“Your talent and my tasting skills. You’d cook and I’d test everything!”

They all laughed.

“A toast said Edward, raising his glass, ‘to Richardson, Reid and Finucane, to our new partners he smiled at the two new lawyers, ‘to our continued business success and, to Aisling, who made our lunch wonderful. Cheers.”

“I’m serious about that said Jim. He grabbed Aisling’s arm as she and Vivienne left. “I’m Jim Coughlan and I’d love you to cook for us. My wife, Rachel”, has just set up a small public relations business and she plans to do a lot of entertaining in the future. Can I tell her she can call you?”

Startled and flattered, Aisling thought for a moment.

“Sure.” she said finally.

“But I could only cook after office hours. I couldn’t compromise working here.”

“No problem. Here’s my number.” He handed her a cream and black embossed business card.

“I’ll get Rachel to ring you here and you can call back when it’s convenient.”

The men were still chatting around the boardroom table at half four, all notions of work abandoned.

“I just want to go home and lie down sighed Vivienne, pouring a mug of coffee for herself and Aisling in her office. “Mhe too. But I’ve got to send out two letters by courier this evening. All they need is Leo’s signature, but I doubt if I’ll be able to get him out of the boardroom.”

“I’ve got to ask Edward something Vivienne said, ‘so I’ll mention the letters to Leo.”

Aisling brought her coffee upstairs, wishing it was half five and she could go home. She was tired and the idea of a hot bath was very appealing. Yet she felt elated by the way she’d coped today, flattered by what everyone had said.

She printed out the letters Leo was to sign. She’d love to cater for dinner parties. But it’ would be a big thing to take on. Where would she start? And how could she do it all on her own?

“Very tasty, Mrs. Moran,” said Leo’s deep voice behind her.

Aisling whirled around in surprise. He was standing in the doorway grinning at her. Leering, actually.

“The food was tasty as well he chuckled, delighted with his little joke. Aisling could feel the anger she’d been hiding simmer up inside her. Steady, don’t do anything, she cautioned herself. He’s just drunk, he’s harmless. Don’t say anything you’d regret, Aisling, just because you’ve had a few glasses of wine. You need this job, remember.

“I wanted you to sign these,” she said as calmly as she could, holding out the letters. He didn’t move. She walked towards him and handed him the two sheets of paper.

Thanks, Aisling.” He took the letters, keeping his eyes on her. She leaned over her desk and picked up a pen from the other side. As she did so, he slid one arm around her waist and let it move quickly down to brush her behind.

Enraged, she swung around and screamed at him.

“How dare you touch me, you pig! How dare you!”

“Don’t give me that rubbish he snarled.

“You know you want it. Don’t be all coy.”

He stepped towards her again, a half-grin on his face. He was going to grab her, to touch her, she just knew it. And she knew that she’d had enough.

When her right hand connected with his jaw it made a satisfying noise.

“Listen, you pervert, you can stick your job Aisling yelled.

“I’ve had enough of your comments, your salacious remarks and your appalling behaviour. You’re an asshole, Leo Murphy, and I’m leaving!”

With that, she grabbed her handbag from behind her desk and ran out the

door. “I can’t believe I did that!” Aisling said at half eight that night when Jo called round.

“I was totally furious at the time, a mixture of red wine and release at having stopped that chauvinistic pig. But now …” She broke off, rubbing the bridge of her nose to relieve the throbbing headache which was threatening to explode in her head.

“Aisling!” said Jo angrily.

“Don’t you dare feel sorry for what you did. I can’t believe that bastard.. I only wish you’d said something to me and I would have told you exactly what to do a lot sooner. Who the hell does he think he is? That’s sexual harassment and it’s illegal. He can’t get away with this, he can’t! The Employment Equality Agency will tell us exactly what to do and believe you me, he’ll rue the day he ever abused his position!”

That’s all very well, Jo,” sighed Aisling, ‘but I still need a job right now. Anyway, who the hell is going to believe my side of the story?” she demanded.

“Leo is a lawyer, after all. He spends his life dealing with the law. By the time he’s finished with me, my name will be mud. I’ll have been “asking for it” or something.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” snapped Jo.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean it that way. I’m just so angry that you never told me about it. I could have told you what he was doing was wrong, that you don’t have to suffer that sort of crap.”

“I know,” Aisling said miserably, “I know I should have done something sooner. It was all so strange and difficult. Getting a job in the first place seemed such a huge thing, I just didn’t know how to handle myself, or him,” she added despondently.

“I was so pleased with myself when I hit him, but that wore off. All I’ve been thinking about since is why I did do it.”

“You should have done it weeks ago,” Jo pointed out.

“Look, Ash, ring Pat Finucane and tell him what happened. Ask him what he thinks. I could be wrong, but I doubt if he’ll let this end here.”

“I can’t drag Pat into this,” exclaimed Aisling.

“He’s in it. He is a senior partner in a firm where one of his Wendy houses. She looked at the next prospectus, a small, whitewashed cottage in Dalkey which looked beautiful in the estate agent’s photo. But she hadn’t actually seen it yet and the descriptions, written in eloquent estate agent language, did not always match up with the actual premises once you got there.

On Monday, she’d seen one ‘bijou des res with one rec, three beds, one bthrm, ofch and Ige grdn. Nds sin modernisation,” and found a poky little house with zero charm, damp walls, three mouldy bedrooms that could have been used for a drug den and a wasteland out the back that looked suitable for botanic experiments into rampant weed growth.

“It needs some work admitted the weary-looking estate agent when he noticed Jo pulling her skirt close around her legs so it wouldn’t brush against anything particularly virulent in the kitchen.

“If I was married to the person who ran Rentokil, and owned a builders’ providers, I might consider it,” she replied. Then, sorry she’d sounded so sharp, she added, “I need something that doesn’t need too much work because I’m having a baby.”

After a lengthy conversation about first babies Colm, the estate agent, had two and the second was only nine months and had never slept longer than four hours in his life Jo drove off to see a ten-year-old mews house which didn’t mention anything about modernisation in the prospectus.

As beautiful as the last place had been awful, Jo fell utterly in love with it and was disappointed to find out that someone had put in a successful bid for it that morning. Too depressed to even complain to the estate agent who could have rung up and told her not to bother coming, Jo flounced out to her car and drove home crossly. Two Twix bars sort of comforted her at home that evening while she watched The Bill.

After Monday’s disasters, she decided to give house-hunting a miss on Tuesday evening. Instead, she’d gone to a reception for the launch of a new variety of eyeshadow and had eaten far too many vol-au-vents while watching four stick-thin models covered in body paint sashay

elegantly around the room, leaving the waiters slack-jawed with amazement.

“They must be anorexic muttered Rhona, lighting another cigarette so she wouldn’t break her diet and succumb to the lure of the Chinese sesame prawn toasts displayed invitingly on a nearby table.

“You’d be amazed at how many models eat like horses,” remarked Yvonne, the equally stick-thin fashion editor of a rival magazine.

Rhona raised one eyebrow sceptically

“Yvonne, I’ve been on two press trips with you and I know that you think having more than half a grapefruit and one slice of toast for breakfast is sheer gluttony. You can hardly talk.”

Jo took a sneaky look at Yvonne’s pert little behind encased in body-skimmiing lycra and swiped another two vol-au-vents from a passing waiter.

“I do love vol-au-vents,” added Rhona, inhaling deeply, ‘but they’re so fattening.”

Jo swallowed quickly and took a deep draught of orange juice.

“Goodies, girls.” Nikki appeared in front of the three of them waving elegant gold carrier bags.

Driving home, Jo examined the eyeshadow quartet, lipstick and nail varnish that the make-up company had given everyone who’d attended the launch. The lipstick would make her look like Morticia out of The Addams Family. She should have gone house-hunting, she reminded herself, but she’d needed cheering up and an evening with Rhona was the perfect antidote for misery.

The next day she skipped lunch well, eating a McDonald’s in the car was practically skipping lunch and went to see a Sixties bungalow in Dun Laoghaire. Jo had felt suddenly tearful when she was elbowed painfully in the back by a tall blonde on the way to the tiny avocado-green bathroom. She hated bloody avocado green anyway. It was so Seventies. She’d been too busy at work on Thursday and Friday to do any house-hunting but today she planned to spend the afternoon viewing properties.

She’d got a list of three houses to visit and that would probably take most of the afternoon. And she needed to go grocery shopping because she was nearly out of tuna. Her current pregnancy fetish was for tuna and peanut butter sandwiches.

Shuffling through the property supplements, Jo came across one advert that fascinated her. It wasn’t so much the description of the house in the Dublin mountains that did it.

In fact, Number two Redwood Lane definitely sounded the worst out of all the properties she’d considered, especially when you read between the lines and realised that solid fuel heating probably meant dragging in turf for the fire. More worrying was the fact that there was no mention of a bathroom at all.

The words ‘in need of enthusiastic restoration’ would have put off all but the most dimwitted DIY fanatic and, since Jo’s entire tool collection consisted of an oddly shaped 99p screwdriver with three different ends for different types of screw, it didn’t make any sense for her to even look at the house.

But she didn’t feel very sensible just then. Jo didn’t know why, but the house fascinated her, more for the description of the view than for anything else.

“Set in a scenic spot in the Dublin mountains, the property is bordered by sycamore and beech trees and overlooks farmland. With a superb view of Dublin Bay, it has to be seen.”

Don’t be silly, she told herself as she pulled on the red brushed-cotton tracksuit bottoms she seemed to live in these days. What in the hell would you want with a dilapidated old house halfway up the mountains when you don’t have a clue how to do any of the renovation work yourself, probably couldn’t afford it anyway, and are expecting a baby in four months?

It was no use. She put on the matching red baggy sweatshirt and brushed her still damp hair, a picture of a lovely cottage bathed in

golden evening sun in her mind. A cosy kitchen, its window seat filled with plump gingham cushions, where you could sit to look out at Dublin spread below in a vast valley. A pretty cottage garden with lavender and rosemary growing fragrantly outside the kitchen door ..

And a brass bed in a bedroom decorated with a pretty Victorian wallpaper, a pine wardrobe well, maybe two pine wardrobes and a dressing table with a bowl of coral pink roses on top, roses from her own garden … She could see it all.

Jo parked the Golf neatly outside the office, wondering what Mark’s Porsche was doing there on a Saturday morning at half twelve. She’d dropped by the Style offices to pick up some papers she’d forgotten to bring home the previous evening.

On Monday morning at ten, she was interviewing a TV fashion stylist about how to pick clothes for people to wear in various programmes and series. The RTE press office had faxed in a list of programmes the stylist had worked on and, while Jo knew she’d be able to talk to the stylist without this background information, she still preferred to have a person’s accomplishments fresh in her mind before interviewing

She’d never forgotten one of her first interviews when she’d been so badly prepared that she’d innocently asked an actress what it was like working with a theatre director rumoured to be very bad-tempered.

“It’s not so bad working with him since he’s my husband?.”

snapped the actress before storming off.

Jo unlocked the front door of the Georgian building that the magazine shared with another business and went up the two flights of stairs to the Style office.

The cream panelled door was open and Jo went in, expecting to see Mark in the conference room on the phone.

He was, however, sitting at Brenda’s desk, flicking through the dummy for the October edition of the magazine, one shoulder jamming Brenda’s phone up against his ear.

“Hello, Jo, I didn’t think I’d see anyone in here today,” he said warmly.

“I forgot some papers for an interview on Monday she replied, hurrying over to her desk and cursing herself for being found wearing a tracksuit and ancient runners. She hadn’t a scrap of make-up on except a bit of pale lipstick and her face was probably shiny with moisturiser.

“Who are you interviewing?” he asked. Jo was about to tell him when he spoke into the phone.

“Hello, Tim. No, that’s OK. I wasn’t holding for long.”

While he talked, Jo rooted around among the various press releases, magazines and colour transparencies on her desk and found the shiny, coiled-up fax paper.

Sliding the pages into her handbag, she walked past Mark, waving silently as she made for the door.

“Hold on, Tim,” he said suddenly.

“Don’t go yet, Jo, will you?

I’ll only be on the phone for a few minutes.”

There was nothing she could do but wait. Well, she may as well take the weight off her feet. She returned to her desk and decided to phone Aisling again. Nobody had answered when she rang earlier that morning and Jo was worried about her after her horrific experience at the hands of that bastard of a lawyer. Jo could think of a few things she’d like to do to Mr. Murphy and none of them would be legal. What a pig. The phone kept ringing in the Morans’. Nobody answered. Of course, the boys have Saturday morning soccer and Aisling is probably picking them up, Jo remembered. She’d try again later.

Mark was still on the phone.

She didn’t want to sit there waiting for him to come off the phone, so she tried to look engrossed in her diary and wondered what he wanted. It was nearly two months since they’d returned from New York and in the intervening time he’d been courteous, charming and kind to her.

He’d taken her outburst about being pregnant in his stride, hugging her in a brotherly fashion when she’d broken down in Bloomingdale’s. He’d brought her to a nearby coffee shop, ordered steaming hot chocolate for

her and held her hand until she stopped crying. At no point had he pushed her for information. He listened calmly and intently while she mumbled about the baby and how Richard had left her.

“I’m glad you told me, Jo.” he said later that evening, when she met him in the hotel lobby feeling mortally embarrassed for her earlier behaviour.

“If you need any help, you can count on me. We’re like a big family in Style and I want you to know that I’ll do anything I can to help,” he emphasised.

They had dinner in the hotel that night and Jo wondered if she’d imagined the charged atmosphere between them during the previous days. Now, he treated her like a favourite sister who’d just been ill, asked her was she too hot, too cold, did she want more water or would she like some orange juice. For all his bachelorhood, Mark obviously knew a lot about pregnancy because he scanned the menu like an experienced dad, vetoing anything with soft cheeses, pate or alcohol in it.

“You can’t be too careful he said, ordering mineral water for them both because he said it would do him good to abstain from wine during dinner.

Jo found this brotherly concern comforting and unflattering at the same time. It was lovely to be pampered and she felt sure that, had Mark been the baby’s dad, he’d have ordered her to lie down and put her feet up as soon as he heard she was pregnant.

But it was a little disconcerting to be transformed from sexy colleague into sexless mum-to-be.

Just because I’m having a baby doesn’t mean I’m not a sexual human being, she wanted to say. I’m not a one-dimensional creature who’s desirable until she gets pregnant and then becomes every man’s mother sexless. Of course, she didn’t say any such thing. Mark might be disgusted to find that she was even thinking about fancying him when she was pregnant with Richard’s child.

For the past two months, every time he rang the office, he asked to be put through to Jo and asked her how she was feeling, how the baby was doing, and to tell her that if she needed time off, to take it.

“You’ve got to look after yourself he said, almost paternally.

She didn’t know if he did this because he thought nobody else in the office knew she was pregnant and boyfriend-less, and therefore wanted to be discreet. Or if he thought he should ask about her health because she was an employee and he was merely following some sort of management protocol. But she was getting used to those conversations and found him much easier to talk to on the phone than she did in real life.

He made her chuckle and displayed a surprising knowledge of what really went on in the office by asking whether Brenda was actually working or ringing her current amour, when Brenda was sitting opposite Jo at the time and obviously listening in on the conversation with interest.

In person, however, Jo found herself avoiding Mark. She felt embarrassed by the way she’d flirted with him in New York.

At least she hadn’t thrown herself at him, that was her one consolation.

She was still lost in contemplating their changed relationship when he put down the phone.

“How are you today, Jo?” he asked.

“Is the baby still trying to kick his way out?”

She laughed, because that was exactly what it had felt like over the past few weeks. At first, she’d felt tiny movements inside her, something that left her thrilled and utterly amazed.

Now, the baby was getting quite energetic and was kicking around like an embryonic Cantona.

“She is very active,” she corrected him with a grin. Although she didn’t want to know what sex the baby was, Jo felt it in her bones that she was carrying a little girl.

“A female soccer player, then,” he grinned, coming over to stand beside her with his hands in the pockets of the jeans he wore with a casual navy cotton shirt.

“Does she kick all the time?”

“No. But she moves around a lot except when she’s sleeping.”

Jo stroked her bump lovingly and was disconcerted to look up and find Mark looking at her intently, his grey eyes tender and affectionate.

“I’d love to feel her kick he said hesitantly.

“Would you mind…”

“No.” replied Jo, astonished.

He placed one large hand gently on her bump, strong fingers spread sensitively as he tried to feel the baby’s movements. They stayed like that for a few minutes and Jo wondered what this curious tableau would look like if any other member of staff happened to arrive unexpectedly.

She could smell Mark’s aftershave, a spicy lemon scent she always associated with him. She could recognise most perfumes and aftershaves if she’d smelled them before, but she wasn’t sure what type of aftershave Mark used. Maybe it was because the scent mingled with his own particular smell, a mix of just-washed hair, shaving gel, fabric conditioner from his shirt and the warm smell of healthy male.

She felt a sudden dart in her belly as the baby moved to the left, sending gentle ripples around her womb.

“I felt it! Did you feel it?” Mark said in awe.

“Stupid of me, of course you felt it. Wasn’t it wonderful?”

As if delighted with this new audience, the baby wriggled again. Mark’s face was a picture, Jo thought. His eyes were alight with amazement at feeling the baby move inside her.

“It’s wonderful, a miracle he said finally, slowly moving his hand away from her.

Jo smiled back at him, embarrassment and uncomfortable scenes forgotten.

“You really are blooming Mark said, eyes taking in her flushed cheeks, glossy hair and the sparkle in her dark eyes.

Tell me, Mum-to-Be, do you fancy a spot of lunch or are you doing something this afternoon?”

“Actually, I’m going house-hunting today she said, ‘but I can’t call around anywhere until at least half two. I was going to go swimming in Stillorgan and then head out to Killiney to see the first place.”

“Why don’t you go swimming and then let me bring you for a quick lunch. I’ll drive you around for the afternoon he offered.

“Go on, it’ll be fun. I love looking at houses.”

“OK. You’re on.”

Tired after her swim, Jo decided it was a great idea to let Mark drive her around for the afternoon, especially since she’d decided to visit the house in the Dublin mountains and her knowledge of anything further out than Sandyford was decidedly sketchy.

After soup and a sandwich in a pub in Stillorgan, they set off in Mark’s Porsche. Jo relaxed back into the low leather seat.

The first house was crammed with viewers. Cars were parked for three hundred yards each side of the house and a stream of people stood trying to get in the front door.

They can’t all be thinking of buying this place, surely?”

demanded Mark, trying to make a space for Jo to squeeze into the sitting room.

“It’s the latest hobby she explained, ‘and it’s more fun than wandering up and down Woodie’s. People just turn up to see what other people’s houses are like.”

It was hard to get any idea of what the house was like, it was so full. They left soon after arriving. Next stop was an elegant two-storey Victorian residence in Greystones which was slightly beyond Jo’s budget, but she’d decided to view it anyway. Obviously fewer people were prepared to trek out to Greystones from the city to indulge in their Sunday hobby.

There were only five cars parked outside the house.

This looks more like it,” said Mark, unfolding long limbs from the driver’s seat. They gazed at the grey facade, large sash windows and fantastic harbour view.

Inside, the house was beautifully decorated and perfectly kept, yet it was so austere and cold that Jo disliked it immediately. She hated the formal sitting room with the black fireplace and the ornate cornices and she liked the long, narrow kitchen even less.

“I don’t know what it is,” she leaned against Mark to whisper, ‘but I don’t like this place. It’s just so … cold.”

“It is, isn’t it,” he agreed.

“Let’s go.”

The sun was shining as they drove towards Stepaside, the Porsche’s engine growling like a big cat with a hoarse throat.

“I wish my car sounded like this Jo said, thinking of the strange wheezing noise the Golf had been making recently whenever it went beyond thirty miles an hour.

“How old is it?” Mark asked, as he made a right turn up a steep hill surrounded by high hedges.

Too old,” she replied.

“I need to get a new car, but I need a new house more.”

“Actually, I did wonder why you were house-hunting,” he remarked. -“I thought you’d only bought your apartment a couple of years ago and it was new, if I recall correctly.”

“It was,” she admitted.

“It’s just that the walls are so thin, I don’t know how it’s going to work out when I have the baby.

My next-door neighbour is a little old lady who gets up at half seven and goes to bed after the news at nine, so I don’t know if she’s going to be too happy listening to a crying baby half the night. She’s terribly sweet,” Jo added, ‘but she won’t be able for all-night crying, I just know it.” Jo sighed.

“Mind you, I’m not sure I’m ready for that either.”

Mark chuckled.

“Some place up the mountains is perfect then,” he said with a grin.

“You can throw rock-‘n’-roll parties, let the baby cry all night and nobody can complain!”

“I’d been thinking more of having extra space for the baby and starting a herb garden sniffed Jo, mildly insulted.

“I’m teasing you Mark said gently.

“Now, where is this place? Give me the brochure.”

Fifteen minutes later, after driving down several winding roads which they were sure were dead-ends, they arrived at Redwood Lane. It was a small tree-lined country lane with very few gateways. There were no cars parked outside number two, which wasn’t surprising Jo thought, when they finally saw the place. A low granite cottage with a jungle for a front garden, dirty grey paint flaking off the woodwork around the leaded windows and a roof with more slates off than on, it was not your average estate agent’s dream. It wasn’t anybody’s dream, thought Jo, wondering why she liked it so much. Was she out of her head to even consider buying it?

She gingerly picked her way along a path overgrown with nettles and dandelions with Mark following.

“Did the brochure mention that this place needs a total rehaul?” he asked incredulously.

“Er, yes,” Jo replied. She knocked on the front door, ignoring the peeling grey paint.

“Come in, come in,” said a loud voice.

“I thought you’d be late because it’s so hard to find.”

Jo pushed the door open and went inside.

A tiny hall opened out onto a large kitchen on the left side and a sitting room on the right. The kitchen stretched right to the back of the house. A large leaded window gave a somewhat grimy view of the countryside beyond.

“I’m Margaret Middleton announced the large auburnhaired lady, getting up off a slightly dusty chair to greet them.

“Jo Ryan. We talked on the phone Jo replied.

“Do you want me to show you the house or would you prefer to look around on your own?” inquired Mrs. Middleton.

“We’ll look on our own,” Jo said firmly.

“Off you go, then. But watch those stairs, they’re very steep,” the estate agent warned.

The wooden staircase at the far left side of the room did look very steep and led up to what had to be some sort of loft conversion. A huge old cream range took up most of one wall.

A motley selection of cupboards and a battered dresser made up the rest of the kitchen fittings.

Dark beams crisscrossed the ceiling, giving the place an old-fashioned air, and Jo could immediately picture hanging dried flowers, strings of garlic and copper pots from the beams.

Nothing in the room had seen a paintbrush for a very long time and the scent of old cooking oil permeated the air. But even drab wallpaper and dirt couldn’t hide its charm.

“Isn’t it gorgeous?” said Jo, delighted with the place.

“It’s got character,” Mark said slowly.

She turned around to grin at him before leaving the kitchen for a look at the sitting room. It had the same dark beams and leaded windows as the kitchen.

The large granite fireplace surrounded by black slate would have dominated the room had it not been for the lurid brown and orange carpet which clashed with the pale blue walls.

“I have the decor,” Mark said, feigning delight.

“I think we should get the person who did this place to redo the office, don’t you?”

“Could we afford them?” Jo countered.

“Getting this hasn’tbeen-touched-since-1972 look can be very expensive.”

She got a tissue out of her handbag and went over to the window at the back of the room. As big as the window in the kitchen, it looked out on the same view. There was a window seat so you could sit and gaze out at the same time.

Jo perched on the edge of the dusty seat and rubbed the window with the tissue until she’d made a clean patch big enough to see out. There were several sycamores and a beech tree on the edge of the back garden and a wild hedge bordering it, but there were gaps in the greenery and you could look down at the fields below.

A couple of Friesians swished their tails contentedly in the field, enjoying the last rays of the early September sun. They obviously belonged to the farm she could see about half a mile away.

“As long as it’s not a pig farm, we’re flying,” she said.

“Why do I get the impression that you’ve already made your mind up about this house, Jo?” asked Mark.

Jo looked up at him. She really liked the house and was already thinking of all the possibilities it had with the right renovations and redecoration. But she wanted him to like it too, God knows why, she thought to herself “Do you hate it?” she asked.

“Jo.” He put a hand on her shoulder and smiled at her, grey eyes shining with amusement.

“I think it’s got great character, but it’s not what I like that’s important. It’s going to be your house, so it’s up to you. But it’s going to take some work,” he warned, looking around the room.

“It’ll definitely need rewiring, which isn’t cheap, and there are bound to be lots of other jobs to be done as well. I doubt if it’s been

occupied for a long time, so who knows what’s broken down or jammed since then.”

Jo looked crestfallen for a moment, then her face brightened.

“If it’s such a dump, it’s probably been on the market for years and I should be able to knock a few thousand off the asking price. That’s it! That way I’ll save enough money on actual cost to renovate it. Come on, let’s see what’s upstairs.”

She took Mark’s hand and led him out of the room. She was on the second stair when she realised what she’d done.

She was holding his hand. It had seemed such a natural thing to do at the time, as though they were looking at the house together, like a couple.

His hand felt warm and strong, fingers clasping hers firmly.

She couldn’t very well let go, now could she?

The upstairs was an attic conversion. The low sloping roof was covered in honey-coloured tongue-and-groove pine which gave both bedrooms an unusual, cosy look. A large fitted wardrobe, also made from pine, covered one wall in the big bedroom.

“Now that’s what I need,” Jo said. She slid her hand awkwardly out of Mark’s and opened the wardrobe.

Like everything else in the house, it was grimy inside. But it was spacious and well designed with enough shelves and hanging space to accommodate even Jo’s vast wardrobe.

The bathroom is very nice,” said Mark, who’d left Jo to investigate the rest of the upper storey.

“There’s no shower, though.”

“It’s lovely,” Jo said in surprise, appearing at the bathroom door. There was no mention of a bathroom in the advert and I’d begun to think there was an outside loo. It’s a relief to find this.”

Thankfully the artist who decorated downstairs wasn’t allowed to have anything to do with the upstairs,” Mark added.

Plain white tiles, a plain white bathroom suite and cork floor tiles meant that the bathroom was by far the most subtly decorated room in the house.

“Apart from getting a shower put in, this doesn’t need any work Jo

They were standing in the back garden discussing how the hell you’d clear the wilderness of weeds and thistles without a JCB, when the estate agent appeared.

“What do you think?”

Jo felt Mark jab her in the ribs.

“It has possibilities Jo said, trying to sound utterly unimpressed.

“But it would cost a bomb to make it habitable and the price is way too high.”

The estate agent’s mouth opened. Obviously, Jo was the first person in a long time to do anything other than leave very rapidly after catching sight of the house. The fact that she was even discussing the house price made it a red-letter day.

“You’re interested, then?” the estate agent asked hopefully.

“I don’t know, darling Mark said, sliding an arm around Jo’s shoulders.

“I know you like it but it’s out of the question at that price. You’d want six grand knocked off the price before you could even consider it.”

Trying not to smile, Jo played along with him.

“I know, sweetheart.” She just hoped he wouldn’t convulse with laughter at her calling him sweetheart.

“You’re right.

He’s always right.” she deadpanned to the estate agent who now had a resigned look on her face.

“I’ll tell you what, Mrs. er …” Mark said.

“Mrs. Middleton.” supplied the other woman.

“I’ll phone you during the week to have a chat about the house. Come on, darling. Let’s go.”

He kept his arm around Jo’s shoulders and tightened his grip when he felt her shake with suppressed laughter. She finally let it out when he slammed the driver’s door.

That was priceless! I never knew you were so good at lying, Mark.”

That wasn’t lying, darling,” he joked, switching on the engine. That was business. It’s playing your cards close to your chest. If we string her along for a while assuming nobody else is interested in the

place because she looked so thrilled that we were thinking about buying it we could get a much lower price.”

“Just as well you were here, then,” Jo said, ‘because I’ve never been able to play anything close to my chest in my life.

I’d have said I loved the house and she’d have added a few quid to the price by the time we were finished.”

“Anyway,” she said, shifting in her seat so she was looking at Mark, ‘what do you think about it?”

They were on a very narrow road and he was concentrating on the road ahead, giving Jo a chance to observe him as he drove. His profile was harsh, eyes narrowed as he stared at the winding road. He looked so serious and intense most of the time that it was such a surprise when he let his guard down to kid around with her.

He really was a very different man once you got to know him, she thought. Behind the cool business exterior lay a funny, affectionate person. It was odd to think she’d ever imagined him to be an arrogant boss who expected people to jump when he clicked his fingers.

He glanced over at her.

“Sorry, Jo. What did you say?”

“I wondered what you thought of the house. Do you think it’s totally mad to even think about buying it?”

Totally mad, I’d say. Oh, you mean the house.”

She swatted his arm with the rolled-up prospectus.

“Don’t take advantage just because I called you sweetheart. I could call you lots of other names and they wouldn’t all be as flattering, all right?” He shot her a grin.

“Yes Ma’am. Or is it Your Highness?”

“Your Highness will do fine,” she replied.

“Now, what do you think of the house?”

“First of all, you need a surveyor to go over it with a fine-tooth comb to see if there are any major problems, structural ones, subsidence or

whatever. Then, we need to get a contractor to have a look and give us an estimate on what all the work will cost. Don’t even think about

how you’ll redecorate the kitchen until you’ve got some idea about how much you’ll have to pay to make it habitable,” he advised.

“Then, if we can knock enough money off the list price to complete the repairs, it might be worth it. But it’s probably going to take a couple of months to do. Are you ready for!

that?” Jo didn’t even take a moment to think about it.

“Of course,” she said impulsively.

“I love the house, it has so much character, so much … I don’t know, warmth.” She searched for the right word, for once not able to find it.

“It feels like a home, despite all the dreadful carpets and everything,” she said finally.

“I’ve looked at loads of places over the past three weeks and I’ve only seen one I liked as much.

Well, only one I liked as much and could afford,” she amended.

“You’ve convinced me,” Mark said.

“I’ve got a friend who’s a contractor and I’ll get him to look at the house during the week, if that’s OK with you?”

“Wonderful.”

“It was very nice of Mark to drive you up to see the house,” said Rhona, putting a Canderel sweetener in her coffee and stirring it thoughtfully.

“I’ve always told you he was a nice man and you just couldn’t see it. I’m so glad you’re getting to know him now, personally,” she added, emphasis on the last word.

Jo looked at her suspiciously but Rhona’s face was innocent.

You never knew when Rhona was teasing or not, she was such a good actress. Jo put her cup of tea down on Rhona’s desk and picked up a set of colour transparencies from an underwear company.

It was Monday afternoon and she and Rhona were going over all the articles they still needed for the October edition.

Friday was printing day which meant everything had to be ready by Thursday, making this the busiest week for the Style team.

As usual, most of the big features were in, subbed and laid out. It was the niggly little details that still had to be sorted out.

Jo still had to chase up the illustrator who was supposed to have already sent in his water colour illustration of the restaurant reviewed in the issue. Nikki had developed bronchitis and was unlikely to be in all week, which meant that Jo had to find someone else to rewrite all the beauty product press releases for the Top Ten Beauty Products We Love page.

And Emma, who had begged to be allowed to interview three top Irish models for their beauty hints, had rung Annette that morning to say she couldn’t make it and could someone else go because she didn’t want to stand the girls up?

“I’ll kill her raged Jo, when she heard this latest piece of news.

“How dare she do that! I don’t care if her bloody leg is hanging off, she shouldn’t drop her mess into our lap and expect us to deal with it. If she couldn’t go, she should ring the models up herself and cancel.”

In the end, Rhona rang a freelance journalist who sometimes wrote features for the magazine and begged her to do the interviews. Crisis solved, the editor and deputy editor still had a lot of work to do, which was why they were poring over colour trannies of clothes, shoes, handbags and glamorous celebrities.

“I thought we could use this one on the Fifty Ideas pages,” Jo said, showing Rhona a picture of a silky cream body with a built-in push-up bra and lovely lace detail on the front.

“It’s the most versatile piece of underwear, it’s very flattering and it’s pretty good value.”

Rhona took the transparencies and held them up to the window.

“I do like the basque and the hold-up stockings. I bet Mark would just love that “Bitch,” said Jo, as Rhona dissolved into laughter.

“You’ve a one-track mind, Rho.”

“I know, “one track and it’s a dirt track”,” recited the editor.

“I couldn’t resist it. Anyway, Jo, there’s no point pretending there isn’t something going on between you, even if the pair of you behave like complete strangers when you’re in the office.”

“But there isn’t anything going on protested Jo. (“Are you trying to tell me that all that bonding and having dinner in New York was totally platonic, because I won’t believe you Rhona said.

“You know you fancy him, you’re just too stubborn to admit it. You told me yourself how you thought something was going to happen between the two of you the first night until he got all businesslike.”

“Oh God, I don’t know.” Jo took a sip of tea and looked at Rhona blankly.

“Yes, I like him, but I’m not exactly a bargain in the girlfriend department, am I?

“I’m pregnant with another man’s baby, so what the hell would someone like Mark Denton want with me? He’s only being kind,” said Jo in a resigned voice.

“Don’t be silly, Jo,” snapped Rhona.

“You’re one of my best friends and one of the nicest people I know, and Mark is interested in you, I know for a fact. He’s always liked

“What do you mean “always liked me”?” demanded Jo.

“Well, there never really was a right time to tell you …” the other woman said slowly, picking up her cigarettes and extracting one from the pack.

“Rhona, stop prevaricating and tell me!”

“Well, the first Christmas after you arrived at Style, Mark and I went out for lunch and he was very interested in you.

He asked if you were going out with someone, that sort of thing.” Rhona lit her cigarette and took a deep drag.

“You were going out with Tim at the time, so I told him and that was it.

Then, when you broke up with Tim, Mark was involved with a woman and well, the timing was just never right.” Rhona shrugged.

“Why didn’t you ever tell me, Rhona?” asked Jo, completely stunned.

“I would have if Mark hadn’t been the boss, but it would undoubtedly have made you feel very selfconscious to think that he fancied you. It would have been awkward.” That might have been better than being so openly hostile to him all the time,” Jo said ruefully, remembering all the times when she’d sparred with Mark at the weekly editorial

meetings. How awful to think that he’d actually liked her enough to ask Rhona about her romantic entanglements while she’d been oblivious to him. Jo cringed at the thought of it all.

“You see commented Rhona, observing Jo’s horrified face.

“Imagine what it would have been like if I’d told you before now. You’d have been mortified. I’m only telling you now, Jo, because I’m very fond of Mark, I’d love to see the two of you together and the timing is perfect. You’d be perfect for each other and, Lord knows, you deserve a decent man after

“I don’t know,” Jo muttered. This is so weird. I did think there was something between us when we were in New York, but then he seemed to withdraw into being the ice man again.

I don’t understand him …”

A knock on the door interrupted her.

“Rhona,” Annette stuck her head around the door.

“I’ve got Claire on the phone for you. I know you didn’t want to be disturbed but she says it’s urgent.”

“I’ll take it, Annette,” Rhona replied.

“Listen,” she said to Jo in a quieter voice, ‘do you really think Mark would be so eager to spend the entire day driving you around crumbling cottages in the mountains if he was just trying to be kind to a pregnant employee? No. Think about it, Jo. You deserve him.”

The phone rang and she picked it up.

“Hi, Claire, what’s the problem?”

Jo silently gathered up the transparencies from Rhona’s desk and manoeuvred herself out of the chair. She felt quite big, even though the girls in the office kept telling her she was in great shape for six months pregnant. The only problem was clothes. For someone who loved clothes as much as Jo, it was sheer hell to have to bypass all her gorgeous outfits in the morning and pick something from her limited collection of elastic-wasted outfits.

Today she’d worn a soft navy knitted dress which was stretchy enough to fit her, bump and all, and a long, skinny-knit cardigan in silky French blue over it. It looked great, especially worn with the matte gold

pendant she’d bought from a stall in Turkey years ago.

But by next month she was going to have to buy some dressy maternity clothes or she’d be stuck with wearing jogging pants and big Tshirts until she had the baby.

Jo sat down at her desk and looked tiredly at the list of things she had to do. All her energy had vanished during the conversation with Rhona. Now Jo wondered how she was ever going to transcribe that morning’s interview, and write it up.

For two hours she worked solidly, oblivious to the noise of phones, conversations about missing pictures and Annette’s radio tuned to chart music. She had finally finished writing up her interview and was setting up a new file on the word processor to write up the Top Ten Beauty Products We Love, when Emma breezed into the office.

Enveloped in a cloud of CK One, wearing what looked like a very expensive cerise dress and holding a brand new briefcase, Emma dispensed smiles all round before dumping the briefcase on her desk.

“Hello all,” she said airily before turning to Annette.

“Did anyone ring for me?” she asked.

The cheek of her, thought Jo. She completely messed up an interview and she marches in like there’s absolutely nothing wrong, with no apology or excuse for her behaviour. And there was she thinking that her attempts to turn Emma into a responsible member of staff over the past few months had actually worked.

She’d trusted Emma’s declarations that she wanted to learn and had been so sure the younger woman had turned over a new leaf and really wanted to fit in. How wrong could you be?

“Emma,” Jo said coolly, interrupting the other woman’s conversation with Annette about phone messages.

“What happened this morning?”

“Oh, that was a bit of a mix-up and I couldn’t make it this morning. I thought Nikki could do it,” Emma said blithely.

“Nikki is sick, as a matter of fact,” Jo explained, determined not to lose her temper or raise her voice.

“And Rhona had to go to a lot of trouble to get someone else to do the interviews.

If you were sick, or if there was some crisis and you just couldn’t do something you’d arranged, I’d understand.

“But I’d expect some sort of explanation. Instead, you swan in here without either an explanation or an apology and that’s just not good enough, Emma.”

“Well, it’s all right now, isn’t it?” Emma said dismissively.

“So don’t fly into a fit. It was hardly the cover story, anyway.” She turned away from Jo and went back to her desk, leaving the deputy editor incandescent with fury.

Even Brenda, who’d heard everything, sank back in her chair nervously as though trying to avoid the inevitable storm.

Annette was staring at Jo anxiously, while Tom had stopped tapping away at his keyboard and was listening expectantly.

The whole office was waiting for Jo to say something, but she couldn’t speak. How dare Emma behave like that?

Nobody else would be so unreliable and indifferent, but of course Emma thought she could do anything she wanted because she was the boss’s niece. Finally, Jo found her voice.

“How dare you speak to me like that,” she said, her voice shaky with temper.

“I gave you a chance to make up for all the misunderstandings between us, I gave you a chance to work at being a journalist. And you have the nerve to screw up an interview something you begged for and now won’t even apologise for it. Is that the thanks I get for trying to help you, Emma? What the hell are you doing in this office if you don’t want to work? This isn’t a haven for bored twenty somethings you know!”

“No, it’s a haven for stupid pregnant women,” sneered Emma, her pretty face screwed up with spite.

“Don’t think I don’t know you’re after my uncle. You just want to use him like you use all men. Are you trying to get a rich stepfather for your bastard?”

“Emma!” Rhona stood outside her office with her mouth open, outrage written all over her face.

“In my office now,” she barked.

For once, Emma looked worried. She was afraid of Rhona.

“Get back to work everyone snarled the editor.

“Are you OK, Jo?” she said, putting an arm around her friend. Jo didn’t speak. If she did, she was afraid she would cry. She’d tried so hard with Emma for Mark’s sake and she thought she was finally getting through to her. Then, to experience this blast of sheer, barefaced hatred was devastating.

Why did Emma hate her so much? Why did she say such a horrible thing about Jo using men? She didn’t, did she? Is that what Emma would tell Mark, that Jo was after him for his money? It was all too horrible to think about.

“I think I’ll go home,” she said blindly, afraid that the tears would fall.

“Stay here for five minutes,” Rhona said firmly.

“I’ll deal with that little bitch and then you and I are getting out for a coffee.

Don’t pay any attention to what she said.”

Brenda made her coffee, Annette abandoned the switch to mutter comforting words to her and even Tom produced two miniature bottles of whiskey from his desk and poured one into her coffee.

“I can’t drink that,” sniffled Jo.

“Jo,” said Annette firmly, “I’ve three children and I know all there is to know about pregnancy. You have to be very careful about alcohol for the first three months but there’s no harm in taking the odd glass of wine or a drink for medicinal purposes after that. And this is medicinal. So drink it, you’re as white as a sheet, you poor thing.”

The spiked coffee hit Jo’s system like a bullet, leaving her feeling utterly light-headed and totally exhausted. She drank it back and wondered how she’d ever get home. She felt like she wouldn’t have the energy to put the car in first gear.

Rhona would probably be ages with Emma, listening to whatever cock-and-bull story the girl would come up with in her defence. But true to her word, a mere five minutes had passed when Rhona marched out of her office followed by Emma, her face now blotched with tears.

Everyone stared with hostility at the younger woman who immediately snatched up her handbag and fled to the bathroom.

“Little cow hissed Annette.

“Don’t mind her, Jo. She can forget it if she thinks I’m ever taking messages from her boyfriend, her mother or her seven best friends ever again!”

“I doubt if she’ll ask you for a while,” Rhona pointed out drily.

“Come on, Ms Ryan.”

They sat in the bar in the Berkeley Court Hotel and ate nuts from the deep bowl on the table in front of them.

“Very good for protein,” said Rhona with her mouth full.

“And very high in calories,” replied Jo mournfully, grabbing another handful.

“Well, you need an energy boost after today.” Rhona waved at a young waitress and ordered decaffeinated coffee for both of them and a brandy for herself.

“I can’t believe that Tom had booze in his desk,” she added.

“When I think of all the times when I’ve dearly needed a drink in that bloody office and he never opened his mouth, the wretch! You do have an effect on men, my dear.”

“But not on women, it seems.”

“Emma isn’t a woman. She’s a nightmare in human form and don’t forget it. You’ll be glad to know that I savaged her for her appalling behaviour, both for being utterly unprofessional in not turning up for that interview, and for being equally unprofessional in her attack on you.”

“What did she say to that?” asked Jo.

“She whinged that you didn’t like her and then I told her I didn’t like her very much either, but that wasn’t the point.

That certainly shut her up. Anyway, pet,” Rhona patted Jo’s knee, “I finished up by telling her that I wouldn’t sack her I’d let Mark sack her after I’d talked to him about her behaviour.”

The piece de resistance, I thought. You should have seen her spoiled little face when I said that. She went white and then she cried. Hhhmph.” The coffee arrived and Rhona poured a cup for Jo.

“I told her that crying might work with her uncle, but it cut no ice

with me. I’m going to ring him tonight. “Jo thought about Mark hearing two versions of the afternoon’s events. No doubt Emma would be phoning him that instant, giving him chapter and verse on what a bitch Jo Ryan was, how manipulative she was and how she tried to make poor Emma’s life a misery.

By the time he heard Rhona’s version, he would have probably decided that Emma was right that Jo was just a conniving, manipulative person. Why did that thought depress her so much?

She got home at half nine after having a Malaysian meal with Rhona in Kites in Ballsbridge. Satay lamb, chicken with cashew nuts and a large helping of ice cream made her sleepy but gave the baby a new lease of life.

I hope you’re not going to kick all night, Jo said to her bump as she switched on the lights in the apartment. The answering machine’s messages light was on and she pressed the ‘play’ button before closing the curtains.

Mark Denton’s deep voice filled the room.

“Jo,” he said, sounding very tired.

“I’m in London and I’ve just got this dreadful message on the mobile-phone playback from Emma. She sounds very upset and says something awful happened in the office earlier. She says she’s really sorry and she apologised to you, but you won’t forgive her. And then she just cries and hangs up. Listen, Jo, I won’t be home until the weekend, so can you talk to her and calm her down. I know she’s difficult but she genuinely looks up to you and it’s obviously killing her that you’re angry with her.”

He paused.

“It’s nine-fifteen and I’m going out to dinner with someone. I’ll call you tomorrow …” It sounded as if he wanted to add something, then the machine clicked. He’d run out of tape time.

There was no other message so he hadn’t rung back to finish whatever he wanted to say to her.

Damn. She thumped the machine. It wasn’t its fault but she wanted to hurt something because she felt so hurt. He hadn’t even given her the benefit of the doubt, he’d just believed Emma. So that was all he

thought about her.